“Is that all you care about? Money?” His father slammed his fist so hard on the dresser that bottles of perfume and other girlie stuff crashed to the floor.
“No, honey, you know that-but with the baby coming I thought-“
Slap!
“Shut up about the damn baby!”
His mother sobbed. “You said you were happy.”
Time seemed to stand still, and his little heart beat so fast from fear and a sort of excitement he didn’t quite understand. What was his father going to do?
Finally, after a minute or two, his father ran a hand through his short hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean-I’m just under so much stress at work.” He bent down to kiss her red cheek.
“I know. I know.” She was sobbing, clinging to him. “It’ll be all right. I can go back to work and-“
He pushed her away. “Work? Never. We made a deal. You have the kids and keep the house and I earn the money to support us.”
“I know, and I love being a wife and mother, really, but if we’re struggling, if we’re going to lose the house, if-“
Slap!
“Why do you want to go to work? Does this have anything to do with George Claussen’s visit last week?”
“George? I-he said I could have my old job back if I wanted it. Part-time, while the kids are in school. And when the baby comes-“
Slap!
“You and George are screwing around behind my back, aren’t you?”
“No!”
Slap!
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not!” Sobs. More sobs. All girls did was cry. Especially his mother. She always cried and his father always gave in. Stupid!
He hated her.
“You will NOT get a job. We don’t need it. I will provide. I will always provide for you. You believe me, don’t you? Don’t you?”
“Y-Y-Yes, I-I’m so sorry, I don’t want to go to work. You are a wonderful father and husband. I love you so much.” She sat sobbing on the floor, repeating garbage over and over.
“Oh, honey.”
As he watched from the closet, he saw his father’s rage disappear as he picked his mother up off the carpet and hugged her.
“I’m sorry, so sorry. I didn’t mean to-I know you would never cheat on me. I know you love me.”
“I do love you. I love you,” she sobbed, clinging to him.
They’d made love on the bed as he watched from the closet. He’d heard about sex, but he’d never known exactly what it meant.
He did now.
At first he thought his father was going to kill his mother. She was grunting and crying and had this high-pitched moan. For a minute, he got a rush thinking that his mother would be dead and gone, and that stupid baby in her stomach along with her.
But she didn’t die. And his father apologized over and over again. He said he loved her, loved the baby, loved everything in the world.
Wimp!
Wimp.
He shivered in the night. The wet Portland air reminded him of growing up, which reminded him how much he hated his family.
He looked back through the patio door and smiled. The picture-perfect family, sitting and laughing on the couch. He chuckled. No family was perfect. People had thought his family was perfect. For a while, anyway. What a joke!
Inside the house, the mother-Ms. Gina Harper, divorced-stood and stretched.
Time for bed, she mouthed.
The older girl, a teenager, yawned and slowly rose from the couch. The younger girl, five or six with dark, curly pigtails, protested. Gina Harper picked her up, tickled her, and carried her from the room. The older girl glanced in his direction, an odd look on her face, then gathered up the popcorn bowls and soda cans, turned off the lights, and followed her mother and sister.
His heart beat double-time at the thought that she’d sensed him. That somehow she knew her fate.
That she would be the next to die.
But of course she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t even known he stood on the brick patio outside the family room door. He’d prepared carefully.
This time there would be one minor deviation from the book, but it was one he was sure the author would appreciate.
CHAPTER 7
Rowan slept in fits and starts, her emotions raw. The nightmare stayed with her even when her eyes were open, and it didn’t just concern the Franklin family murder. Evils older than four years tried to push themselves into her conscious memory; she had to fight aggressively to keep them at bay. In doing so, she developed a pounding, mind-numbing headache.
She downed two prescription-strength Motrin and went downstairs. Michael sat at the dining room table reading papers in a file.
“What’s that?”
He looked up, frowned, and closed the file. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.” He obviously wasn’t going to tell her about the file. She imagined it had something to do with the murder of the florist, or poor Doreen Rodriguez. She didn’t need to see the file, having already pictured the murders in her imagination.
“I’ll make you something to eat.”
She shook her head. Eating had never been important to her; during stressful times, she often forgot. “I want to run.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t care.”
The doorbell rang and she jumped. Since when had the normalcy of everyday life scared her? She pulled her Glock from its holster and held it ready.
Michael drew his own weapon, motioning for her to wait in the kitchen.
He looked through the peephole. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Speedy Courier Service with a package for Rowan Smith.”
“Who sent it?”
The man checked his log. “Harper.”
Rowan peered around the corner, thought for a second, then shrugged at Michael’s raised eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Leave the package on the doorstep.”
“I need a signature.”
“Hold on a minute.” Michael backed away from the door. He motioned for Rowan to stay where she was, then walked past her and out the side door.
She anxiously waited, distracted for a moment by the fact that he’d already made a pot of coffee. She poured herself a tall, black mug and sipped.
When he came back, he locked up, set the alarm again, and checked out the package while wearing gloves. Rowan watched from across the table.
“It looks okay.” He glanced at her for confirmation.
She crossed into the dining room, put the mug down, and drew on the pair of latex gloves Michael handed her.
The package was light, probably not even half a pound. She put it to her ear; silence. She looked at all the seams, but none appeared to contain a hidden trigger. It would be difficult to send a bomb through a courier unless it was on a timer; packages were tossed about haphazardly, and there were no markings that this was fragile.
“It’s fine,” she concurred. She started to open the package and Michael stopped her.
“Let me.”
Reluctantly, she put the package down and stepped back, balling her hands into fists. She hated being protected.
She watched Michael’s hands cautiously work open the package, her heart beating fast, angry with herself that this delivery created an undercurrent of fear. The box inside the plain brown wrapping was white, a simple unmarked gift box the size of a videocassette. A single piece of tape sealed the edge. Michael broke it with his finger and pulled off the lid.