Free The Other Daughter by Lisa Gardner Page B

nature. It was hypocrisy and greed and selfishness all rolled into one. It was taking what other people had simply because they had it. It was heartlessness and it was worse — it was ruining people's lives and not losing a moment of sleep.
    It was the one Real Sin, for he had often thought that the true heart of the devil was contempt.
    He had not come up with the price for this sin. It needed to be special, it needed to be simple, and it needed to be horrible.
    He returned to what he did have. Candles and feathers and ancient art. A child's toy and a child's dress. Cow tongues and pig hearts and a bushel of apples. An object that bobbed in a glass jar and was so gruesome, not even he could stand the sight.
    A phone number.
    His preparations were complete.
    Time for the opening gift. He studied his list. He studied his pile. He made his decision: Melanie. Melanie, who had actually found happiness as the Stokeses' other daughter. Melanie, who, in all these years, had never done him the favor of remembering.
    He got out his butcher's knife. He sharpened the blade.
    He was ready.
    Do you know the perfect crime?
    I do.
     
SIX
     
    SUNDAY WAS A beautiful day, bright spring sun, gaily chirping birds. Melanie woke up to discover herself on the camelback sofa with waiter David Reese peering down at her. She sat up in a hurry.
    “What the hell are you doing in my living room?”
    “My job. What the hell are you doing sleeping here?”
    “None of your business!” Melanie blinked owlishly. It was bright. Too bright. And noisy too. Screeching cars, shouting pedestrians, honking horns. She suddenly had a bad feeling.
    “What time is it?”
    “One-thirty.”
    “
Oh, my God
.” Melanie never slept past eight. Never. And now it was all coming back to her. The scene with Larry Digger, David Reese carrying her home, the bad dream, the long night in front of Meagan Stokes's portrait. And now David Reese again, still smelling like Old Spice and rattling her nerves.
    He'd traded in his white waiter's tux for an old Red Sox T-shirt and jeans. In daylight she saw that he had brown hair with hints of red. Deep brown eyes with hints of green. A face closer to forty than thirty, weatherbeaten and hawkish. Intense, she thought immediately.
    He took a couple of steps away from her, and she noticed a limp. He winced but covered up by pressing his lips into a thin line.
    “I take it you're here for work,” she said finally.
    “We're dismantling the juice carts. It's a laugh a minute.”
    “I'm sure it is. Now, is there something in particular that dragged you out into the living room?”
    “Tools. Harry was in charge and all he brought was a ball peen hammer. Not too bright, Harry.”
    She said briskly, “The tool kit is in the utility closet in the kitchen. Go look there.”
    David merely stuck his hands in his back pockets. “We searched the kitchen area already. No tool kit. Nice collection of lightbulbs though.”
    “Oh.” She frowned. “Well, my father might have taken it out for something. Go ask him.”
    “Can't. Dr. Stokes left first thing this morning.”
    “What about María?”
    “That the maid? Haven't seen her.”
    “Well, maybe my mother knows what my father did with it.”
    “Mrs. Stokes is gone too. She didn't want to be late for her spa.”
    “Oh, I forgot.” Sunday was AA day. Her mother wouldn't be home until at least five. Which meant it really was up to Melanie to find the missing tool kit.
    She rose to her feet, but David didn't seem to be in the mood to move. In fact, he appeared to have something on his mind.
    She looked at him curiously.
    He asked abruptly, “How are you?”
    “Fine.”
    “Spending the night on the couch?”
    “It's a very comfortable sofa.”
    “With a clear view of Meagan's portrait?”
    “I came for the sofa, not the view.”
    “Uh-huh,” he said. “Just because a man showed up last night and alleged that the murderer of Meagan Stokes was really your father. That your