Part 20 (2/2)
On the video, Wehr was asking a similar question. ”I thought your mother was deceased.”
”That person wasn't really my mother.” Bitterness rattled in Deidre's throat. ”Not my biological mother.”
”You were adopted?”
A gurgle of something-surely not laughter-came from deep within Deidre. ”Not exactly. That would imply I was chosen...by someone...some couple. No. I found out why I was always referred to...in whispers behind my back, when they didn't think I was old enough to understand...as 'the shame.'”
”What did you find out?” Wehr's tone was even, business-like. Devoid of emotion.
Cold b.i.t.c.h, thought Rae.
”My sister, Morgan, wasn't my sister. She was my mother. I was her shame. But she was the cause of the shame, not me.” Deidre rose up from the chair. ”So, why was I 'the shame'? It was her shame, not mine.”
The cigarette went flying from her hands, burning her as she tried to catch it. She didn't even wince.
”Let her take my place. Let her feel what real shame is. Her, with her prissy little gloves and all the matching accessories. So proper. Dragging her feet over a few lousy-she wouldn't pay!” Deidre's anger spewed unchecked. Her thin hands clutched air, then her own temples as she threw back the long, black hair from her high forehead.
A splinter p.r.i.c.ked Rae's brain. What was it about the hairline?
”Sam said he'd get the money, but instead he called you cops, and here I am,” Deidre ranted on. ”I know it was her idea. A lot of f.u.c.king good it's going to do. Just make it worse for me.”
”Please sit down, Mrs. La.s.siter.”
Wehr's entreaty went ignored. ”Mother dearest wouldn't say f.u.c.k to save her own life.”
”Mrs. La.s.siter--”
A break in the tape. A dark patch, as if something had been edited out.
Then a calmer Deidre, seated once again, hands folded in front of her. ”I'm telling my son to take his pals and go play with his grandma.”
”By 'his grandma' you mean--”
”What did I just tell you? The b.i.t.c.h would give up her whole inheritance before she'd let on she'd had a little...slip.” Deidre's hands began to shake again as she made them into fists, clenching, unclenching. ”Let's see what she's willing to do to keep her dirty little secret.”
Deidre paused. An almost grin tugged at one side of her face. That face...where...
”That's me, you know? Only I won't keep her secret. That's our ticket out. It should satisfy them.”
”You said 'our'?” Wehr's voice, detached.
Rae twitched in her chair, wanting to punch somebody, glancing at Veronica. Nothing coming from those eyes except a slow burn. She has seen this before.
”Me and my daughter,” continued Deidre.
”Have these men threatened your daughter?”
Deidre shook her head. ”They didn't have to. When they're finished with me, she'll be the next target. Unless I give them a better one.”
”When did you find out...about your parentage?”
Deidre shrugged. ”I can't remember.”
”What about your biological father?”
”No idea.” Deidre sank inside herself again, slumped, clawing at her sweater. ”Unless...” A whisper escaped her lips. ”My grandpa. I mean, my great-grandpa...Jerome, the tight leash he kept on all of us.”
”Did he ever touch you inappropriately?”
”Is a slap in the face inappropriate? Never mind. Not s.e.xually. I don't think I was his type.”
”What do you mean?”
”Grandpa...see what habit does? Jerome liked blondes. All-American types. Like my daughter, Beth. I'm glad he's dead.”
Something seemed to shut down in Deidre's face. She stood and once more drew the sweater tightly around her thin body.
”I have to go. Unless you're going to arrest me for something.”
”We could put you and your daughter in a safe house.”
Deidre laughed, like dry twigs rubbing together. ”There is no such thing. No house that's safe.”
”Do you really think you can protect your daughter without help?”
”Not really. I may have to die for her. She's a good kid. You know what they say about roses from s.h.i.+t...”
Chair sc.r.a.ping. Rasping smoker's cough. Deidre's body, up close to the camera, then nothing. End of sound and picture. Like Deidre's life-cut short.
Wehr's voice recorded the time, repeating the date of the interview.
Veronica's hand pressed stop, rewind.
Rae listened to the sound of her own breathing, swallowed repeatedly, glad she'd eaten no breakfast.
”How long have you had this tape?” Rae asked Veronica, her morning coffee burning a hole in her empty stomach.
”Yesterday. I told you when I went in for it.” A frown creased Veronica's brow.
”I don't think so.”
”Say you're correct, what do you intend to do about it?”
”I don't know. What would you do, if you were me?”
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