“Lil,” she said, responding in kind with her own nickname for the girl. “You didn’t ruin anything. I swear. Dad just misses Mom.”
The girl’s gaze went to the door. “I think he’s going to leave soon.”
Ashley studied the paper beneath her knees. “You need to go to sleep, kiddo.”
Lily paused, watching her sister. “It’s really soon, isn’t it?”
“Tomorrow,” Ashley admitted.
A small breath escaped Lily. The little girl closed her eyes, her brow furrowing.
“At least there’ll be a birthday party first, right?” Ashley offered.
Expression unchanged, Lily nodded.
Ashley put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. A heartbeat passed, and then Lily leaned against it.
“Come on,” Ashley said. “Let’s get you to sleep.”
Lily let Ashley help her stand, and then followed her to the cluttered bed. Stuffed animals crowded every inch of the surface, barely allowing a glimpse of the patchwork quilt beneath them. Carefully pushing the animals closer to the wall, Ashley made space for Lily to burrow beneath the quilts. A few months before, Rose had tried to remove them, saying Lily was too grown up for toys. While Lily held the dolls and cried, Ashley had refused to allow Rose through the door.
No one would take anything from Lily until the little girl was ready. Not if Ashley had anything to say about it.
Bending down, she pecked her sister on the head with a kiss as Lily pulled the blankets up beneath her chin. “Sleep well.”
The girl nodded.
Navigating the piles of paper, Ashley crossed the room and then flipped off the light.
“I hate when he leaves,” Lily said quietly.
In the darkness, Ashley glanced back. Lily’s pale face shone in the light from the lamps outside.
“Me too,” Ashley told her.
She left the bedroom door cracked slightly and then headed for the attic stairs. The steps squeaked beneath her feet and she automatically skipped the loose seventh step entirely. Slipping past the door, she crossed the room and flicked on the bedside lamp. Instantly, an enormous moth fled the bulb and barreled at her face, making her shriek in surprise.
Grabbing a pillow from her desk chair, she herded the frantic bug toward the window. Yanking the lower pane up, she drove the creature out to join its innumerable relatives dancing around the security lights, and then slammed the window down.
In the yard, one of the farmhands looked up from his patrol, startled by the sound. Heart pounding, she gave him a casual wave, and then shuddered furiously once he turned away. Of all the rooms in the house, the moths only seemed to enjoy her own, a fact which drove her to distraction. Tossing the pillow across the room and then scanning the ceiling for any other invaders, she sank into the window seat, twitching every few seconds as her skin crawled.
Like small stars orbiting the house, the farmhands circled the property, their flashlights bright points in the night. Coyotes were a constant nuisance this close to the mountains and, after such a cold winter, the animals became more of a problem than usual. But even in a good year, the hungry creatures chased everything from children to cats, and after a few close calls when the girls first arrived, Jonathan had ordered the men to stand guard at night.
Taking a deep breath, Ashley watched them, while the rumble of freight trains on the tracks beyond the forest carried through the darkness. Every so often, the farmhands would pause at a random noise, only to continue circling a moment later, and though she knew they traded off from time to time to allow each other sleep, Jonathan’s orders would keep the lights crossing the fields till morning.
A soft knock sounded behind her. Blinking after the darkness of the stairway, Patrick pushed open the door and then smiled. “Can I come in?”
She nodded.
He glanced around as he stepped inside, and she saw his eyebrow rise at the piles of books in her room. In addition to the dozen teetering on her dresser, more lined the walls while smaller stacks crowded beneath the bed.
Ashley glared in mock threat at his surprise and he grinned.
“I came to say I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, sinking onto the bed next to the window seat.
“It’s nobody’s fault.”
Patrick grimaced, seeming unconvinced as he looked away. His eyes came to rest on the nightstand between them, and the photograph sitting there.
“You look like her, you know,” he said after a moment. “More all the time.”
Ashley glanced at the photo. From Rebecca’s arms, Ashley’s smiling three-year-old self beamed out at the world. Under the blazing summer sun, Rebecca’s black hair glistened and her aquamarine eyes sparkled. Ashley knew her father must have been behind the camera that day, because surely only he could have brought out the joy she saw in her mother’s eyes.
“Lily does more than me.”
“She has her eyes,” he countered, bending to catch Ashley’s deep brown gaze. “You have her smile.”
The words brought a hesitant smile to her lips and she tried to push it away, feeling awkward.
He grinned. “I have a present for you.” He pulled a small package from his back pocket and handed it to her.
For a moment, she stared at the rudimentary wrapping, complete with a tangled blue ribbon tied around the middle. Her eyes rose to meet his.
“Yeah, okay, so I wrapped it myself,” he said. “Do you want it or not?”
“You’re leaving, aren’t you? Sooner than you planned.”
The humor in his expression dissipated. “The powers-that-be want me on the east coast by noon,” he admitted.
She struggled not to gape. “But… you’ll have to leave like…”
“I know.” He jerked his chin toward the present. “But I didn’t want to miss something of your birthday.”
Trying to regroup, she looked down at the package. Brow furrowing at the urge to continue protesting, no matter how pointless she knew it would be, she picked off the wrapping paper and then froze.
The pocket knife was pale steel, but the mother-of-pearl in its handle was kaleidoscopic in the light. With a flick of her thumb, the blade snapped out, small but wickedly sharp.
She looked up at him, baffled.
“Jonathan said you liked to help him around the farm,” he explained with a shrug. “And he mentioned how you needed a pocket knife. I know it’s not the most practical one in the world, but I thought you might like it anyway.”
“I love it,” she said, starting to grin.
Relief spread over his features. “Good. I just wasn’t sure if–”
Ashley dropped the knife to the cushions and jumped up, throwing her arms around him. Taken back, he hesitated and then returned the hug.
“I’m sorry I have to go, honey,” he said.
She nodded into his shoulder. Patrick squeezed her tighter.
A moment went by, and then she straightened and returned to the window seat.
He smiled. “Get some sleep, okay?”
Ashley chuckled, hearing her own words to Lily repeated back. “I will,” she promised.
He rose and patted her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Crossing the room, he paused by the door and then glanced back. “I love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Nodding again, he hesitated another moment, and then let the door shut behind him as he left the room.
Ashley’s gaze returned to the knife. Picking it up carefully, she turned it over in her hand, watching the mother-of-pearl shimmer in the light. A smile crossed her face as she flicked it closed and then slid it into her pocket. Practical wasn’t everything, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever risk damaging her father’s gift by using it for anything as rough as working with Jonathan.
Her questing hand found the paperback book where she’d left it beneath the window seat pillow. With a small grin for Jonathan’s admonishments, she settled herself deeper into the cushions, flipped to her bookmark, a
nd began to read.
Chapter Two
Eight Hours Ago
“Dude, your parents are going to be so pissed,” Travis laughed, tossing his empty beer can deep into the junkyard. “I mean… damn. You know if the tow truck brought it back to the house yet?”
Cole didn’t answer. His friend’s amusement was starting to grate on him. Travis could laugh. Travis still had a truck. He hadn’t smashed his only means of transportation into a tree in an attempt to impress the head cheerleader by challenging her quarterback boyfriend to a race.
Travis wouldn’t be the laughingstock of the school tomorrow.
Leaning back on the hood of his custom-painted truck, the other boy grinned at the stars. “Classic.”
Taking a breath, Cole shoved up from the hood and hopped to the ground, wincing as his muscles protested the motion.
“You’re leaving?” Travis called.
“Might as well get it over with,” Cole replied tiredly. “See you when they let me out in a year.”
“Or ten,” Travis agreed, popping open another beer.
“Right,” Cole muttered as he slid through the gap in the junkyard fence and stepped onto the street.
Stoplights glared painfully as he crossed the empty intersection and started toward home. His head still ached from the accident, but it wasn’t anything a few aspirin couldn’t stop. The shouts he knew were coming, on the other hand, promised to go on for quite some time.
The neighborhoods grew in affluence as he walked, like an architectural timeline brought to life. Old homes in formerly coveted zip codes gave way to crisp new developments with only shreds of personality in their design, and then even those surrendered to eccentric residential monstrosities advertising money with every line.
He kept going. The houses fell behind him and the sidewalks disappeared. In the distance, small orbs of light perched ten feet off the ground, affixed to a concrete wall with fashionably twisted iron spikes and petite security cameras on top. A metal gate brought the road to an irrefutable halt, and roadside signs warned the unwary that access was restricted to residents only. To one side of the gate, the blue-green bubble of the guard station held one of the interchangeable rent-a-cops idly watching a basketball game. The man barely glanced up as Cole swiped his pass card and then slipped through the pedestrian access set into the wall.
Flawless lawns in keeping with the homeowner’s association’s specifications fronted the equally flawless homes on either side of the street, and identical lampposts glowed in each yard. Tiredly, he continued down the road, avoiding the grass. He didn’t need to give anyone else cause to yell at him tonight.
Too soon, the gray house was in front of him, its neutral shutters and roof rendering it indistinguishable from every other home on the street. A rigidly straight sidewalk led from the curb to the door, and not even a brightly colored flower threatened to differentiate the yard from its neighbors.
Ignoring the walkway, he circled to the back door, hoping Robert and Melissa wouldn’t spot him. As he passed the garage, he caught a glimpse through the window of his truck draped by a tarp and safely concealed from the sight of any passerby.
He rolled his eyes. Motion-sensitive security lights flared to life as he came near the back door, making him wince. Shielding his eyes, he climbed the steps and then reached for the silver handle.
The door whipped open.
“Where have you been?” Melissa demanded. Her gaze swept the drive, searching for the prying eyes of the eternally curious neighbors. “Get in here.”
Without waiting for him to respond, she grabbed his arm, trying to drag him through the door. Shrugging her off, he eyed her askance as he continued inside. Scanning the yard again, she scowled and then firmly shut the door.
“Give me that,” she snapped, turning to snatch the gate pass from his pocket. “How dare you run off without telling me?”
Fuming, she busied herself with burying the card in a drawer.
Ignoring the display, he walked through the pristine kitchen, his reflection following him as he passed the gleaming metal appliances. In the living room, Robert was sullenly polishing the chrome coffee table, while behind him the muted television scrolled images of the latest crime spree in a distant city. A carefully organized bucket of cleaning supplies sat near the man’s knee, and around the rest of the room, every nondescript pillow and decoration had been ruthlessly straightened.
“What’s going on?” Cole asked.
“Your uncle Edmund is coming over,” Melissa said, pushing past him and then snatching the polishing rag from Robert’s hand. Wordlessly, the man glared at her back before heading to the kitchen for another cloth.
“You called Vaughn?” Cole asked, incredulous despite belatedly feeling that he should have anticipated this. As one of the cadre of therapists paid to keep Cole in Melissa Smith’s idea of perfection, ‘uncle’ Edmund Vaughn had become a recurrent visitor over the years – summoned every time she felt her adopted son needed a bit of tweaking. The sight of the truck would have sent her to DEFCON One. He was surprised the man wasn’t installed in the living room already.
“What did you expect?” she snapped as Robert returned and silently began cleaning the console table by the stairway. “The school called about your little adventure today. They took care of the police, you’ll be happy to know. It won’t go on your record. But we couldn’t exactly let something like that go unaddressed, could we? Now go upstairs and get changed. He’ll be here any minute.”
She attacked the chrome table with a vengeance, and from across the room, he could hear the polishing cloth squeak as it waged war on the microscopic tarnish.
He shoved his annoyance down, knowing any display of emotion would only provoke later retribution. Jaw muscles jumping, he headed for the stairs, ignoring Robert as he passed.
Robert’s hand shot out, snagging Cole’s arm. The man’s nose twitched and fury rose in his eyes. “Have you been drinking again?” he growled quietly.
Cole jerked his arm, trying to break the other man’s grip. Robert’s fingers tightened painfully.
“Is that what happened today?” Robert asked. “You were drunk? Do you have any idea the trouble you could cause if–”
Seething, the man cut off, his gaze snapping to Melissa. Caught up in exorcising the demons of dirt and dust, the woman was momentarily ignoring them. Robert hesitated, and in his eyes, Cole could see the man weighing the factors. Melissa’s hysteria. Uncle Edmund’s bill. His own desire to return to the relative safety of his study and his firearm memorabilia as soon as possible.
With a small shove, Robert released Cole’s arm. “We’ll discuss this later,” he muttered.
Trying not to scoff, Cole continued up the stairs. Behind him, Melissa snapped at Robert, who instantly retaliated by flipping the television audio back on. A heated argument ensued, unintelligible beneath the sound of a reporter telling of yet another apartment fire dozens of miles away.
As he reached the second floor, he sighed, grateful for even this limited distance from the couple. To his left, Melissa’s door was closed, though a few steps farther down the hall, the light in Robert’s room had been left on. Neither of them had slept in the same bedroom since the year after they adopted Cole, a fact which was guarded fanatically from anyone outside their four walls.
Ignoring the basket of laundry left by his room, Cole shut the door behind him and rested his head against the surface, willing the throbbing in his temples to stop. Cracking one eye open, he glanced at the dresser, and then snatched the bottle of aspirin off it gratefully. Gulping two pills down, he crossed to his bed and lay back on the rumpled covers.
Melissa’s voice echoed from the front room, rising in angry incoherence over the sound of the television before fading again. Cole groaned, dragging the pillow from beneath his head and then smothering his face in attempt to block her out.
Perfection was one of the woman’s two religions, the other being what he dubbed ‘neighborly
fear’. As lottery winners the year before they adopted him, the couple had moved up in the world with lightning speed, a fact which left Robert initially thrilled, and took Melissa’s already rampant insecurities to a whole new level. Ill-equipped for her sudden wealth and petrified those of equal riches might think her low class, the woman committed herself to creating an identity safe from ridicule by the old money she both worshipped and feared.
A neighborhood sheltered from undesirable influence was required, complete with a modestly elaborate home and well-maintained yard. Two midsize sedans of understated elegance came next, and then a pristine wardrobe of expensively muted clothes.
Exterior factors addressed, the necessity of a picture-perfect marriage became priority. Unable to have their own children and with her image of domestic perfection in jeopardy, Melissa demanded they adopt. Growing steadily more cowed by the day, Robert agreed, and ten-year-old Cole entered their world. He met her standard, which Cole suspected was the sole factor in his selection. His brown hair matched her own. In other respects, his build and features were similar to those of Robert. Without being told, no one would suspect Cole wasn’t their son – a fact he was certain had been her motivation all along.
The perfect school was next, and the private institution they found couldn’t have been more ideal. Accustomed to handling the needs of the influential and the affluent, Brighton Modisett Prep School made common practice of keeping from public and legal notice any indiscretions which might later affect their students’ potentially lucrative political or business careers. Blatant mention of Cole’s adopted status was duly eschewed in their records, and thus – short of occasional correction – Melissa’s world was complete.
Maintenance came in the form of counselors. In ordinary conversation, Melissa and Robert referred to them as Cole’s ‘uncles’, and sometimes even paid the men extra to arrive by night. No cost was too great to keep the neighbors from suspecting the Smiths’ world possessed any flaws. Edmund Vaughn was the youngest member of the army of psychological alteration Melissa commanded and, with his obsequious manner and tone, he had continuously retained his position as Cole’s most hated therapist of all.
The Children and the Blood Page 3