Free The Murderer's Daughter by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

guessed why: sudden onrush of memories.
    When he spoke next, she learned she was wrong.
    “It’s not about me. There’s a…moral parameter.”
    Grace waited.
    Andrew shook his head. “Not important.”
    “Important enough for you to come from San Antonio.”
    His eyes raced to the left. The Texas bit, a lie? What else wasn’t he telling her?
    Everything. Of course.
    She said, “Without getting into details, can you tell me about the villain?”
    He thought about that. “It’s not that simple.”
    “It never is.”
    “I know, I know—listen, I’m sorry.” His laugh was harsh. “Another obnoxious apology, I do it too much, it’s my problem.” Another laugh—an angry bark, really. “One of my problems…anyway I’m glad I made the trip because it gave me time to think but it’s just not going to work.”
    His hand sliced air horizontally. “Nothing to do with you, please believe that, no…regrets. I just…can’t. Still not ready, I guess.” He smiled. “No doubt you hear that all the time.”
    Trying to normalize the situation. For Grace as much as for himself. Someone who cares about others. That made it worse.
    He got to his feet, face flushed. Remembering her? Tongue, legs, everything?
    Grace said, “We’ve got time. You can
take
your time.”
    He shook his head violently. “Can’t, sorry—there I go again. Apologizing to the damn world, like I feel I’m…”
    “Different.”
    “No, no,” he said, with surprising ire. “That’s…” Impatient wave. “Everyone’s different, different is meaningless, what I feel is…polluted.”
    “Makes sense,” said Grace.
    “Does it? Did Jane X feel polluted? Because that doesn’t come out in your article, you just talk about her having to construct her own system of morality. All those steps she took to cope.”
    Grace said, “An article has limitations, Andrew. Why don’t you sit back down, give yourself some time?”
    Andrew’s eyes scanned the therapy room. “You mean well. I know that. Maybe you’re right and I should. But I can’t. Thanks for your time. I mean that.”
    He strode to the door. Wrong door, the one that led back into the front waiting room, rather than toward the side-street exit.
    No one around, no need to stand on ceremony. Grace got up.
    He said, “I can see myself out. Please.”
    She held back, watched him open the door gingerly, take two steps into the waiting room before half turning and offering a slice of his pleasant, handsome, tortured face.
    “Andrew?”
    “I’m—would it be possible—just say no if it’s not—would it be possible if tomorrow I felt that I
could
handle returning—would you be able to find some time? I understand that you’re probably extremely busy, so if it doesn’t work out—”
    First day of her intended vacation. She said, “Of course, I’ll make time for you, Andrew. As much time as you need.”
    “Thank you,” he said. “You’re…quite…I think you might be able to help me.”
    Blushing deeply, he escaped.
    —
    Relieved that he’d made no attempt to pay her, Grace returned to the therapy room and stood there for a long time. Hoping she’d finally return to normal but she didn’t and left, trudging out to the garage.
    Wondering if he
would
call.
    Aware of the multiple meanings that question could evoke.
    She hoped she’d see him again. Hoped she was being honest about why.
    As she backed the Aston into the street, a car, a squarish sedan parked several houses up, switched on its headlights and rolled toward her.
    Unusual on this quiet block, but it happened.
    Still, ever watchful, the way a single woman needed to be, Grace made sure the DB7’s doors were locked as she eased out and headed east.
    The car remained behind her and she prepared to jackrabbit away if necessary. But then the sedan stopped for a moment, swung a three-point turn in a neighboring driveway, and reversed direction.
    Grace watched its taillights diminish then vanish. Maybe she’d just seen