by Joy Fielding
A slow smile played around the corners of Robin’s lips as she recalled Cassidy’s parting words to Dylan Campbell. “Give it your best shot,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Greg Davis succumbed to his wounds just after midnight.
Robin stood beside her father’s hospital bed the following morning, staring down at his once handsome face, but the man she’d both loved and loathed was no longer present. In his place was a waxen shell, slack-jawed and devoid of humanity.
“Well, well,” Alec said from somewhere beside her. As if that said it all. And maybe it did.
Robin glanced at her brother, trying not to wince at how thin he’d become during his brief stint behind bars. He and Landon had been released first thing in the morning, and the sheriff had personally driven them from the jail to the hospital. Landon had nodded silently, tears filling his eyes, when told of Cassidy’s involvement. Now he stood beside Blake in a corner of the room, staring at the floor and rocking gently back and forth.
“You know,” Alec said, “I must have wished the man dead a hundred times over the years.”
“And now?” Robin asked.
“And now?” Alec repeated. “I expected to stare down at his dead body and tell him I hoped he’d rot in hell. But I can’t. I thought I’d say that he got what he deserved. But I can’t do that either. Nobody deserves this. Not even him. I get no satisfaction seeing him like this. There’s no relief, no closure. The sad truth is, I feel nothing. Nothing at all.”
Robin touched her brother’s arm while looking at her father’s face. “I’m afraid you weren’t a very nice man, Daddy,” she said. “You were selfish and self-absorbed. It was always your way or no way. You did a lot of damage. You hurt a lot of people. Especially the people you were supposed to love, the people who tried desperately to love you. I’m sorry you weren’t a better father. I’m sorry you weren’t a better man. Not just for our sake. But for yours.”
“I’ll second that,” said Melanie.
“So what happens now?” Alec asked.
“Apparently there has to be an autopsy,” Robin said, “even though we know what killed him.”
“It’s the law,” Blake explained. “They need an official cause of death for when the case goes to trial.”
“A twelve-year-old girl on trial for murder.” Alec shook his head in disbelief.
“Sheriff Prescott said they’re going to do their best to have Cassidy tried as an adult,” Robin said.
“To think I actually liked the kid,” Alec said.
“Is there any chance she could get off?” Melanie asked.
“It’s possible,” Blake acknowledged. “All Cassidy needs is one sympathetic juror who buys her story.”
God help us.
“So I guess the answer to ‘What happens now?’ ” Melanie said, referring to Alec’s earlier question, “is ‘Who the hell knows?’ We’ll have to talk to Dad’s lawyer, I suppose, sort out the will, figure out what to do with the business. Stuff like that.” She looked at Robin. “I guess you’ll be taking off after you get those bandages changed.”
“You’re leaving?” Alec asked.
“Well, Blake has to get back to L.A.,” Robin said, her eyes on Melanie. “But I thought I’d stick around for another week, if that’s all right.”
In response, Landon shot forward, throwing his arms around Robin and hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe.
It’s okay, she thought, returning his embrace. I’ll breathe later.
“I guess I can hang around for a few more days, too,” Alec said. “Maybe Landon and I could go horseback riding later this afternoon. I think we could use some of those wide-open spaces. What do you think, big guy?”
Landon pulled slowly out of Robin’s arms. But even though his gaze was steadfastly on the floor, Robin could tell he was smiling.
“We should probably get out of here,” Melanie said. “Let the nurses do their thing.” She looked at Robin. “Unless you have anything else you want to say to our father.”
Robin shook her head. She’d said it all.
* * *
—
It was late afternoon and she was alone in the house.
Dr. Arla Simpson had changed her bandages and pronounced the wound healing nicely. Blake had taken off for L.A., promising to call as soon as he arrived. Melanie had left thirty minutes ago to pick up Landon and Alec at Donny Warren’s ranch. Now Robin found herself wandering restlessly from room to room, emptying the dishwasher, setting the dining room table for dinner, lying down on the living room sofa, getting up, going upstairs, lying down on her bed, sitting up, going to the window, looking toward her father’s house, a thousand disparate thoughts swirling through her head.
What am I missing? she recalled wondering. What’s wrong with this picture?
The answer to both those questions had been there all along: Cassidy.
All those years of study, the classes she’d taken in aberrant behavior, the many articles she’d read on the subject, only to be fooled by an adolescent girl. A child without a conscience. A twelve-year-old sociopath.
Was Cassidy a bad seed or a product of her environment? Perhaps a combination of the two. Nature versus nurture, the eternal debate.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Robin said out loud. After all, fooling people was what sociopaths did best.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called her L.A. office, recording a new message for her voice mail, informing callers that she would be away for another week, and wondering if anyone would care. Then she checked for messages. There was only one, from four days ago.
“Hi,” the message began. “This is Adeline Sullivan, the client who ran out on you in the middle of our session. I believe I said at the time that I didn’t think we were a good fit, and that might still be true. But the fact is that I took your advice. After a particularly unpleasant evening, I told my husband that I would no longer be inviting his mother over for dinner and that if he wanted to see her, then he could take her grocery shopping and out to lunch. He wasn’t very happy about it, but I have to say—I am! Of course my daughter is still treating me like shit, but I thought maybe we could work on that. If you’d agree to see me again, that is. Anyway, you can let me know. I completely understand if you’d rather not, but I really hope you’ll give me a second chance. I look forward to hearing from you. Goodbye.”
Robin replayed the message to make sure she’d heard it correctly. Then she tucked the phone back into her pocket and left the room, not sure where she was going until she found herself in Cassidy’s bedroom. The snow globe was still on the night table, and Robin reached for it, turning it over in her hands and watching the flakes of fake snow dance gracefully through the clear liquid surrounding the delicate ballerina.
She stood absolutely still for several long seconds before returning the snow globe to the nightstand. Then slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hands into the air, feeling the painful pull on her stitches as her hands came together above her head in a graceful arc, her fingers touching. She closed her eyes and pushed her weight into her toes, lifting her heels off the floor and swaying from side to side, then dancing in slow circles around the room, as invisible flakes of snow cascaded gently around her head. She twirled around the room, her head back, her chin raised, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. Inhaling the good energy, exhaling the bad.
Her phone rang.
Robin came to a halt, then waited for the room to stop spinning before reaching into her pocket for her cell. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said her sister. “I need you to set an extra place for dinner.”
“For Donny?”
“No, for Brad Pitt.”
Robin smiled. “I’ll set another place.”
“Good. Are you all right? You sound out of breath. You’re not having one of your panic attacks, are you?”
“No. I’m good.”
“You’re sure?”
<
br /> “Yes,” Robin said. “I’m sure.”
FOR MY TWO WONDERFUL DAUGHTERS,
SHANNON AND ANNIE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to my husband, Warren, who after all these years has finally learned how to critique my manuscripts without my wanting to (literally) throw the book at him. Thanks also to my daughter Shannon (please check out her website at shannonmicol.com), for her insightful editorial comments and overall assistance. And, of course, my thanks and gratitude to Larry Mirkin, whose suggestions and support were as invaluable as always.
Normally I would also thank Bev Slopen for her help in the writing of my novel, but this year our schedules didn’t quite mesh. Having said that, I’ll thank her anyway—for being a generous sounding board and a good friend.
Thanks and a hearty “Welcome aboard” to my new editor, Anne Speyer. I’ve had quite a few editors during my career, and it’s sometimes hard learning to trust a new voice. But Anne has been nothing short of amazing. She “gets” me and what I’m trying to do, and I feel very grateful that she’s on my team.
Speaking of teams, I want to thank everyone at WME Entertainment, especially my longtime agent, Tracy Fisher, who, like a fine wine, gets better every year, and her assistants past and present—most recently Alli Dwyer, Drew Factor, and Fiona Smith. I also want to thank everyone in every department—the list gets longer with each book, so please forgive me for not naming you individually as I dread leaving anybody out—at Ballantine in New York and at Doubleday Canada (both of which are divisions of Penguin Random House) for all their hard work and efforts on my behalf, as well as my publishers and translators all over the world. In these days of shrinking audiences and fewer publishing houses, I feel very fortunate indeed. (I’ll miss you, Helga! Take care of yourself.)
Special thanks to Corinne Assayag, who has done and continues to do such an incredible job with my website.
Hugs and kisses to my daughter Annie, her husband, Courtney, and their gorgeous, fabulous children, Hayden and Skylar. Another hug to my sister, Renee (who, I promise, is nothing at all like Melanie), and to Aurora, for continuing to take such good care of me and for making the best cranberry muffins and strawberry-banana-mango smoothies in town.
Thank you also to Peter Araian, who came to my rescue when my computer crashed as I was trying to review the copyediting of this manuscript, and I was in my usual panic and railing away furiously at modern technology.
And, as always, thanks to you, my readers. I look forward to meeting each and every one of you—either in person or through email. Don’t be shy. Drop me a line.
BY JOY FIELDING
The Bad Daughter
She’s Not There
Someone Is Watching
Shadow Creek
Now You See Her
The Wild Zone
Still Life
Charley’s Web
Heartstopper
Mad River Road
Puppet
Lost
Whispers and Lies
Grand Avenue
The First Time
Missing Pieces
Don’t Cry Now
Tell Me No Secrets
See Jane Run
Good Intentions
The Deep End
Life Penalty
The Other Woman
Kiss Mommy Goodbye
Trance
The Transformation
The Best of Friends
Home Invasion—a special project designed to encourage adult literacy
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOY FIELDING is the New York Times bestselling author of She’s Not There, Someone Is Watching, Now You See Her, Still Life, Mad River Road, See Jane Run, and other acclaimed novels. She divides her time between Toronto and Palm Beach, Florida.
Joyfielding.com
Twitter: @JoyFielding
Instagram: @fieldingjoy
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