by Sylvie Kurtz
"Lindy, what are you doing up?" Her mother smiled down at her.
"I can't sleep."
Mama stuffed a foam block into a vase shaped like the tops of the white pillars at the front of the house. "Well, why don't you help me for a while, then?"
Melinda hopped onto the worktable. Kicking her slippered feet, she picked up a frond of fern and tickled her mother's cheek. They both laughed. "What're you doing?"
"I'm making some pretty pots for Daddy's office. Red roses and white chrysanthemums."
Roses. A whole vase full of them. Perched on her mother's worktable, she buried her nose in the fragrant blooms. Twelve. Mama had once told her that the best arrangements held an odd number of blooms. Her chubby child's fingers reached for a pair of pruners. Wouldn't Mama be pleased when she saw Melinda remembered the lesson?
"Going back to bed?" Mama asked.
"No, it's a surprise." She giggled as she headed for the bushes just outside the greenhouse for a thirteenth blossom.
The ledge protected her from the worst of the rain, but her nightgown was tight around her legs, and she couldn't move well. She tripped and fell into the rosebushes. Thorns from the roses held her trapped in place. She opened her mouth to yell for help, but when she turned her head to look at Mama, nothing came out.
The silent tape, like a horror film in a black, doorless theater, continued to play in exaggerated slow motion, showing her every movement, every detail in perfect color and surreal vividness.
The monster's shadow crept across the entrance. Too scared to cry, too scared to move, too scared he'd get her, Melinda shivered helplessly, rooted to her spot.
"Melinda? What are you doing out here? For heaven's sake, it's raining!"
At the sound of her father's voice, Melinda jumped and gasped. "You scared me," she said, hand over her heart.
As she looked at her father's stylish figure, the rapid hammering of her heart increased. The monster of her nightmares? Could someone she loved so much have killed his own wife, the mother of his child?
"What's wrong, Melinda?" Her father sat beside her and hugged her close. "You look awful. I wish you'd see a doctor."
She edged away, turning on the stone bench to face him. The time had come to face the truth. The time had come to face her mother's murderer, the monster from the closet, the thief of her memories. "We need to talk … about my mother."
Her father gave an exaggerated sigh. "What's brought this on this time? The cop again?"
"The lies, Daddy. I'm sick of them."
"I've never lied to you."
"But have you told me the truth?"
He had the decency to look away, his gaze faraway in the deepening gray of the sky, uncharacteristically unfazed by the slow plop of raindrops staining the jacket of his suit. He turned a fond expression toward her. "I guess it's time I accept you've grown up."
"I have been for quite some time now."
He smiled. "I expect you're right. Let's get out of this rain."
He took her hand and led her inside to the living room. "What can I get you?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
Her father headed for the brass-and-leather bar and poured a glass of Chivas Regal—neat. "What do you want to know?"
There was no point dancing around the issue. As much as her father liked taking the long way around, she'd take the shortcut today. "I remember you … hurting my mother."
"'Remember'?" He cocked an eyebrow, making her feel small and stupid. She bristled inside, but kept an impassive face. "As in those nightmares you told me about? Those are surely false memories. There's been a lot in the news about that topic lately."
Melinda stepped behind a wing chair, putting something solid between her and her father. "What about all those late-night arguments?"
He puffed his chest and adopted his courtroom pose. "Your mother and I—"
Melinda saw straight through the transparent gestures. "The truth, Daddy."
He took a sip of his drink and shrugged. "Every couple has disagreements now and then."
"But not every husband chooses to beat his wife. I heard you, Daddy." She mimicked her parents' voices as she remembered them from her hypnosis session. "'Keep your voice down, Lindy will hear.' 'She's asleep like a good little girl. Wish I could say the same for her mother. Who was it this time?' 'How many times am I going to have to tell you, there is no one else?' Then I remember you slapping her, Daddy, while you called her a whore. Is that a false memory, too?"
Her father took several steps forward, but when her hands grabbed hold of the back of the chair, he stopped. "Melinda, sometimes children exaggerate what they think they see and hear—"
Melinda shook her head, and the tightness in her throat made it hard to speak. "And sometimes they pretend it isn't happening because they love the people involved so much. I pretended for twenty years, Daddy. Isn't that long enough? All I want is the truth, so I can put the past behind."
The harder he tried to cajole her out of her memories by calling them false and confusing her, the more she knew the memories were true. She found she could stand toe-to-toe with him and not back down. Loving her father hadn't been wrong. Making him into a god to rationalize that love had proved her mistake. He was human, after all. And that simple humanity became clearer as he lost his courtroom composure. His face crumpled, no doubt from the weight of his guilt.
"I'm not proud of what I did," he said, downing the drink and reaching for the bottle for a refill.
Melinda gripped the back of the wing chair. "Why, Daddy? Why?"
The bottle paused in midair, creating a painful silence. "Because … because I loved her, and she never loved me."
Although such a simple reason shouldn't make sense, somehow it did. And her mother's refusal to return his love must have been impossible for him to endure. Had it driven him to do the unthinkable?
The sky opened up and a rush of rain battered the French doors. "Did you kill her? Did you kill my mother?"
The glass he raised to his lips shook in his hands. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yes."
* * *
Grady hated compromise. Contrary to popular belief, it didn't lead to a win-win proposition, but more likely to a lose-lose one. Especially when the law tried to compromise with a lawbreaker. Even more so when the criminal had courted the law so often he knew every slippery loophole and didn't hesitate to demand them.
After reviewing his file on the Petersen case, Stanton and Maury from the State police had taken over Jackson's interview, and Jackson had held court all day, with Grady forced to do no more than observe. Finally, the State boys and Jackson had struck a deal. For showing them the place where he'd found the locket, Jackson would get no more than a slap on the wrist for what he'd done to his son.
Still seething, Grady picked up the phone ringing on his desk. "Sloan."
"I've heard you've apprehended someone for Angela's murder." The Reverend Hobart's cowed and tired voice on the other end did nothing to cheer Grady.
"I'm sorry to say you've been misinformed." Grady curbed his impatience. "We may have a new lead."
"Who? What? Where?"
"We still need to check it out."
A long pause followed. "Of course. You'll let me know what happens?"
"I'll do that."
Before Grady followed the little caravan out on its field trip, he wanted to check up on Melinda, hear her voice. Just the thought of her brought back a strong and unexpected longing. He jabbed in her office number. "No answer."
Stanton popped his grizzled head in the door. "Ready?"
"Be right there."
He tried the number again. When he got no answer, tension knotted the back of his neck and twisted his gut. One thing at a time, he reminded himself. She was safe. Had to be. The pressure in his gut increased. It's just your feelings for her getting in the way, he chided himself and closed the door to his office. If they discovered anything more at the site where Jackson had found the locket, this
whole thing could soon be over.
Jackson led them on a course as crooked as one of his drunken binges. First the local bars—all three of them—then the liquor store, and finally to the place where the railroad crossed the Forlorn River, where weeds grew tall, but the river's twist and the railroad's pilings made a cozy corner to imbibe with nature. Half-buried on the riverbank, partially hidden by the weeds, lay a black gym bag.
"I didn't take nothin' else, just the locket."
Nope, just contaminated the evidence in a murder investigation, Grady thought wryly.
"What about the knife?"
Jackson became belligerent. "There was nothin' else worth pawning in there."
Grady crouched and took one look inside the stained gym bag, and a flicker of fear plucked at his chest. It had never been a matter of black and white, or even shades of gray. It had always been a matter of black and white, together, yet separate at the same time, with all the colors in between.
Inside lay the bloody remains of a pair of red jeans, a pair of size-six once-white canvas sneakers, and a sleeveless white blouse decorated with red embroidery.
The puzzle pieces slid together smoothly, offering a chilling picture.
Kerry was the only one in Angela's circle who was small enough to fit into those clothes. Kerry had a cut slicing the meaty part of her hand. Kerry, Angela's best friend, who became almost hysterical when the subject of Angela was brought up.
And as the final understanding clunked into place, his heart stilled.
Once again, he'd trusted the wrong person.
Shouting instructions to the stupefied state officers, Grady raced away and prayed he would get there in time.
* * *
"It's not what you think," Ely said, watching his daughter edge away from him as if he were a monster. And maybe he was. He, after all, had the genes of monsters inside him. "I didn't kill her with my fists, but with my lack of trust. Your mother didn't want to marry me—"
"I know. Dolores told me."
The sadness in his beautiful daughter's eyes wrenched at his heart, making him wish he'd done something about it sooner. She might not have become a brilliant lawyer as he'd wanted, but she'd become more like him than she thought. All those feelings hidden inside. It was a wonder she'd never cracked. If nothing else, he'd taught her to be strong.
"I thought that eventually she would learn to love me." Ely downed another sip of courage from the liquid fire in his glass. "She was beautiful and so charming. I was from the wrong side of the tracks. The only reason she married me was because your grandfather insisted, to protect his reputation." Ely had been nothing. His mother had beaten the belief into him early. With every lick of the strap, he'd vowed he'd prove her wrong. "The only thing I had on my side was ambition and skill—two things your grandfather greatly admired. And those two qualities led to success, which your grandfather prized even more. It was my mistrust that killed whatever love your mother might have learned to have for me. And watching her eyes grow duller with each passing year made me feel helpless."
"I don't understand."
The sound of the rain outside turned more urgent and beneath its staccato beat against the glass came the low rumble of thunder. Melinda was right. He'd never lied to her, but he hadn't told her the truth, either. He hadn't seen the point of causing her pain. She'd looked so much like her mother. But the omission had hurt her anyway.
He squared his shoulders and looked straight into her dark eyes. "You are not my daughter. In exchange for marrying your pregnant mother, I received a partnership, and eventual ownership, of your grandfather's law firm."
"What?" Her face paled. Her fingers on the wing chair's red brocade looked like bleached bones. He took a step toward her, only to have her shrink away from him. The tiny movement cut him deeply.
"Your birth father was an artist … like you. Ironic, isn't it?" He polished off the contents of his glass. "I worked so hard to prove to your mother that making a child and being its father were two unrelated events."
"That's why you wanted me to become a lawyer."
She'd always been smart. He'd loved his conversations with her even when she was a child. "Yes—"
"And I went and proved you wrong."
He placed the empty glass on the coffee table, then sank into the sofa, feeling defeated in a way that had never happened to him in court. He'd lost his beloved Abigail, and was now on the way to losing his daughter, too. "It really didn't matter, Melinda. I grew to love you as if you were my own. I was … illegitimate, too, and I wanted a better life for you than the one I had. I never wanted you to know the pain of being hated for an accident of conception."
Her grip on the chair back loosened. "That's why you gave so much to charity—the women's shelter, the Angel's Gate home, the abuse hotline."
"Penance," he said, feeling the weakness of his smile.
Melinda came around the chair and sat down on its edge. Hands on her knees, she leaned forward. "Why, then didn't you let me be who I wanted to be? Why didn't you let me study art?"
"Why didn't you tell me it was so important to you?"
Her dark eyes shone with emotion. "Because I was afraid to let you down."
A lump landed at the pit of his stomach. "Melinda …."
"When you saw I couldn't become a lawyer, why were you so against my working at the catalog when it made me so happy?"
"Partly arrogance. Partly because I never liked Dolores. Did she ever tell you how she got the capital to start the catalog?"
"No." Melinda sprang up and wandered to the French doors. To escape from him? He'd really screwed up everything, hadn't he? And now he would erase her faith in the one person she'd always trusted. That trust had been the only reason he'd allowed Dolores to get away with blackmail.
"She threatened to expose my … abuse." The word tasted like acid. "She had your mother's diary to prove it. I had no choice. I had to give her the money she wanted. I had too much invested in my career and image to take a chance on seeing them ruined."
Melinda flinched at the lightning and backed from the thunder. Standing in the middle of the room, she looked so small and vulnerable. He could still imagine her as an eight-year-old, gazing up at him for comfort. With sadness, he realized that she would not turn to him this time.
"I-I saw your hand with a knife. My mother fall. Blood all around her …"
He shook his head, feeling the cold ice of blood draining from his face. How could she even think he could perpetrate such a dire act? A piercing sadness filled his chest. Given her memories, what other conclusion could she draw? He wanted to deny everything. But he said nothing, knowing nothing he could say would alter her image of him. To her, he would forever remain a monster.
"I saw the cuff link my mother gave you as a wedding gift."
"Your mother gave me no wedding gift. Why would she? She didn't want me and knew what I'd been promised for marrying her."
A frown furrowed Melinda's forehead. "Gold cuff links? The ones with the A etched into them?"
"Weren't mine. I, on the other hand, did give your mother a gift. A braided-gold bracelet with a heart-shaped charm. I had an A engraved on its face and Forever Mine on the back." He patted the cushion next to his on the sofa. He should have done this a long time ago. Talking had always been his best talent, and with the one person who'd needed his words the most, he'd held them back. "Come sit next to me, Melinda."
* * *
Melinda sat on the couch, leaving one cushion open between them. Hope and fear, love and hatred, mixed and curdled like a sauce gone bad. She didn't know what to believe anymore. Her father didn't feel like the monster of her nightmares, yet she knew what she'd seen in those returning memories. Dolores had always appeared soft and warm, yet she'd blackmailed her father to get what she wanted. Which was right? What to believe? Melinda's mind flickered over to Grady, but she couldn't lean on his strength this time. She was all alone—like she'd been twenty years ago.
"All thos
e nights I heard you cry in your sleep after your mother died," her father said, "I let it go because I thought you'd get over it."
"I saw what happened, Daddy," Melinda insisted, refusing to believe she could have made up something she could see with such detail. "I saw my mother being murdered."
"Murdered?" Her father seemed taken aback. "No, the fire was an accident. It was sparked by lightning."
Melinda shook her head and closed her eyes. "No, there was rain, thunder, lightning. But someone was there, too. I'd gone to Mama's garden to get an extra rose and got caught in the bushes. I tried to call out, but nothing came out …."
The slip of expensive wool against brocade reached her. Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned her head against his. "Tell me what you saw, Melinda."
Fear kept her still and silent, trapped amid the thorns of her mother's beloved roses. The shadow moved across the space. Voices. Surprise. Anger.
"What are they saying?" he asked.
Melinda never got to answer the question. A crack shook the room. She startled. Her eyes snapped open wide.
Between the space of reality and dream, her father crumpled forward. Blood, red and bright, stained the white of his shirt.
"Daddy!"
As she held her dying father, a chill climbed her spine. The monster's aura was unmistakable. The hairs on her arms, on the back of her neck rose straight up.
Fear, raw and primal, churned through her. She was eight again and cornered. Helpless.
"Mama, Mama! Wake up, Mama!" Melinda sobbed so hard, she hadn't heard the monster return until the slap of liquid from a bottle on her mother's workbench splashed on the ground next to her body. The nasty smell filled Melinda's nostrils. Stunned, she sat frozen. The head of a match swooshed against the workbench. Still she couldn't move from her trap in the rose bushes. Then an all-encompassing poof set yellow flames racing across the floor, biting, eating, devouring everything in their path. Her nightgown ripped from the force of her need to flee. As she ran, her screams echoed in her head, but didn't make their way past her frozen throat. Up the stairs she went, up into her bed. With the sheet over her head, she closed her eyes and the colors and the smells and the awful taste melded one into another. It wasn't until the blackness came that she realized she'd left her mother behind to be eaten by the flames. "It's okay. You'll be okay …."
