Free The Murderer's Daughter by Jonathan Kellerman

gaping. The blood kept spurting out of his neck.
    Dodie’s attention now shifted to Grace, hugging herself with crossed arms. Pressed to the wall, wishing she could push herself
through
the wall.
    “You saw that,” said Dodie. “I
had
to.”
    Grace said nothing.
    “What? You think I
started
it?”
    Grace tried to shrivel to nothingness.
    “What?” screamed Dodie, advancing on her. “You’re saying it was my fault? That what you’re saying?”
    Grace remained silent.
    Dodie said, “You keep looking at me with that
look.
Like I’m—fine, have it your way, remember this.”
    Giving a weird, drunken smile, Dodie clutched the knife with both hands and raised it high. Letting out a laugh that sounded like a screaming coyote, she stiffened her arms and plunged the blade into her own belly.
    Laughter turned to an agonized shriek as the pain hit her and she looked down and saw what she’d done. Shaking hands fumbled to dislodge the blade, buried in her abdomen to the hilt. Each attempt twisted the knife, doing more damage.
    Dodie fell to her knees. Inches from Ardis.
    Her hands faltered and dropped. The knife remained deeply embedded but turned to one side.
    “Hep me,” she croaked to Grace. “Puh it ou.” Eyes dropping to the knife.
    She moaned in pain.
    Grace stood there.
    Dodie’s eyes fluttered. Slammed shut. The trailer was quiet but for the
drip-drop
of blood on the linoleum floor.
    Grace watched as the room turned red.

B y the time Grace was sitting behind the precious barrier provided by her desk, Andrew Toner was perched rigidly on the edge of the patient chair, shoulders tight as bridge struts, looking everywhere but at Grace.
    She had yet to completely collect her thoughts but began a cardboard speech that was better than nothing.
    “Obviously,” she began, “this is awkward for both of us. Let me begin by saying I’m sorry.”
    “No need, you didn’t know,” he said. “How could you?”
    “I couldn’t,” she said. “Still. You traveled a long distance for my help.”
    He brushed a wing of hair from his unlined brow and sat for a long time before mustering the faintest of smiles.
    “Guess there are all kinds of therapy.”
    Being a cheeky bastard? Would he be bragging to his friends in Texas the moment he left the office? Facebook, Twitter, some other hideous communication?
    Guys, you’ll never believe what happened, I shit you not, this was straight out of bad porn. I fly to L.A. to meet this shrink, go for a drink the night before and…
    But then he said, “Sorry, that was glib. I guess I just—I’ve never been that great at making conversation.”
    Not a lout. Too bad. Seeing his faults would’ve been a pathetic way for her to feel less stupid…
    She cleared her throat. He looked up. His mouth was set tight. Nothing more to say.
    “I’m terribly sorry, Andrew. But what happened, happened, no sense dwelling. On the contrary, I’m thinking we could try to use this time constructively.”
    His eyebrows arced.
    Oh, no, not that, not that at all.
    Grace leaned forward, faking calm and authoritative
…professional.
    “What I mean,” she said, “is that you traveled a distance because of questions you have. If you can put aside the distraction, I’d be happy to hear what they are. Obviously I can’t treat you long-term, but I can do my best to direct you to the best local referral possible.”
    She had no dependable referrals in Texas but damn, she’d find one.
    Andrew Toner didn’t respond.
    “On the other hand,” she said, “if you find that too difficult, I understand.”
    “I…maybe…” Pinching khaki, he began to cross a leg. Changed his mind and replanted both feet flat on the carpet. “Do you have any idea what I’m after?”
    “If the article you mentioned to my answering service is relevant, I might.”
    “Yes!” A single whispered word, emphatic. He sat up straighter. “When I came across it, I said
this
is the person I need to talk to.” He turned to the