Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

By age fourteen and a half, Grace had begun to think of herself as belonging in the big beautiful house. Dangerous feeling, but she couldn’t help it, she’d been here longer than anywhere else.

Except that place in the beginning but that didn’t count.

Sometimes she even let herself imagine she belonged to Sophie and Malcolm. But not owned in that crazy way she’d read about in the poems she studied. This was something more... civilized.

Three months ago, she’d taken a huge chance and allowed her fingertips to brush Sophie’s hand when they were shopping at Saks, in Beverly Hills. Lingering long enough for Sophie to maybe understand.

Sophie squeezed Grace’s hand gently and took hold of it and the two of them walked that way for a few moments until Grace grew twitchy and Sophie let go.

Later, when they were finishing a light lunch in the Saks tearoom, Sophie was the one to initiate: running her long, delicate fingers along the side of Grace’s cheek.

Smiling, as if she was proud.

They’d come to buy bras for Grace.

Sophie remained outside the dressing room, but not before offering advice: “Make sure it fits perfectly, dear. It will mean all the difference between proper support and backaches when you’re my age.”

Grace understood; Sophie’s bosoms were large for a woman so slim. Grace’s own breasts were little more than bumps, though her nipples had doubled in size.

She said, “Makes sense. Thanks for taking me, Sophie.”

“Who else, dear? We girls have to stick together.”

By fifteen, Grace had small, soft tufts of blond armpit hair and a reddish-blond triangle of pubic hair that she explored with her fingers to get herself in the mood before she masturbated each night. Downy nearly white hairs on her legs were close to invisible but Sophie showed her how to shave them anyway, without nicking herself.

“Use a fresh disposable razor every time and put this on first.” Handing Grace a glass bottle filled with golden lotion, the label lettered in French cursive. “It’s got aloe in it, that’s a spiky plant that looks pretty unimpressive but is impressively multitalented.”

Grace knew about aloe, about all sorts of botanical specimens. Her lessons were all college-level or above now, and Malcolm informed her that her vocabulary was that of “a doctoral candidate at a damn good university, remarkable, really.” Everything floated easily into her brain except math, but if she worked hard enough she could get that, too.

And that was her world: the three of them, Ransom Gardener every so often, occasionally Mike Leiber.

Mostly, her studies.

Once, in the beginning, Malcolm and Sophie had asked her if she wanted to meet other children. Grace decided to be honest and said, “I’d prefer not,” and when they asked again, months later, and got the same answer, the subject never came up again.

Then...

It was a Sunday. Grace was fifteen and two months.

Malcolm raked leaves in the backyard and Sophie read a stack of magazines under the giant quince tree at the rear of the garden. Grace was off by herself, stretched out on a lounge chair near the rose beds, reading Coleman’s text on abnormal psychology and trying to fit people she’d known into various diagnostic categories.

Suddenly Malcolm stopped raking and Sophie stopped reading and the two of them looked at each other and came over to Grace.

A couple of giants converging on her.

“Dear,” said Sophie, “do you have a minute?”

Grace’s stomach — her entire gastrointestinal tract, she’d learned anatomy and could visualize the organs — began quivering. She said, “Of course.” Amazed at how calm she sounded.

Or maybe she didn’t because Malcolm and Sophie looked uncomfortable and when grown-ups looked that way it was a bad sign.

A precursor.

“Let’s go inside,” said Sophie, and that clinched it. Something terrible was going to happen. Grace was surprised, but at the same time she wasn’t because you never knew when life would turn disappointing.

Sophie took Grace’s hand and found it clammy with sweat but she held on and led Grace into the house, ending in the kitchen. Explaining, “I’m in the mood for lemonade,” but not coming close to convincing.

Malcolm, trailing behind and still looking uncomfortable — that horrible concerned look — said, “Lemonade and ginger cookies. To hell with the avoirdupois.”

Sophie set the lemonade and three kinds of cookies on the kitchen table. Malcolm ate two cookies immediately. Sophie looked at him and raised an eyebrow and held the plate out to Grace.

“No, thank you.” Now Grace’s voice was quivering stronger than her intestines.

Sophie said, “Something wrong, dear?”

“No.”

Malcolm said, “You’ve got a sensitive antenna, Grace.” Addressing her by name; this had to be really bad.

They were kicking her out. What had she done? Where were they sending her?

She burst into tears.

Sophie and Malcolm leaned forward, each of them taking a hand.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” said Sophie.

Grace was helpless against the torrent of water pouring from her eyes. She felt out of control. Like the psychotics she’d read about in Malcolm’s psychology books.

“Grace?” said Sophie, stroking her hand. “There’s nothing to be upset about. Really—”

Then the water stopped pouring out and words took their place, as if someone had turned Grace upside down and shaken the speech out of her. “I don’t want to leave!”

Sophie’s deep-blue eyes were huge behind her glasses. “To leave? Of course not — oh, my God, you thought — Mal, look what we’ve done, she’s terrified.”

And then Professor Malcolm Bluestone, who’d never touched her, walked behind her and placed one huge, padded hand on her cheek, the other lightly on her shoulder, and kissed the top of her head.

Another man might’ve spoken softly and gently. Malcolm boomed with authority. “You are not leaving, Ms. Grace Blades. You are ensconced here for as long as you choose to be. Which from our perspective is forever.”

Grace cried some more until she’d emptied herself of tears and had to gasp to regain her breath. Feeling relieved but now worse than stupid — idiotic.

She vowed never to lose herself that way again. No matter what.

Sophie inhaled deeply. “I reiterate what Malcolm said: You’re here, period. But there will be a change and you need to know about it. My sabbatical — my extremely extended sabbatical, as you know I cadged another eighteen months out of the rotters by forgoing salary — has come to an end. Do you understand what that means?”

Grace said, “You have to go to work.”

“Four days a week, dear. The rotters have loaded me up with classes, allegedly because of budget cuts, tenure be damned.” Sophie’s smile was wry. “The fact that my alleged book hasn’t materialized hasn’t helped my position.”

Malcolm said, “You’ll finish when you’re ready, darling, they just need to—”

Sophie waved him quiet. “So sweet and psychologically supportive, Mal, but let’s all be honest: I’ve idled and now the piper must be paid.” She turned back to Grace. “Malcolm’s sabbatical doesn’t come around for another three years. That means both of us will be going to work.”

Grace said nothing.

“You understand?” said Sophie.

“No.”

“You can’t be here by yourself.”

“Why not?”

Sophie sighed. “We should’ve prepared you. Be that as it may, reality is upon us and we must cope. Why can’t you remain unattended? Because if something happened — a fire, God forbid, or a break-in — and we’d left you alone it would be calamitous, dear. Even if you weren’t hurt, we’d lose our guardianship and possibly face charges of neglect.”