Chapter 27
From the mudroom door, Jerald watched his daughter preparing a late-night snack in the kitchen. Hadn’t she said that she had dinner with her friends after the grief session?
Agony pierced him.
He did not want to believe this was possible. Sarah Newton hadn’t become her mother. She hadn’t killed anyone.
Each time new evidence emerged or new research was released on any type of genetic connection, he rushed to digest it. Each time, his worry deepened.
What had he done?
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Watched his daughter skillfully peel and slice the apple, the knife far larger than necessary for the task.
Could she have inherited his weaknesses? This nightmare he had lived with for so, so long?
His teeth clenched. Surely fate would not be that cruel.
For years he had been free. He had struggled, but he’d overcome the urges for the most part.
Every day his daughter had grown into a more intelligent, more beautiful young woman, and he had been certain that it wouldn’t happen to her.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
Lynda insisted she was afraid of her own daughter. That something was very, very wrong with her. Jerald had told himself that his wife exaggerated. That she was wrong. That her jealousy of his relationship with their daughter was the motive for her insinuations.
He closed his eyes a moment. Who was he kidding? He knew. Damn it. He knew.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
He opened his eyes, met his beautiful daughter’s worried gaze.
“Are you all right?” She placed the knife on the counter.
He nodded, stepped into the kitchen. “Would you like some of your mother’s lobster bisque? It was”—he pressed his fingertips to his lips and kissed them—“perfetto.”
Jerri Lynn giggled. “No, thank you. Just an apple.” She popped a chunk into her mouth.
He needed to confront her with his concerns. His anguish surged again. He had dreaded this moment from the time she’d taken her first breath fresh from her mother’s womb.
His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers as he strolled to the kitchen island and propped a hip against it. “You’ve been going out at night.”
She paused in her chewing, then continued. “It’s no big deal. Just having fun.”
“Your philosophy professor left a message for me.” Maybe Lynda had been right. Perhaps they should have sent her away to school. But he just hadn’t been able to let her go.
Her fingers stilled on the next chunk of apple. “Really?”
“Look at me.”
She lifted her gaze to his.
“He said you’d missed four classes in the past four weeks. One more absence and he’s going to take disciplinary action.”
Whether to avoid a response or simply because she was hungry, she bit into another piece of apple.
“Who are these friends you’ve been so preoccupied with?
” All through school she’d had such a difficult time making friends.
She never seemed to fit in. Without effort she had been an honor student.
She hadn’t won any awards; those had always gone to the Gerard girl, but Jerald hadn’t cared.
He hadn’t needed any plaques or certificates to tell him how smart his daughter was.
Nor had he needed any crowns to show him how beautiful she was. She was perfect.
Jerri Lynn shrugged. Sliced off another piece of apple. “The usual crowd.”
There was no usual crowd. She was lying to him. That hurt almost as much as the idea that his fears may have materialized. “Who?” he repeated.
She toyed with the piece of apple. “Just Tamara Gilbert.” She lifted an uncertain gaze to her father. “Reverend Mahaney’s niece. She’s cool. She likes me. And I feel sorry for her.”
Jerald had to admit that he was glad to hear that she’d made a friend who appeared to want to stick by her, but . . . “Your snow boots are crusted in mud.” He wouldn’t say the rest. But he knew blood when he saw it. “Have you and Tamara been playing games in the woods?”
Jerri Lynn frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I haven’t worn my boots lately.”
He motioned for her to follow him.
In the mudroom, tucked behind the wood box, were her SORELs.
She frowned as she picked up one and checked the boot size. He’d already done that. She and her mother had a matching pair, but Lynda’s were a size 7. These—he stared at the damning boots—were an 8. Jerri Lynn’s size.
Jerri Lynn peered up at him and shrugged. “Mom must have worn my boots. You know I leave them in here all the time. Maybe Mom didn’t want to go upstairs for hers.” His daughter made one of those barely tolerant sounds. “Jeez, Dad, what’s the big deal? It’s just mud.”
If only that were the case. But it was more than just mud, and Lynda hated this time of year. She rarely left the house and certainly didn’t traipse around in the woods or muck. Her heart condition prevented her from such risks. Jerri Lynn knew this.
Jerald knew this.
“Come on.” She tugged at his arm. “I want to finish my apple and then we’ll have some of that bisque. I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”
“You go ahead.” He swallowed at the tightness in his throat. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
When Jerri Lynn had returned to the kitchen, he lingered in the mudroom.
Was he making too much of this? He really had no valid reason for his concerns. Perhaps Lynda was making him paranoid.
“Ouch.”
His daughter’s distressed sound caused him to move back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway in time to see her throw the knife onto the counter. She stared at her left forefinger. Blood oozed and slid downward. She’d cut herself.
When he would have asked if she needed him to fetch a Band-Aid, he hesitated. He couldn’t say why he hesitated. Instinct perhaps.
She continued staring, seemingly intrigued; then she licked the drop that slithered into her palm.
His heart began to pound.
She licked again, trailing her tongue all the way up her finger. Then she stuck her finger into her mouth and sucked.
Emotion warred inside him.
As he watched, she picked up the knife, studied the crimson smear on the shiny blade. She thrust out her tongue, let it slide carefully over the blade . . .
His breath evacuated his lungs even as he licked his lips.