Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

“I promise.”

“Good.” Needing the last word; Grace let him have it.

Returning to his hot rod, he revved and swooped onto the highway at an outrageously excessive speed, lights rotating, siren on full-alarm.

Completing the fifteen-second drag race to the nearest exit before vanishing in a Doppler cloud of noise.

Grace let out breath slowly, said, “You’ve still got it working, girl,” and drove off.

Or maybe her charm had nothing to do with it and M. Lopez had it right: Someone else’s misfortune was her lucky break.

If she didn’t think it amoral and futile she’d have prayed for more of the same.

Merganfield School allowed students to learn at their own pace. In most cases, the pressured darlings who’d lived their entire lives being told they were geniuses pushed themselves at warp speed. No one pressured Grace but she discovered that her rate of learning was as quick as her most neurotic classmates.

Midway through the year, she’d completed much of the Merganfield “great books” curriculum with straight A’s but tried to keep her progress from Malcolm and Sophie.

Because once they knew college was the optimal choice there’d be another sit-down.

But by the time she was nearing the end of her first year at the school, her perspective had changed. Approaching sixteen, she found herself craving even more solitude. Tolerating Sophie and Malcolm’s conversation, appreciating them, they were clearly wondrous and wonderful people. But secretly, she found herself wishing they’d leave her alone for long stretches.

This, she supposed, is adolescence. Though it felt like more of being herself.

The psychology books she borrowed from Malcolm’s shelves said “emerging adulthood” was all about establishing “autonomy” and a “sense of self.” One out of two wasn’t bad; she’d never totally depended on anyone but sense of self remained a mystery. Mostly she lived hour by hour, trying to do things she enjoyed. Including those stolen moments with the always-grateful and somewhat clearer-skinned Sean Miller. (Did Grace deserve credit for reducing his zits? She’d heard that was an old wives’ tale, but you never knew.)

Whatever the reason, he was looking better, and she was pleased with her growing sexual skills; Sean was like modeling clay.

She was also viewing leaving for college as a not-tragic possibility. Though another option was staying at home and attending USC, where Malcolm and Sophie taught.

Commuting with them to campus... no, that didn’t feel right.

In any event, there was no sense pushing the issue and when summer came around and she had the possibility of attending summer school at Merganfield, she said sure.

Every one of her classmates was also there. Even the Nigerian twins, who’d heard from Princeton after their Columbia acceptance and were New Jersey — bound, felt impelled to study all summer.

The session went smoothly, go-with-the-flow working for Grace until a morning in mid-June, when Sophie puttered with uncharacteristic nervousness at the Wolf range and Malcolm cleared his throat.

This time they faced her across a table groaning with bagels and Sophie’s aquavit-cured gravlax.

This time she was ready.

Malcolm began with a little speech about Grace’s amazing scholastic accomplishments, singling out her thirty-page paper on the pre-czarist rulers of Russia, her over-the-moon grades, SAT scores that put her in the top tenth of a percentile, nationally.

Grace didn’t argue but she was far less impressed by her own achievements. Everyone at Merganfield got A’s because why should the “highly gifted” perform other than at an “exemplary level”? And among the psychometrics Malcolm had been administering to her for years were various versions of the SAT. Grace had caught on, long ago, to what the test’s designers were after, the predictable vocabulary words, the math problems that allegedly tested abstract thinking.

By now, she could pencil the dots in her sleep. So when Malcolm paused to chew on a poppy seed bagel, she said, “I know. We need to talk about next year. Don’t worry, I’m fine with the change.”

Malcolm, mouth full, chewed faster.

Sophie placed a hand on her left bosom and smiled. “We’re that transparent, dear?”

“You care about me. I appreciate it. I’ve matured and I’m okay with change.”

Sophie blinked. “Yes, well — that’s a relief. But you know, it could be a huge change — much more so than Merganfield.”

“I’m ready,” said Grace. “Have been for a while. The only problem is the money. I can’t keep mooching off you, there has to be a plan for tuition repayment.”

Malcolm swallowed. “Don’t be silly, you’re not mooching.”

“Absolutely not,” said Sophie.

Grace fingered the hem of her cashmere top and smiled. “How would you describe it?”

The kitchen clock ticked. Generally Sophie was the first to break long silences. This time Malcolm said, “I consider your education — we consider it — an investment. Someone of your caliber has the potential to accomplish Lord knows what.”

Sophie said, “It’s also an investment in our well-being. We care about you, Grace. We want to be secure in the knowledge that you’re self-actualizing — oh, scratch that — we’re so pleased you’re growing up...” Her new smile was fragile.

Malcolm said, “All right, then, we’re all on board, no more chatter about repayment. However, a core issue remains—”

Sophie broke in: “Please don’t take this wrong, dear, but our relationship — not the emotional aspect, the legal aspect — is ambiguous.”

Grace’s gut lurched and filled with acid. She was almost certain what they were getting at. She hoped she was. But with people — even good people — you never knew.

Plus, she’d read enough of Bulfinch’s Mythology to know happy endings were for babies.

So if she was misreading, no sense embarrassing herself, making it awkward for everyone. She put on her best calm smile.

Malcolm said, “What would you say to formalization?”

Sophie said, “He means adoption, dear. If you so choose, we’d like you to become a legal member of our family, Grace.”

The same gut that had constricted now blossomed and filled with honeyed warmth. As if a gentle light — a soft, soothing night-light — had been implanted inside Grace.

She had been right! This was the stuff of which dreams were made, she felt like whooping and cheering but her jaw had locked and all she could produce was a weak, “If that’s what you want.”

Oh, how stupid!

“It is,” said Sophie. “But the key is what you want, Grace.”

Grace forced out the words. “Yes. Of course. It’s what I want. Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

“Thank you, Grace. It’s been a wonderful experience having you here.” Sophie got up and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. In an instant, Malcolm was also standing behind her and Grace felt his massive hand rest lightly upon her shoulder before withdrawing.

Grace knew her body was stiff, knew she should be reacting differently — appropriately — but something stopped her. As if a barrier, a neurological levee — what did the physiology book call it? — a septum had been inserted between her brain and her mouth.

She said, “It’s been great for me, too.” Then, finally: “You’re wonderful people.”

Sophie said, “That’s so sweet,” and kissed Grace’s hair, again.

Malcolm said, “Here, here. I want some of that cake left over from last night.”

Despite the way that morning had begun, the topic of college and its financing slipped away and Grace wondered if Malcolm and Sophie felt she wasn’t mature enough.