The Murderer's Daughter

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He always liked to talk but even for him this was a lot of words.

  Grace said, “Maybe.”

  Malcolm crossed a tree-trunk leg. “I’m probably being tedious. Anyway, those are the reasons I didn’t tell Sophie about you. Precisely because you’re important.”

  Grace’s tummy began hurting again. The same way it had when Professor Muller told her she was pretty. She covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting something stupid to fall out.

  Malcolm said, “Here’s a new magazine you might want to take a look at.”

  Out of his briefcase came a volume with an orange paper cover and no pictures, just words. At the top was the title: Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology.

  “Thank you.”

  He laughed. “Don’t thank me so soon, Grace. See if you like it. This isn’t like Psych Today, which is for people who haven’t studied psychology on a high level. This is for actual psychologists and to be truthful, some of it’s rather hard to understand. I don’t always understand everything. You may find it the essence of dull.”

  Grace flipped a page. Lots of words, small letters, a bar graph at the bottom.

  He took out the new picture test. “Okay. Let’s get to work. And thanks for your continuing help.”

  “With what?”

  “The testing.”

  “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “I know, Grace. For you tests are mental exercise. But even so, you’ve helped me. I have a new understanding of ultra-gifted kids in a way I didn’t before I met you.”

  Again, Grace had no idea what to say.

  Malcolm ran a finger under the neckband of his turtleneck sweater. “Hot in here…what I’m trying to get across, Grace, is that while you’re unique, you have much to teach about how extremely bright children cope with challenges.”

  The word “challenges” was like a branding iron in one of Steve Stage’s western movies, turning the pain in Grace’s belly to fire. She moved her hand from her mouth but something she couldn’t believe still fell out: “You pity me.”

  What was worse than the words was the anger in her voice. A bad girl, a demon, talking through her.

  Malcolm held up his hands, as if he had no idea what to do with them.

  As if he didn’t want to be hit.

  Grace began to cry. “I’m sorry, Professor Bluestone.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For saying that.”

  “Grace, you can feel or say anything you want.”

  He handed her a tissue. She snatched it and dried her eyes, disgusted with herself for acting like a demonic baby.

  Now everything would change.

  More tears trickled out. She slapped them away, pleased that she’d made her face sting.

  Malcolm waited awhile before speaking. “I think I get why you’re upset. You don’t want me to see you as vulnerable. Am I right, Grace?”

  She sniffed, dabbed. Nodded.

  “Well, I don’t see you that way, Grace. Just the opposite, I see you as resilient. So I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear.”

  He waited some more. Grace remained silent, the tissue compressed in her taut hand.

  “I came here originally because Ramona told me how smart you were, she was concerned that the regular curriculum was useless. She also gave me your history. Because I asked her, that’s what I do, it’s part of being thorough. The more I learned about you the more I realized how remarkably you’ve developed. Nevertheless, I’d be dishonest if I pretended you hadn’t faced challenges. We all do. But do I pity you? Absolutely not.”

  Grace hung her head. She wished this day would end.

  “Oh, boy,” Malcolm said. “I’m digging myself deeper…okay, give me another chance to explain.”

  Silence.

  “May I?”

  Nod.

  “I like to think of myself as a caring person but pity is not part of my repertoire because pity lowers people. However”—he cleared his throat—“I am interested in people who deal with tough situations well. How they make sense of their world when things get rough. Because I think psychology needs to be more positive. To learn about strengths as well as weaknesses. Maybe I feel that way because of Sophie, what her parents went through. They endured a terrible experience called the Holocaust—I can’t recall if any of the curriculum materials covered that—”

  “History, Module Seventeen,” said Grace. “World War Two and Its Aftermath. Hitler, Himmler, Nazis, storm troopers, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Treb…linko?”

  “Treblinka. Sophie’s parents ended up in a camp called Buchenwald. They survived and came to America and were blessed with Sophie and led wonderful lives. When I met them, their joyful approach to life surprised me because when you learn to become a psychologist it’s all about problems and weakness and getting to know Sophie’s parents taught me I’d missed a lot. Then they died—nothing to do with Buchenwald, they got old and sick and passed. That made me even more intent on understanding people who adjust and adapt well. What I call super survivors.”

  Grace said, “She uses another name.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re Bluestone, she’s Muller. Is that because she wants to remember her family in a special way?”

  Malcolm blinked. “Grace, I am privileged to know you.”

  Again, the branding iron. Why couldn’t she accept nice things?

  Grace’s eyes shot down to the table, fixed on the orange cover of the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology. The articles inside were listed there and the first title she saw was about randomly truncated variable interval reinforcement in a sample of neurologically enhanced hooded rats.

  This was going to be the essence of dull.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Malcolm, smiling. “Still, you’ll probably get more out of it than my grad students.”

  —

  Two months after Grace’s eleventh-birthday bash, three new fosters arrived at the ranch, in a strange and different way.

  The first odd thing was they came at night, when everyone except Ramona and Grace was asleep. Ramona would probably have been sleeping, she’d been going in earlier and earlier, keeping medicine in her apron pocket, muttering about needing to get off her feet. Grace had been studying her intently, trying to figure out when the ranch would close and she’d end up exiled to a place she wouldn’t like.

  Grace was up because she tended to wake in the middle of the night, feel alert, and read herself back to sleep. That’s what she was doing when she heard Ramona descend the stairs.

  She went to check, found Ramona at the front door, looking nervous and glancing at the big Hamilton man’s watch she always wore, the one Steve Stage had worn when he was alive.

  Ramona turned to see Grace. “Got some new ones checking in, Grace. You’d best be heading back to slumber-land.”

  “I can help.”

  “No, you go to your room.” Speaking more roughly than usual.

  Grace obeyed and climbed the stairs. Opening her window, she perched on her bed with a clear view of what was happening down below.

  A big dark-green car and a white-and-black police car were parked in front of the house.

  Out of the police car stepped two policemen in tan uniforms. Out of the green car stepped a man in a suit with a badge clipped to his breast pocket. All three were big men, with mustaches. They formed a half circle facing Ramona. A conversation Grace couldn’t hear lasted for a while, everyone looking serious. Then one of the uniformed policemen opened the rear door of the police car and made a waving motion.

  Out came three kids, two boys and a girl.

  The smaller boy was about Grace’s age, the taller one older—thirteen or fourteen. The girl was the youngest, maybe eight or nine, and she stood in a way that made her seem even smaller than she was.

  All three were blond, really light blond, just as light as Sophia Muller. Their hair was like straw in the wind, wild and sticking out all over the place.

  Long hair, reach
ing below their waists, even the boys.

  Their clothes looked strange: too-large, loose-fitting black shirts with no collars and baggy, too-long black pants whose bottoms collected on the dirt like accordions.

  As if the three of them were members of a club that you needed a uniform for but the uniforms hadn’t come out right.

  The girl stood close to the younger boy, who was biting his nails and tapping his foot. Those two had round, soft faces and looked almost like twins, if she hadn’t been so much younger. He moved his shoulder so it touched hers and she began sucking her thumb. His foot began tapping faster.

  The older boy had a longer face. He stood away from them and seemed relaxed, slouching and bending one leg as his eyes moved all over the place. First he stared straight at the house, then past the house and out to the desert, followed by a quick swing toward Ramona.

  Then his face tilted upward. Aiming himself directly at Grace. She realized she’d left her light on, was framed like a picture.

  The older boy locked in on her eyes and smiled. He was handsome, with a firm jaw and a crooked smile. His look said he and Grace shared a secret. But there was nothing friendly about the smile.

  Just the opposite, a hungry smile. Like he was a coyote and she was food.

  Grace backed away from the window and drew her curtains.

  She thought, but couldn’t be sure, that she heard laughter from down below.

  —

  The following morning, as usual, Grace was the first to get up and Ramona entered the kitchen as she was pouring herself a second glass of juice.

  “Morning, Ms. Blades.” Ramona began fiddling with the coffeemaker.

  “Who are they?”

  Ramona’s hands stilled. “I figured you’d be curious. But trust me, Grace, don’t be.” She kept her back to Grace, as if she and Grace didn’t know each other as well as Grace thought they did.

  When she’d loaded coffee into the urn, she said, “I’ll tell you their names because obviously you need to call them something. But that’s it, okay?”

  It’s not okay at all, it’s stupid. “Sure.”

  “They’ll be gone soon, anyway. It’s a favor I’m doing for social services because they need a…” Head shake. “That’s all you need to know, young lady.”

  Walking to the fridge, Ramona pulled out eggs and butter.

  Grace said, “Their names…”

  “What…oh, yeah. Okay, the big one is Sam, his brother is Ty, the little sister is Lily. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sam, Ty, Lily,” Ramona repeated. As if Grace needed to memorize a lesson.

  Sam. That smile remained in her head, like a bad smell. Ty and Lily had acted like scared babies and she didn’t want to spend time with them, either.

  Ramona began frying up a clump of her tasteless eggs. The coffeemaker burbled. She looked at her man’s watch. “Oops, better check on Bobby.”

  She went upstairs and returned looking exhausted as she eased Bobby into the kitchen. He was walking on two canes that fit around his elbows, moving slowly, with jerks and starts. In the middle of his trek to the table, he stopped and flashed Grace one of his confusing smiles. Or maybe he wasn’t smiling at Grace, just at…being there. But it was better than Sam’s smile so she smiled back and helped Ramona seat him and strap him in and filled his special cup from one of the cans of nutritional shakes in the fridge.

  During Ramona’s absence, bumps had begun sounding from above. The three new fosters were awake but they hadn’t come down.

  Grace fed Bobby his shake. He gurgled and rolled his head, worked hard at sucking up liquid, finally succeeded.

  Ramona kept frying. Her reaction to Grace being helpful with Bobby had changed over three years. She’d started out insisting Grace didn’t need to work, she was a kid, not a caretaker. When Grace kept up her chores, anyway, Ramona began thanking her.

  But that had stopped, too. Nowadays, Ramona said nothing, expecting Grace to be part of the ranch routine.

  As she placed a plate of eggs in front of Grace, the bumps from the second floor grew louder and faster and moments later they transformed to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of feet on stairs. Six feet made a lot of noise. To Grace it sounded like stampeding horses in one of Steve Stage’s old movies.

  Sam appeared first, swaggering into the kitchen as if he’d always lived there. Sharp eyes took in the room, settled on the fry pan. “Thanks so much, ma’am, but I don’t eat eggs. None of us do. It’s animal matter.”

  Ty and Lily hid themselves behind him, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Ty was even softer-looking up close, all boy, no man. Sam, on the other hand, had muscles in his arms and the beginnings of facial hair: oily-looking smudges on his chin and above his upper lip.

  All three of them had on the same strange black clothing they’d arrived in. Up close, Grace could see the uniforms were hand-sewn, with clumsy, crooked stitching and loose threads, fashioned of a rough fabric that looked more like a bag for potatoes than for clothes.

  Another weird thing she noticed now was that Sam wore an earring, a small gold loop that pierced his left lobe.

  Grace ignored them and ate but a cold feeling was spreading on the back of her neck. Glancing up from her plate, she saw Sam looking at her. His lips would’ve been pretty on a girl but on him they looked like…a costume.

  Grace returned to her plate. He snorted.

  Ramona said, “You’re vegetarians, huh?”

  Sam said, “Most vegetarians eat eggs and milk. We’re vegan.”

  “Be nice if someone told me. So what’s your usual breakfast?”

  “Greens,” said Sam.

  “Vegetables?”

  “Green vegetables, ma’am. Manna from the earth.”

  “Wasn’t manna birds or something?”

  “No, ma’am, that was the miraculous quail visited upon the sinful Hebrews. Manna was a heavenly vegetable.”

  Ramona grunted. “Greens…” She rummaged in the fridge. “I’ve got lettuce and cucumbers that were supposed to be for dinner but I suppose I can cook something else for dinner. Sit down and I’ll wash you a mess of greens.”

  Talking differently than she did to other fosters. Like she didn’t want these kids here.

  “Where?” said Sam.

  “Where what?”

  “Where should we sit, ma’am?”

  “Where?” said Ramona. “At the table.”

  “I understand that, ma’am, but where at the table? Please assign us positions.”

  Ramona put her hands on her hips. Bobby’s head rolled. Sam laughed. At Bobby.

  Ty and Lily hadn’t uttered a word, remained pressed together, same as last night.

  Ramona said, “Positions, huh? Okay, you—big brother—sit over there.” Pointing to the seat farthest from Bobby. “Then we’ll have your little brother sit next to this gentleman, who is Bobby, and you, cutie—Lily—you’re between Ty and this young lady, who is Grace. She’s very smart and she likes her privacy.”

  Aiming the statement at Sam. Maybe she’d seen the hunger, too.

  Sam grinned. Usually, Grace didn’t like being protected, but this morning, she didn’t mind it at all.

  Sam moved toward her, shifted direction, and followed Ramona’s seating instructions. Telling his siblings, “Go.”

  They obeyed.

  Once seated, he flicked his earring. “Privacy is an illusion.”

  Ramona glared. “Well, then, you go on respecting Ms. Blades’s illusion.”

  “Blades,” said Sam, as if he found the name amusing. “Of course, ma’am. We’re here to be respectful. And grateful.” He snickered. “We’re here to be absolutely perfect.”

  —

  That day, at ten a.m., Grace experienced a new emotion.

  Malcolm Bluestone drove up in his brown station wagon, hauled out what she recognized as testing materials, but when she walked up to him, he said, “Hi, there. I think we’ll have some time in the afternoon.”

 
Grace looked at the tests.

  “Oh, these,” said Malcolm. “I’m going to be spending some time with the new fosters.”

  Going to be. Not have to. That made it his decision, he preferred to be with the weirdos in the weird clothes.

  Grace turned away.

  “Maybe one p.m.?” Malcolm called out. “Love to hear how you liked the anthropology materials.”

  Grace didn’t answer. Her eyes were burning and her chest felt tight.

  She’d read about this and now she felt it. Jealousy.

  She’d make sure to be somewhere else at one p.m.

  —

  Malcolm found her at two thirty. She’d been reading, sitting behind a group of old oak trees on the far side of the green slimy pool, her back feeling the roughness of the bark. For part of the time, Bobby had been nearby. Sitting limply on the pool deck and dangling his feet in the water and laughing, as Ramona clutched his elbow to keep him steady.

  Grace’s current favorite book was a thick volume on spiders written by a biologist from Oxford University in England. She was concentrating on the wolf spider, with its fangs and its hiding holes from which it killed its food. Wolf spiders also carried their eggs—their babies—on their stomachs. A lot of the killing they did was to stay healthy so they could be good mothers…

  When Ramona and Bobby left, Grace was reading about the wolf spider’s breeding habits and didn’t notice.

  At two thirty, Grace was thirsty. Figuring Malcolm was gone, she headed back toward the house for some juice. He was just coming out the front door and smiled. “There you are! Got time for anthropology?”

  “I’m tired,” she said, and went inside.

  —

  The following day, he arrived earlier than ever, when everyone was still in the kitchen. Grace was poking rubbery eggs, Bobby was struggling with his nutritional drink, and the new fosters, still in their strange clothing, were eating huge plates of salad.