Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

The first time, Grace was too surprised to react. The second time, she laughed.

The boy she laughed at was tall and wide, with black fuzz all over his pimpled face. When Grace laughed, he got soft and tucked himself in quickly. His look said if he could rip the bars free, he’d destroy her.

From then on, Grace curled on her bunk, facing away from the scant world beyond.

On the eve of the fourth day, another black woman — the staff seemed comprised totally of such — unlocked the cell and said, “You’re out, Miss” — she consulted a clipboard — “Miss Blades. Here’s your clothes, get dressed, I’ll wait and take you.”

“Take me where?”

“Your next destination.”

“Where’s that, ma’am?”

“They don’t tell me, I just do pickup and delivery.”

Grace slipped out of the orange uniform, not caring if some filthy-minded boy passed by and saw her in nothing but her underpants. Dressed in the clothes she’d arrived in, she followed the attendant out past the same locked doors that had let her into this hell. Into the small reception room she’d been whisked through.

Malcolm was there.

“My God,” he said. “So, so sorry. It took a while to find you.”

Grace’s belongings dangled from one of his long arms. He held out the other, offering to gather her in, a spontaneous gesture of comfort. Grace didn’t like to be touched, never had, and at that moment her aversion dominated common sense.

He’s here to rescue me so do everything he wants.

But she didn’t want him to hug her, three days in jail had made her even steelier about human contact. She didn’t move.

Not smart. Okay. Try.

She took a painful step.

Malcolm dropped his arm.

Now he’s mad, why am I being stupid?

Bending, he half whispered, “I’m so sorry, Grace, this never should’ve happened. I’d like to take you with me, is that okay?”

“Yes.”

“Great, I’m parked outside, station wagon’s in the shop so I brought Sophie’s car, it’s just a two-seater but it’ll do fine.”

Talking fast and nonstop as he walked toward the exit, he held the door open for Grace. As if his own Play button had been pushed.

But this was sound Grace wanted to hear.

Sophie’s car was an old but gleaming black Thunderbird convertible, upholstered in immaculate white leather.

Grace had seen ads for cars like this in old magazines. Beautiful rich people in their convertibles, racing horses, sitting on impossibly beautiful beaches.

She’s rich but he’s not? Maybe that’s why she keeps her own name. So he’ll remember they’re separate people, that she has the money.

Malcolm said, “Pretty sporty, no? Sophie’s the sporty one,” stashed Grace’s things in the trunk, held the passenger door open for her, and got in behind the wheel. Even with the seat pushed all the way back he looked cramped, like a grown-up in a kiddie car. He inserted the key in the ignition but didn’t start up the engine.

“I’m really regretful, Grace,” he said, looking back at the gray bulk of juvenile hall. “This must’ve been dreadful.”

“It was okay.”

“Well, you’re brave to say that. The problem was I had a devil of a time finding out what happened. Which is outrageous. Ramona is — was — my sister-in-law and as her only surviving relative, any responsibility for her affairs is totally mine. I miss her deeply... I was never informed about anything, Grace, showed up at the ranch, found it empty, began calling the authorities, got stonewalled. Finally, a supervisor at the sheriff’s told me what happened. After the shock wore off, I said, ‘What about the kids?’ That’s when he told me about Bobby. Once that shock wore off, I pressed him on the other children and he said he didn’t know. Even though, turns out it was his people who brought you here, the idiots. It’s unconscionable, Grace, stupid bureaucrats treating you like a felon.”

Grace shuddered, not sure why. She wished he’d just drive.

He said, “Poor thing,” and reached out an arm again to offer comfort, checked himself immediately. Turning the key brought the car to roaring life. Malcolm began driving out of the parking lot. Slowly, like speed frightened him. Being timid seemed wrong for this car. Maybe Sophie treated it properly.

When he reached the exit to the street, Grace said, “Where are we going?”

He braked, slapped his own forehead. “Of course, how would you know? Sorry, again, I plead temporary attention deficit due to... I’m taking you to my house. Our house, mine and Sophie’s. If you approve, I shouldn’t assume anything. Though to be honest, Grace, there’s no better alternative right now—”

“I approve,” said Grace. “Please drive fast.”

She expected a long trip, figuring the ugly area where juvenile hall sat would be far from a house nice enough for Malcolm and wealthy Sophie Muller.

She was half right: The house was huge and beautiful and so were its neighbors, with wide green lawns, old trees, bright flowers. But it didn’t take that long to get there, Malcolm driving on a street called Sixth that passed through a lot of grayness and shabbiness.

He pulled into the driveway, said, “Voilà.”

The house was two stories tall with a high pointy roof covered with what looked like gray sheets of rock. The front was brick with dark beams crossing it in a bunch of places. Grace recognized the style from her reading: Tudor, named after a family of English kings. She had no idea people lived in them in America.

“To give you your bearings,” said Malcolm, “this neighborhood is called Hancock Park, and the street is June Street. It’s more for bankers and lawyers and doctors than professors but this is where Sophie’s parents lived. They were among the first Jews allowed to buy — not that you need to hear about that, sorry.”

A beat. “Sophie and I are Jewish, you know.”

“I know.”

“Oh,” he said. “Our names tipped you off?”

“The Holocaust.”

“Ah... smart thinking. Anyway, we’re not at all religious, so it’s not like you’re going to have to learn rituals and prayers, that kind of thing.”

Rituals and prayers sounded interesting to Grace. Among the materials Malcolm had given her were articles on all kinds of religious customs.

“Anyway,” he said, squeezing himself out of the Thunderbird and retrieving Grace’s things. By the time he circled to open the passenger door Grace was already out.

His key unlocked a heavy wooden door with a brass knocker shaped like a lion. Grace followed him into an empty room with black-and-white-checked marble floors that seemed to have no purpose other than sitting in front of a much larger room. That space was full of old-looking fat sofas and chairs with lots of pillows, dark wood tables with curved legs, fancy-looking dark wood bookshelves stuffed with books. More books sat on the floor. In one corner stood a clock even taller than Malcolm. On the left side, a carved wooden staircase with wide steps led upstairs. A blue-and-red-and-white rug ran down the center.

The back wall of the big room was a bunch of glass doors that offered a view of a garden.

Not the acreage of the ranch, this property was smaller but not small, with a swimming pool that was bright blue and clear, trees with low-hanging branches, beds of red and pink and white flowers, and the greenest grass Grace had ever seen. She was breathless.

Professor Sophia Muller appeared, as if magically, wearing a dark-blue sweater unbuttoned over a top of the same color, tan slacks, and flat brown shoes. Her ash-blond hair was tied in a bun. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck.