Free The Murderer's Daughter by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

side. “It took me a while to find it. It’s not a topic psychologists seem to pay much attention to.” A beat. “Why is that?”
    “Hard to know for sure,” said Grace, grateful to be discussing anything but last night. “I suspect some of it has to do with what we call small sample size. There aren’t enough people to do the kind of studies that get grant money.”
    “Really?” said Andrew. “With all that goes on, you’d think there would be.”
    “I imagine most people in that situation wouldn’t be interested in being studied.”
    “Hmm. Yes, I can see that.”
    Oh, you have no idea, Andrew.
    Or maybe you do…you’re here.
    “Anyway,” he said. “That’s how I found you. Researching.”
    Grace pictured him clicking away at his computer, patient, methodical, like an engineer should be. If he
was
an engineer…whatever, he’d investigated because of his own situation, finally come across
that
article.
    The piece was six years old, tucked at the rear of an arcane British criminology journal now out of circulation. Because Malcolm had guessed, probably correctly, that psych journals might not go for it.
    An outlier, Grace’s only solo effort. Malcolm had been suggesting it for a while, finally she’d relented.
    He’d so enjoyed seeing it in print.
    Living with Evil: Emotional Aspects of Kinship with a Murderer
    What the journal referees hadn’t known—what no one but Grace and Malcolm and Sophie knew—was that Grace had done double duty.
    Author
and
subject.
    Referring to herself as Jane X and altering details so no one would ever detect autobiography masquerading as clinical case history.
    She’d placed the “precipitating event” in another state, transformed the father into the initial killer and suicide, the mother into a hapless victim—in addition to camouflaging the facts, that would play well with the feminist editor of the journal. And, let’s face it, Ardis
had
been a star player in the tawdry melodrama that ended with his neck slit open. All that stupid testosterone unleashed by booze and dope. All those backhand slaps.
    The stink of tension and fear when he entered the trailer.
    Across from her, Andrew sat there and Grace realized she’d drifted off. She wheeled back her desk chair, pressed her back into leather, wishing she could melt into oblivion.
    Was she showing discomfort? Andrew’s blue eyes were ripe with concern.
    Oh, just dandy. Not only had she failed him, she was
burdening
him with her personal shit.
    Wheeling forward, she recited the title of the article. Hoping the incantation would free her of subjectivity.
    Andrew nodded. Suddenly, Grace felt as if she was about to choke. Covering with a cough, she muttered, “ ’Scuse me,” placed her hand over her mouth and inhaled long and slow, exchanging air through her nose in order to conceal her craving for oxygen.
    A victim. No way, nono way—
    Andrew Toner continued to regard her with…tenderness?
    I’m okay, you softhearted bastard.
    Grace knew she had to regain control or…what?
    Distraction is the enemy. Stay focused.
    “So,” she said, in her best therapist voice, “what villain has been occupying your thoughts and dreams?”
    “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”
    “I understand.”
    “That’s part of what you wrote about, right? That woman—Jane—was never sure she was ready to deal with it. Had no way of knowing because who could provide a map?”
    Grace nodded. Going through the motions felt good. Shrinkyshrinkshrink.
    Andrew went on, “That I can absolutely relate to. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, This is the moment I need to…confront reality. Then the impulse passes and I convince myself I’m able to just forget about it.”
    Grace said, “Of course.” The warmth in her voice surprised her. Not having to think it out. Just
being.
    Maybe Andrew picked up on her newfound confidence because his body relaxed a bit.
    But his eyes had grown moist.
    Grace