Part 27 (1/2)

Grady's eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. She grated her teeth. ”And when's the last time you saw yours, Mary? Or your mother, for that matter? Huh, Miss Perfect? When?”

Mary stared, blinking, and tears filled her eyes.

3.

Robert had gone to her bedroom door, but Jenn had screamed at him to go away before he'd even knocked. Then she had suggested a specific destination.

Although he'd expected this reaction, he was deflated. G.o.d, but he wanted to see her. He couldn't believe how her voice had changed, grown richer; he'd wanted to continue talking through the door just so he could hear her yell some more.

Coming down the stairs from her room, he wanted to weep. His body wouldn't cooperate, so he was left with a hollow feeling, an emptiness. He retired to the couch by the front door, slumped and deafeated. he didn't even hear Grady and Mary arguing on the porch.

After a few minutes, the girls came in. Grady didn't so much as look in his direction, but turned into the kitchen. Mary watched her, smiled at her back, and came over to where he sat. ”No luck?”

”Did you think I'd have any?”

She shook her head, sat beside him, patted his leg. ”The couch okay?”

He smiled, surveyed her profile, thought better of contemplating her motivations again. She's kind and gentle, he thought. And in today's world . . . ”The couch will be fine.”

”Do you like chili?”

He grinned. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten in seven years.

She squeezed his knee, leaped up and looked back at him, her green eyes almost glowing through the dusk that permeated the room. ”Glad you're back. Maybe we can get to know each other this time.” The look in her eyes was a strange one.

By midnight, Robert was alone on the couch.

Grady had given him the cold shoulder all night, and had gone up to her room early. By ten, the place was silent, and he and Mary had spent the next hour talking. He expected their conversation to take a weird turn at some point, for her to tell him how upset she was with him, but it never happened. Instead, she did her best to fill him in on the last seven years of his daughter's life. She had also explained part of the reason she'd wanted to take care of his little girl: shortly before they'd left her parent's home, she had suffered a miscarriage. Jenn had helped her heal.

There was less than he would have imagined. Jenn had had trouble adjusting to life up here, had gotten into sc.r.a.pes with schoolmates, but after a couple of years she'd settled in, though there were those times when Mary walked into her room only to catch her staring out her window, deep in thought or memory. Though she'd had more than her share of problems, by and large Jenn had done her best to play the hand that Robert had dealt her.

Later that night, he opened his eyes to the dark, craned his neck to see the clock. It was after three. He hadn't been sleeping so much as resting his eyes. As the hours had pa.s.sed, his thoughts had blurred into half-dreams; his mind refused to shut off, so he opened his eyes, shoved his hands behind the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and tried to review his day, to ruminate on Mary, on his daughter, even on Grady, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. It pulsed, beat like a heart, but wouldn't really move. He was tired and overloaded.

Something moved on the stairs, and he nearly leapt off the couch. A shadowed figure crouched on them, one hand around the banister. She was crying.

”Jenn?” he whispered. His voice was throaty, unsure.

She continued to cry quietly while running a hand through hair much thicker than he would have imagined.

He waited. His heart pounded, his brow was hot with sweat, his palms damp. He ran them over the couch, waiting, his eyes on the shadows. When she moved, twitched even, he perked up. She wept, he waited.

After a time, she slapped her hand on the railing, pulled herself up. A bland light fell over her. She appeared pale. She'd died her hair black as a crow's wings. Her ears were cl.u.s.tered in gold, and hoops hung from them. She wore a long black T-s.h.i.+rt that told of a concert she'd been to a year before. He didn't recognize the band.

She approached him. He thought of standing, but wanted her to feel in control. She got closer than he'd thought she would, and they stared at each other. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the coffee table opposite him. She was wearing a musky perfume.

”Sorry about earlier,” she said.

He propped his arms on his knees, clasped his hands, and told her, ”Nothing to be sorry about. I owe you a world of explanation.” His sheepish smile left him then, and he thought it possible he'd never felt so elated, so content, so happy, so present in a moment.

She stared at him a moment longer. ”Let's have it.”

He laughed softly, looked away a second, and was startled to see Grady at the top of the stairs. Jenn turned.

”Hey, Grady, I-” she began, but Grady put a finger to her lips, shook her head.

”Do you hear that?” Grady whispered.

Robert's eyebrows knitted and he strained his ears, but didn't hear a thing.

Slowly, Grady descended the stairs. A baseball bat swung from her right hand, forward and back in a lazy arc.

”Did you see anything?” he asked.

”Thought I did. Maybe just a shadow.”

”Do you always grab your baseball bat when you see or hear something in the middle of the night?”

”Yes, I do. Locals don't creep around in the middle of the night. They know better. People around here carry guns, and they'll shoot you in the a.s.s as soon as ask 'May I help you?' They may ask you later what you were thinking, if you're not dead, but by then you're busy digging buckshot out of your spleen.”

”I take it you don't have a weapon.”

She raised the bat, patted it in her palm. ”This don't count?”

Robert stood, nearly touched his daughter's shoulder, but thought better of it. He neared the front door as Grady did, still not hearing anything, but there was something. It was the same feeling he got when he felt someone staring at him, the p.r.i.c.kling of hair and skin on the back of his neck. ”What do you want to do?”

Grady gave him a look that told him she thought it was obvious. ”You take one side, I'll take the other.”

”Happen to have another bat?”

Grady smiled, shook her head, swung open the door.

Behind him, Jenn cleared her throat. He turned, raised his eyebrows, and she said, ”Don't sweat it. This is a once-a-month thing.”

”Oh, shut up,” said Grady, pus.h.i.+ng open the screen and stepping into the night.

Robert smiled at Jenn, followed Grady out, watched her go right while he went left, hugged the bushes that lined the house, p.r.i.c.king his ears for any strange sounds. Tall lights hung over the golf course, keeping everything bright. He didn't see how anyone could sneak up on one of the houses, and from what Jenn had just said, the girl had a tendency to overreact.

Then Grady screamed.