The Other Daughter

by Lisa Gardner

  “Pat, what the hell are you doing?”

  She finally turned toward her husband, her eyes falling on his bandaged right hand. He didn't seem to notice it, though, as he stared, flabbergasted.

  And then he lifted his left hand toward her slightly, his expression softening into concern. Lord, he was handsome when he looked at her like that. She thought of all the years between them, the mistakes he made, the mistakes she made, her overwhelming certainty that it could all be forgiven, that they could move beyond and be happy. They both deserved at least that much.

  Oh, Harper, where did we go wrong? How could we have hurt each other so much? How could you have harmed Meagan? She called you Daddy. She learned Jamie's name, but she called you Daddy.

  She said, “I'm leaving you.”

  “Pat, sweetheart, what is going on? You've obviously worked yourself into a state.” He glanced at the floor, the empty bottles of booze. “Please tell me you didn't . . . You've been doing so well. . . .”

  “I am doing well. But then, what do you care? You're the one who brings home the booze.”

  “Pat! What's gotten into you? We're going to Europe.”

  “Running away, that's what it was, except I was too stupid to see it. You got a note too, didn't you, Hap? That you get what you deserve.”

  He stiffened, his handsome features shuttering in answer. She finally found her strength, bringing up her chin.

  “No, we don't get what we deserve in the end, Harper. Because I deserved a helluva lot more than to lose my little girl. And you . . . if you really did harm her, you deserve to rot in hell!”

  She charged forward, piloted by anger and desperation. She had to get out of the room. She had to get away from him before he turned those eyes on her once more and she broke.

  Just as she shoved by him in the doorway, he grabbed her arm.

  “Pat, let me explain . . .”

  “You can't explain hurting our little girl. She thought of you as her daddy. I don't care what genetics said. You were her dad!”

  “I didn't harm Meagan!”

  “Bullshit. Brian said—”

  Harper grabbed her other shoulder, wincing because of his bandaged hand, then shook her. “Dammit, look at me,” he demanded. “Look at me! I have been your husband for thirty-five years, and I swear to you, I did not hurt Meagan!”

  “The million dollars—”

  “She was four years old, Pat. Jesus Christ, what kind of man do you think I am?” He sounded so hurt.

  She shook her head. “I don't know anymore! You kicked out our son. You told the police our daughter may have shot William because he dumped her—”

  “I can explain it all. Oh Pat . . .” His voice gentled, he moved closer, pinning her with those eyes, those deep blue eyes. He whispered, “You just have to give me some time. Oh God, everything is falling apart. More than you know. Don't leave me now, Pat. I need you. Don't you understand? I need you.”

  Patricia hesitated and looked at Harper. She saw turmoil and pain in his eyes, fear and shame. She thought, this is why they had ended up together, because she knew the same emotions filled her own gaze. They were both so self-centered. Whatever had made them believe they were capable of being good parents?

  “Good-bye, Harper,” she said simply, and yanked out of his grasp to head upstairs.

  “Everything is in my name,” he cried out behind her. “Walk out that door and I'll cancel your gold cards, your bank cards, everything. Within ten minutes I'll have reduced you to nothing!”

  She said, “I don't care,” and five minutes later, armed with only one suitcase, she sailed out the front door.

  The night wind greeted her warmly, filled with the scent of tulips. Across the street the gas lamps glowed softly in the Public Garden as taxis whizzed by.

  “That is it,” Harper yelled from their bedroom window. “Don't even try to crawl back, Pat. We are through! Do you hear me? We are through!”

  On the empty sidewalk Patricia opened her arms and embraced the balmy breeze.

  “I am free,” she whispered to the city. “Melanie love, I am free!”

  IN THE UPSTAIRS bedroom Harper slammed the window shut. He tried to take a step, and the room spun so dizzily he fell down hard on the edge of the bed. For a minute he just sat, shell-shocked, listening to the ringing filling his ears.

  She'd left him. Patty had left him. Jesus, Patty had left him.

  The pieces he'd been juggling for so long were falling down around him, he thought wildly. The notes in his car. The pile of organs in William's house. Jamie O'Donnell's present, the change in both his wife and daughter. William's wild accusations, Jamie's reports that the FBI was closing in on the fraud rapidly.

  He'd gone too far; he'd never get out of this one. And then he thought, he had to get out of this one. He must protect his family.

  He'd never meant for it all to come to this. In the beginning he'd viewed Pat as simply the perfect companion. Gorgeous, graceful, confident. A great hostess for a rising doctor, a suitable mother for his children. He'd pursued her almost clinically, armed with books on the subject and, of course, Jamie O'Donnell's advice.

  And then the slow-budding wonder that such a creature truly could love him. That she believed in him more than he did. That she could look beyond his humble roots and view the man he desperately wanted to be.

  Somewhere along the way he'd fallen hopelessly in love with his own wife, and it had all disintegrated from there. The mutual hurt, the mutual betrayals. The confusion on his part because he could see that he was failing her without understanding what it was he needed to do.

  Then, finally, anger, when he discovered her affair with Jamie O'Donnell, anger that had turned his love to dust and made him want to smack her beautiful, lying face. He'd thought it would be better after that. He would never be vulnerable to her again. Business partners, that was the way to run a marriage.

  Then they'd come to Boston. Struggled with their son's growing mood swings. Worked diligently on their adopted daughter. And he'd spotted sometimes the way his wife watched him, the quiet yearning in her face, the acceptance.

  Somehow over the years the anger had also turned to dust and he'd rediscovered the love. Softer this time. Gentler.

  He had wanted to give his wife the world. His son too; Brian would grow up with everything he hadn't! And maybe Melanie would as well. Because even if she wasn't his, even if he knew exactly where she came from, she had looked up to him, and he wasn't immune to that. There were weeks on end when even he was convinced they were the perfect family.

  But the money ran out so quickly. Retirement looming around the corner with nothing saved, and what was he supposed to tell his former-beauty-queen wife? That at the age of sixty she might want to start thinking about getting a job?

  He'd come up with a plan. No one would get hurt. A little extra money, and it helped out William too. Everything was fine. No harm, no foul. Just a little bit longer . . .

  You get what you deserve!

  Christ, he didn't know what to do. And the house of cards was caving in fast. . . .

  Earlier tonight the pretty redhead at the Armani bar, sitting in the same chair she'd occupied for the last week. Himself, going there for comfort, losing himself in the living, pulsing rush of money.

  Buying the redhead a drink. Then another, then another.

  They'd gone to the Four Seasons. Beneath that shimmering black top she wore something frothy and made of pure lace. He remembered struggling with the clasp. The room growing blurry, faraway . . . And then . . .

  Waking up in his car in a seedy section of Boston. Doors locked, keys in the ignition, a song playing on his tape deck. The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil.”

  The blood dewing the white bandage on his right hand. The tingling in his fingertips. Lifting the bandage slowly, gazing at what lay beneath in gauze, the pounding of his own heart.

  “I didn't hurt Meagan!” Harper groaned in the room. “Why doesn't anyone bel
ieve me? I never hurt anyone!”

  THE MAN IN the darkened room moved quickly now, throwing everything into bags. He hadn't gotten to deliver everything he'd wanted, but the big gift had gone down today and that was good enough.

  Time to move on.

  William Sheffield was dead. Melanie Stokes had pulled the trigger. That was unexpected but filled him with pride. That's my girl!

  No time to dwell now, though, little time to contemplate.

  Things were happening fast.

  He zipped up the last bag and walked out of the room. He already had his ticket for Houston. He knew for a fact that so did Brian Stokes and he guessed that very soon Patricia and Harper Stokes would have tickets as well.

  The trap was set and baited. Everything would end where it began.

  For you, Meagan. For you.

  TWENTY-NINE

  M ELANIE DISCOVERED THAT for a rich girl, she was pretty good at running away. First, after withdrawing as much cash as possible from her accounts, she dumped out all her plastic but one in an alley. In a city like Boston, some thief ought to be kind enough to recover the cards, use them, and lead the police on a merry goose chase. At least one could dream.

  Next, she purchased a baseball cap—thought of David, his arthritis, his baseball pictures, forced herself to dispel such thoughts—and stuffed her hair beneath it. Sunglasses, oversized T-shirt, and cheap canvas backpack transformed her into a young college student prone to furtive glances.

  She proceeded to the downtown Boston Amtrak station, which brimmed and bustled with hundreds of people. Boston's South Station led her to New York's Penn Station. A taxi took her to Kennedy Airport, and there she ran into her first obstacle. Getting into an airplane required a valid ID, and she was hardly running around with a fake one. She had to use her real name after all and hope no one would think to check the New York airlines. From Kennedy she flew to Houston.

  At Hobby Airport, she followed the signs to the information desk.

  The man stationed there was very helpful. He got a map for her and drew out her route to Huntsville, approximately ninety minutes away. Real hard to miss, ma'am, he assured her. Stay on I-45 all the way to I-10, and follow the signs. Finding a place to stay shouldn't be a problem, ma'am. This is Houston. Everything is done to a Texas scale, with strip malls and motels and family restaurants every fifty feet. Why, it's not uncommon to witness three to four funeral processions a day, ma'am. There's that many people living here, and that many people dying. You take care of yourself, y'hear?

  Melanie proceeded to the car rental booth. Renting a car required a valid driver's license and a credit card. She was on borrowed time, she thought grimly as she signed the forms.

  She got out onto the interstate and drove as night began to fade to black and the world took on a vast, alien scale.

  Strip malls loomed, car dealerships, and Motel 6's for as far as the eye could see. Houston sprang up on her right, tall, imposing buildings bursting out of flat land like moon craters in the falling light. The traffic halted for one funeral procession, then, twenty miles later, she stopped for a second.

  It was like driving on a giant treadmill, she thought, feeling the first bubbles of hysteria. Pass a hotel, see it again five miles later. Pass a car dealership. Oh, here it is again. Everything so gray, so concrete. By the time she came to I-10 and spotted yet another Motel 6, she figured she was due to get off the road.

  She paid for her room with cash. Another friendly man was behind the counter. He told her where a pharmacy was and a grocery store and a hardware store, and was doing so well she went ahead and asked him about a gun shop. He didn't blink an eye but nodded approvingly. A young lady traveling alone needed protection. Particularly this close to Huntsville. Did she know that this town, the headquarters for the Texas Department of Corrections, housed over seventy-two hundred inmates?

  She hadn't known. She jotted down everything he said, and rather than going straight to her room, she headed out for the stores.

  She bought fruit. It made her feel almost normal. Then she bought scissors and makeup and hair dye, and in another frenzy of activity she went into a local discount store and bought bags and bags of clothes, cheap, trashy.

  She dragged them back to her room. The hour was much too late for purchasing a handgun. She locked each of the three locks on her door and finally looked at herself in the mirror.

  Pale, pale face. Fine white-blond hair. Deep purple smudges framing cornflower-blue eyes.

  She suddenly hated everything about herself. She looked like Melanie but she was not Melanie. She was Daddy's Girl. Abandoned, nameless. No identity, no past, no parentage.

  You looked like Meagan, all right? her mother cried. I looked at you and saw Meagan! Killer's brat, killer's brat, Larry Digger hissed. Tell me, do you look at children and feel hungry?

  She picked up the scissors and started whacking. Her hair rained down around her, and she kept ravaging. If she shed enough hair, maybe she wouldn't be Melanie Stokes anymore. If she massacred enough strands, maybe she wouldn't see William's blood on her hands or Larry Digger's body on dark blue carpet. If she cut off enough hair, maybe Daddy's Girl would show her true face and she'd finally feel some recognition.

  All I ever wanted was for my family to love me as much as I loved them.

  Not since she was nine years old and waking up in a white emergency room had she felt so alone.

  AT SIX A.M. Melanie got up. She ate half a cantaloupe for breakfast and a cheap cheese-filled Danish that came out of a plastic wrap. She washed it down with bitter motel coffee, black. Then she showered again and donned a new outfit. After she plastered on some makeup she was ready.

  Huntsville didn't just house Texas's extensive prison system, it also housed the Huntsville Prison Museum. The museum opened at nine and Melanie planned on being the first person through the doors. If any place could tell her about Russell Lee Holmes, surely the museum would be it.

  She stopped by the visitors' bureau, picked up slick, brightly colored maps, and continued straight into town. Huntsville looked surprisingly pleasant for the city that had hosted more executions than any other in the United States. Old West storefronts, clean sidewalks, wide streets. An impressive stone courthouse set atop an emerald sea of grass and the all important old-fashioned ice cream parlor.

  In a town so square and quaint, it took her all of three minutes to locate the prison museum. She pulled her car into a space that still had the bar for hitching a horse. She walked up a gently sloping sidewalk on a bright warm day that promised heavy humidity and booming thunderstorms. A small family of tourists was in front of her, merrily snapping photos.

  The small museum was sandwiched between a jewelry store and a western shop. It wasn't much to look at. Dark walls, drop ceiling, faded brown carpet. The room mostly boasted a large model of the Huntsville prison system and many freestanding exhibits of the individual units that comprised the Texas Department of Corrections.

  Melanie followed walls covered with portraits of the corrections officials who'd built the prisons. She learned of the famous prison rodeo. She got to stare at Old Sparky, appropriately on display in a fake execution chamber, the wood still rich and gleaming, the broad leather straps and metal electrodes fully functional. Next to the chair, the museum had posted the last meal requests of many men. Three hundred and sixty-two men served.

  Melanie found what she was looking for in the small room marked PRISONERS' HALL OF FAME. It featured pictures of such notorious felons as Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, Russell Lee Holmes. Unfortunately the neatly typed placard next to Russell Lee's picture said very little: Convicted of murdering six children. The first prisoner to be executed by Old Sparky when the moratorium on the death penalty finally ended, and, due to his hands and feet blowing off, the last.

  “Do you have any more information on specific prisoners?” Melanie asked.

  “We get books and tapes donated all the time. Some of them are more specific.”


  “Where would I find them?”

  “Stacked against the wall, honey. Help yourself and take as long as you need. Huntsville prison has some of the most exciting history in the United States, and we're here to share it.”

  Melanie sorted through the pile of old, faded novels.

  Hour dissolved into hour. The curator left and a young man took over, reading Gray's Anatomy at the front desk until midafternoon. Then, when it became obvious Melanie wasn't going to budge, he offered to lock her into the museum while he ran across the street to grab a sandwich. Vaguely Melanie was aware of the ding as the door opened again, then the tall, ropy medical student was asking her if she wanted pastrami. She didn't.

  She was reading about the deaths of men, the many, many deaths, and the intricate process that culminated in capital punishment. The book was written by the journalist who'd had the death beat in Huntsville, Larry Digger.

  Melanie kept reading. Another person entered. She heard the bell and then she simply knew. In fact, she realized now, she'd been waiting for this. She'd known that of all people, he would deduce where she'd gone. After all, he was the person she'd told the most to. He was the person she'd trusted.

  Melanie didn't look up. She waited until she felt the warm, hard body of David Riggs standing behind her.

  “Melanie,” he began softly.

  She pointed to the black and white photo in the middle of Larry Digger's book. She said, “Meet Daddy.”

  THIRTY

  O KAY, MELANIE, START talking.” David planted his feet in the middle of Melanie's motel room, looking harsh. He'd been up most of the night and traveling since six that morning. He wasn't in the mood for excuses and he was pissed—no, he felt guilty, scared and sick to his stomach with the worry that something might have happened to Melanie. He wasn't used to worry. He resented it. Then he looked at her face, bruised from William's fists, and he returned to feeling pissed.

  Melanie wasn't helping matters. Apparently she'd decided to try out a new look—a black denim skirt that used less material than a headband, a white cotton T-shirt that was at least two sizes too small, and blue eye shadow that appeared to have been applied with a trowel.