Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace said, “We’ve got time. You can take your time.”

He shook his head violently. “Can’t, sorry — there I go again. Apologizing to the damn world, like I feel I’m...”

“Different.”

“No, no,” he said, with surprising ire. “That’s...” Impatient wave. “Everyone’s different, different is meaningless, what I feel is... polluted.”

“Makes sense,” said Grace.

“Does it? Did Jane X feel polluted? Because that doesn’t come out in your article, you just talk about her having to construct her own system of morality. All those steps she took to cope.”

Grace said, “An article has limitations, Andrew. Why don’t you sit back down, give yourself some time?”

Andrew’s eyes scanned the therapy room. “You mean well. I know that. Maybe you’re right and I should. But I can’t. Thanks for your time. I mean that.”

He strode to the door. Wrong door, the one that led back into the front waiting room, rather than toward the side-street exit.

No one around, no need to stand on ceremony. Grace got up.

He said, “I can see myself out. Please.”

She held back, watched him open the door gingerly, take two steps into the waiting room before half turning and offering a slice of his pleasant, handsome, tortured face.

“Andrew?”

“I’m — would it be possible — just say no if it’s not — would it be possible if tomorrow I felt that I could handle returning — would you be able to find some time? I understand that you’re probably extremely busy, so if it doesn’t work out—”

First day of her intended vacation. She said, “Of course, I’ll make time for you, Andrew. As much time as you need.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re... quite... I think you might be able to help me.”

Blushing deeply, he escaped.

Relieved that he’d made no attempt to pay her, Grace returned to the therapy room and stood there for a long time. Hoping she’d finally return to normal but she didn’t and left, trudging out to the garage.

Wondering if he would call.

Aware of the multiple meanings that question could evoke.

She hoped she’d see him again. Hoped she was being honest about why.

As she backed the Aston into the street, a car, a squarish sedan parked several houses up, switched on its headlights and rolled toward her.

Unusual on this quiet block, but it happened.

Still, ever watchful, the way a single woman needed to be, Grace made sure the DB7’s doors were locked as she eased out and headed east.

The car remained behind her and she prepared to jackrabbit away if necessary. But then the sedan stopped for a moment, swung a three-point turn in a neighboring driveway, and reversed direction.

Grace watched its taillights diminish then vanish. Maybe she’d just seen a cop’s allegedly undercover wheels, some sort of burglary stakeout, WeHo had its share of break-ins.

Or just a car with a perfectly logical reason for being there and she was letting her thoughts ooze into irrational anxiety because today had been... different.

New day, new dawn.

Would he call?

Grace’s eighth birthday went unnoticed. Since the red room, she’d lived in seven foster homes. All were business ventures operated by unremarkable people lured by government money and, occasionally, the chance to feel noble.

She’d heard stories from other foster kids about disgusting men creeping into bedrooms in the middle of the night, disgusting women pretending to be unaware. One of her many roommates, an eleven-year-old girl named Brittany, lifted her blouse soon after showing up and showed Grace a lump of scar tissue she said was the result of being scalded on purpose by a foster mom.

Grace had no trouble believing that; from what she’d seen, people were capable of anything. But Brittany liked to lie, including about stupid stuff, like what she’d had for snack at school, and she also stole Grace’s underwear, so Grace didn’t pay much attention to her.

In three years, Grace had never been physically or sexually abused. Mostly, she was ignored and left to do what she wanted if she didn’t bother anyone, because having a foster meant serious income for foster-folk and they tried to crowd as many kids as they could into their homes for as long as possible.

That didn’t explain why the caseworkers kept moving Grace from house to house, but she didn’t ask because she didn’t care. One place was the same as another, long as they gave her time to be by herself and read.

One day a caseworker named Wayne Knutsen who’d moved her from House Six to Seven showed up and smiled uneasily.

“Guess what? Yup, sorry, kiddo.”

A ponytailed, potbellied man, Wayne was always accompanied by the smell of spearmint and, sometimes, stale body odor. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look huge and fishy. Even when he smiled, he looked nervous, and today was no exception.

Grace got ready to pack up her stuff but Wayne said, “Sit down for a sec,” and when she did, he offered her a Tootsie Roll.

Grace pocketed the candy.

“Saving up for your retirement, huh?”

Grace had learned that some questions weren’t meant to be answered so she just kept her mouth shut. Wayne sighed and looked sad.

“Those big old kid-eyes of yours, Ms. Grace Blades. It’s like you’re saying it’s my fault... I know it’s only been four months with this one — you been okay?”

Grace nodded.

“Damn. I have to tell you, moving you again, I’m feeling like a week-old pile of dog-do.”

Grace didn’t answer. It wasn’t her job to make anyone feel better.

“Anyway, I checked your records, this’ll be eight damn times. Man.”

Grace sat there.

“Anyway,” Wayne said again. “Well, I figure you’re old enough, you might as well know how the system works. How it sucks. Are you? Old enough?”

Grace nodded.

“God, you’re a quiet one... okay, here’s how it is, kiddo: The geniuses in the state legislature — that’s a place where stupid people meet and pass stupid laws because special interests pay them to do that.”

Grace said, “Politicians.”

Wayne said, “Yeah, you’re a sharp one. So you know what I’m talking about?”

“Rich people pay other people to listen to them.”

“Hey!” Wayne slapped Grace’s back a bit too hard. “You really are a genius. Yeah, that’s right, kiddo. So anyway, one of the laws the idiots passed gives more money to people who take in special-needs children. Know what that is?”

“Sick kids?”

“Sometimes but not necessarily. Could be sick, could be anything... different. I mean it makes sense on a certain level, kids can need extra help. But special needs is a tricky deal, Ms. Grace Blades. It could be something really bad — a one-legged kid, a one-eyed kid, you can see how that would be justified, they’d need special help. But the way the law’s written, it gets corrupted — gets used the wrong way. Know the right doctor and you can get a kid certified as SN for anything — clumsy, just plain stupid, you name it. The point is, there’s bigger bucks to be made with special needs than with regular kids and unfortunately for you, you’re a regular kid.”

He winked at her. “Or so I’ve been told. That true? You regular?”

Grace nodded.

“Quiet,” he said. “Still waters... anyway, that’s the situation, Ms. G. Blades. You’re being displaced because Mr. and Mrs. Samah can up their income significantly by taking in a new available kid with a seizure disorder — know what this is? Nah, forget it, you don’t need to know all this crap.”

“Okay,” said Grace.

“Okay?”