Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Ramona stared at her. “Good Lord, child.”

“So can I?”

“What?”

“Swim.”

“No way, not a chance. Take a look, it’s got that skin on top, you can’t see under the surface, something happens to you, I’d never know.”

Grace walked away.

Ramona called out, “You mad at me? I’m just doing my job, taking care of you.”

Grace stopped and turned, knowing she had to keep Ramona happy because this was the best place she’d ever been fostered at. No one bothered her, she could spend so much time alone. She said, “Of course not, Mrs. Stage. I understand.”

Ramona squinted at her, finally forced a smile. “Appreciate your understanding, Ms. Blades.”

The following day, Ramona caught Grace as she was leaving the house after study-time. “You still want to swim? I did some research and you’re right, there’s no danger, it’s just disgusting so if it doesn’t bother you and you stay in the shallow end with me right there...”

“It doesn’t.”

“Make no mistake, Grace, I’ll have to watch you like a hawk and you’ll have to stay on the surface every single second, I mean every. No deep-sea diving, no head under, not even for a second. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ramona shrugged. “Fine, I don’t get why you want to do it but it’s your choice. Also, you’re going to use an old rough towel with holes in it, no way I’m getting that gook on my good towels.”

Grace said, “The gray one?”

“Pardon?”

“The gray towel you keep in the linen closet and never use?”

“Matter of fact, yes,” said Ramona. “Gawd, you notice everything, don’t you?”

“No.”

“What don’t you notice?”

“If I don’t notice it, I can’t know.”

Ramona stared at her, toying with her long white hair. “A lawyer,” she said. “Things could get interesting around here.”

The professor didn’t arrive that day, or the next. Or the next twenty.

Ramona said, “Sorry if I got your hopes up, he got called to do more travel.”

Grace said, “Okay.”

There were few things she cared about. None of them had to do with other people.

One morning, she came down for breakfast and the biggest person Grace had ever seen was sitting next to Ramona at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. An oldish kind of man, younger than Ramona but not young. The fingers he used to hold his coffee mug were so thick and wide they covered the handle completely. Even his hair was big, a high pile of dark-gray waves that stuck out in all directions. When he stood, he blocked out a lot of the room and for a second Grace thought he might hit his head on the ceiling. Then she saw she was wrong, he was shorter than the ceiling. But still huge.

Ramona said, “Rise and shine, Grace, this is Professor Bluestone.”

Grace said, “Hello,” in her soft, agreeable voice, the one she’d learned to use a long time ago with strangers.

The man said, “Hello, Grace. I’m Malcolm. Sorry for surprising you.” He smiled.

Grace looked over at the table. Her usual toast and preserves and rubbery eggs were there, along with a stack of pancakes and store-bought maple syrup in a jar shaped like a bear. Seeing the jar made Grace realize that the huge man kind of looked like a bear, with thick, round features, big soft brown eyes, and long thick arms that swung loosely. Even his clothes were kind of bearish: a baggy, fuzzy brown sweater, super-baggy gray pants, brown shoes worn to tan at the toes.

What was different from a bear were his glasses, round and too small for his wide face, with frames like a turtle’s shell. Grace chided herself for the silly thought — that only one thing was different. He wore clothes, he talked, he was human.

But still, kind of like a bear.

Ramona said, “Have some breakfast, young lady.”

Malcolm Bluestone returned to his chair, bumping a shoe against a table leg, like the world was too small for him. When Grace sat and reached for the toast and preserves, he was still smiling at her. When she stopped and looked at him, he speared two pancakes with his fork, soaked them with syrup, began eating really fast.

The way a bear would — even the syrup fit, kind of like the honey bears went crazy for when they came out of hibernation.

Lesson Twenty-Eight: Warm-Blooded Mammals and Temperature Adaptation.

For a while, no one talked. Then Malcolm Bluestone pointed to the pancakes. “Anyone else want these?”

Grace shook her head.

Ramona said, “All yours, m’boy.”

Which was a funny thing to call an old man. Then Grace realized he was Ramona’s dead husband’s younger brother, maybe to her he’d always be a kid.

Malcolm Bluestone polished off the pancakes, wiped his lips, poured more coffee.

Ramona stood. “I’ve got to see about Bobby and that poor little Amber — the one I told you about, Mal, you’re the expert but she looks kind of... down.”

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I’ll have a look at her, later.”

“Thanks.” Ramona left.

Grace nibbled toast she really wasn’t hungry for.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I know Ramona told you about me but if you have questions, I’m happy to answer them.”

Grace shook her head.

“No questions, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Do you understand why I’m here?”

“You’re Steve Stage’s brother and a psychologist and you’re here to give me tests.”

He laughed. “That just about covers it. So you know what a psychologist is.”

“A doctor you talk to if something’s bothering you,” said Grace. “And who gives tests.”

Malcolm Bluestone wiped his lips with a napkin. A glossy bit of syrup remained on the skin above his upper lip. “Have you ever met a psychologist?”

“No.”

“Are you okay with being tested?”

“Yes.”

“You understand why you’re being tested.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to bug you but could you please tell me what you understand? Just so I can be sure.”

Grace sighed and put her toast down.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I am bugging you. Sorry.”

No grown-up had ever apologized to Grace. First it shook her but then it passed through her like air. She said, “The homeschool curriculum packets are easy so Ramona wants you to find out what more I can have to study.”

Dr. Bluestone nodded. “That’s excellent, Grace. But these tests, they’re not like the ones you’ve had in school. You won’t be getting a grade and the questions are structured — they’re made up so no one can get all the answers. You okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind getting some answers wrong?”

“Everyone gets things wrong.”

Malcolm Bluestone blinked and righted his glasses. “Well, that’s certainly true. Okay, Grace, soon as you’re ready, we’ll go into the living room and begin. Mrs. Stage promises to keep it quiet for us.”

Grace said, “I’m ready.”

The furniture had been moved around so that a table that usually stood near a couch was in the center of the room and two folding chairs were positioned opposite each other. On the floor was a briefcase, dark green, with a handle — more like a small suitcase. Gold lettering read WISC-R.

Malcolm Bluestone closed the door and said, “Settle where you’d like, Grace,” and took the chair facing her. Even sitting, he blocked out a whole bunch of the room.

“Okay,” he said. “This test is broken up into sections. On some I’m going to be timing you, using this.” Lifting the briefcase with two fingers, as if it were made out of feathers, he drew out a round, silver watch. “This is a stopwatch. On some of the tests I’m going to tell you time’s up, don’t worry if you haven’t finished. I’ll let you know beforehand if you’re being timed, okay?”