As you hurry down the stairs, you hear her terrified cries as she bangs on the door.
You beast! You bastard! How could you—
"Enough! My patience is frayed. I can see that your child is going to be a terrible problem. Something will have to be done about her."
Kara's voice is suddenly conciliatory.
She'll be all right. She's just got to get used to this place. And when she gets into a school around here she'll be out most of the day. She's no trouble, really.
"I'm sure everything will work out," you say.
But privately you know that the present situation is intolerable. Despite whatever precautions you may take, it seems inevitable that the child will discover the reason for your multiple daily trips into the basement. And what about those times when you want to leave Kara's body and re-enter your own for brief periods, or return to some of the other bodies that you've used in the past? What will you do then? You will have to leave Kara in the padded cell in the office. What are you going to do with the child—hire a babysitter?
No, this will never do. You need complete privacy in your house. Three's a crowd, as the old adage goes. You must be rid of Jill. Perhaps a private school in another state, a sleepaway academy during the school year and summer camp the rest of the time. Plenty of parents do it. That might work. And then again it might not. You need a solution you can be assured of, a permanent solution.
And suddenly you know.
Your fondness for the idea grows as you spoon the cereal into your mouth. Because it might solve the problem with Kara as well.
And it can happen toady. You've already planned an 'accident'—a fatal one—for Detective Harris. Why not involve the child in that same accident? A tragic pair of deaths. And as a possible lagniappe—the breaking of Kara Wade. Witnessing the deaths of her child and her lover, watching her own hands cause those deaths and being utterly impotent to do anything to save them will break her will, crush her spirit. It has to.
And after the accident, life within Kara Wade will be much more pleasant, and far more secure. Not only will there be no police detective sniffing around her, but the child will be gone. You will have your house all to yourself again. And Kara Wade will have learned to be a compliant, submissive hostess.
Life will be good again.
You glance at your watch. Detective Harris will be here soon. You'd better get upstairs and set the stage.
▼
Jill opened the front door for him. Rob's throat tightened at the sight of her. His voice became husky.
"Good—morning, Miss Wade. How are you today?"
"All right, I guess," she said and turned away.
Rob caught her arm and gently pulled her around to face him.
"That was the most unconvincing 'all right' I've ever heard. What's up, Jill?"
She sniffed. "I don't like it here."
He went down on one knee beside her and put his arm around her waist. Touching her gave him a warm feeling like he'd never known. Her dark hair and complexion—they were his. He could see that now. Part him was part of her. The realization awed him.
"Nobody likes a new place if they still like the old place, but there's lots of neat stuff here."
Rob didn't care if she didn't like this house in particular, but he wanted her to like New York. Because he wanted her to live here and be near him.
"Too many steps," she said.
"For an energetic girl like you? Think of what good exercise it'll be for your legs. Why, in no time you'll be running—"
"And Mom's changed."
The rest of Rob's words twisted and tumbled and caught in his throat as a wave of arctic cold seeped into his spine.
"What do you mean, 'changed?' "
"She's not the same. Like she's a different person."
The cold began spreading to the rest of his body.
"When did she change?"
"Yesterday. Just like in the movie. Except yesterday was Thursday."
"What movie?"
"Freaky Friday. I saw it at Aunt Ellen's. It's about a girl who switches places with her mother."
"What kind of switch?"
"She winds up in her mother's body and her mother winds up in her's. Only that didn't happen with Mom. I'm not in her body. Someone else is."
Rob felt himself begin to tremble as his daughter spoke his worst fears. He could barely form the words.
"Why… why would you say something like that?"
"Because she talks different. And she yells at me."
Rob forced himself to relax. Maybe Jill was feeling the disruption of being moved from place to place the past few weeks. From the farm to Ellen's, and now to the townhouse. And Kara had been under tremendous stress, so she might be a little short these days. Stir those kind of changes into someone at an impressionable age like Jill, add a movie like Freaky Friday or whatever it was called, and the result was a child who thinks her mother is someone else.
A good explanation, Rob thought. Why doesn't it make me feel any better?
"I'll straighten her out," he said, giving Jill an extra squeeze before releasing her. "Where's this freaky mom of yours, anyway?"
"Upstairs. Listening to music."
"Let's go see her."
He took his daughter's hand and together they climbed' toward the top floor. He heard the music long before he reached her. He stopped on the second floor and listened to the booming basso males and shrieking falsetto females, all drawing their notes from deep within the abdomen, maybe as far down as the pelvis.
Opera.
The wave of cold hit him again.
"Your hand's getting all sweaty, Rob."
"Sorry."
He wiped his palms on his pants legs.
Your mother hates opera.
Despite the bright sunlight outside, the third floor was dark. He found Kara lying back in the recliner, the opera blaring from the six-foot speakers around the room. Her face was relaxed, peaceful. She could have been asleep. He leaned over and spoke into her ear.
"Since when are you an opera fan?"
She opened her eyes and smiled, reached up with her arms and pulled his head closer. She kissed him on the lips, long and passionately. Rob began to respond, but he wasn't comfortable kissing her like this in front of Jill.
"I'm glad to see you," she said when he pulled away.
"It's mutual. But opera?"
"There's so much of it here I thought I'd give it a try. The music's not bad. I just wish I knew what they were saying."
"I can live without knowing. You said you needed my help up here?"
Rob noticed how she used the remote control to turn off the stereo from her chair. She seemed right at home. Too at home.
"Yes," she said, rising from the chair. "I want to take down those drapes from the rear windows and let in some light. It's like a mausoleum in here."
She was right about the gloom. And it was a very Kara thing to do. She was always one for open windows and letting the air through. He walked over and pulled the drapes aside to take a look. The window was huge—three five-foot panes stacked floor to ceiling. The drapes were suspended from a heavy rod bolted to the ceiling.
"This'll let in some light, all right. But how do I get up there?"
"I thought we might try one of the ladders from the library."
"Good idea. I'll get one."
"I'll help."
"That's okay. I can manage."
Rob removed his jacket and laid it atop one of the record cabinets. He pulled his clip holster and revolver from the small of his back and folded them in his jacket. Then he headed for the stairs.
▼
What are you up to? Kara asks as you watch Detective Harris descend to the second floor. Her words writhe with suspicion.