A Measure of Guilt

By Nadezhda Seiler

Nineteen-year-old Kate Flanagan has already endured entirely too much in her young life. Two years earlier, her kid sister, Angie, and her best friend, Sandra, were kidnapped from a San Diego amusement park, and Kates guilt over the part she played in the tragedy is beyond measure. Believing herself undeserving of a normal life, Kate avoids relationships, feels estranged from her parents, and has no social life. When she begins receiving increasingly chilling anonymous notes on her windshield, she dismisses them as the work of a random stalker.

The fifth note, however, claims that the writer has information about her sister. Hopeful that Angie and Sandra are still alive, distrustful of the police, and frightened by the escalating threat of the notes, Kate nevertheless decides to smoke out the source of the notes. With the help of an amateur private investigator, Kate sets out on a mission to find her sister and best frienda hunt that leads her straight to her deranged stalker.

In this intriguing mystery tale, a woman desperate to atone for the past mistakes that have cost her nearly everything puts her life on the line in a desperate attempt to right a terrible wrong and catch a determined criminal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jan 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458207661

Nadezhda Seiler

Nadezhda Seiler is the coauthor of the mystery novel Disengaged and the author of the romance novel Without Thinking Twice. She lives with her husband and their two dogs in Springfield, Virginia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE FIRST NOTE, STUCK TO the windshield of her car, had seemed innocent enough—just saying that she was beautiful and that he thought of her all the time. Kate had dismissed it as a prank. She wasn’t dating material, all right? The second note verged on the creepy, saying that he dreamed of her every night wearing Victoria’s Secret lingerie and asking if she wore it. She decided it was just the retaliation of some nut who’d been hitting on her without getting anywhere. The third one said he watched her everywhere. It made her scoff—He doesn’t have anything else to do? Seriously? Kate had tossed it into the glove compartment, to join the others, and had put them out of her mind. Or tried to. She couldn’t easily dismiss the fourth note, however, which said: I know all about you, Kate. It sent a chill of fear down her spine. What exactly did he know about her?

Now, after waving goodbye to Sandra’s mother, Kate glanced at her Mazda Miata and froze. Note number five, just two days since the last one, seemed to glow eerily under the windshield wiper in the sunlight. When had he managed to put it there? She’d spent, like, only a few minutes with Mrs. Galvin. God, what was it now?

Rubbing her arms, suddenly covered with goose bumps, Kate stalled. Maybe it was just a sales ad, pushing…whatever. But it was the same color again—lavender.

She dragged herself along the pathway toward her car. Warily she pulled the paper and unfolded it.

The line, printed in bold caps, snaked across the page.

I HAVE INFO ABOUT YOUR SISTER.

NO COPS! SEE YOU…

Info? What info? Who are you? What do you want? Kate wanted to scream. Who was this freak? The kidnapper? Her stalker? How long did she have to wait for another note?

Cautiously she scanned the street. It seemed deserted, except for a woman several houses down babying her roses with a yellow watering can. Should she ask her? But who paid attention to passers-by slapping ads on cars?

Her vision blurry, Kate looked skyward, to blink her tears away, but the blazing sun spilled them onto her cheeks. She licked her lips, tasting salt, and shifted her gaze to the palm trees clustered on the left, their fronded crowns surveying the neighborhood from above. The only witnesses and silent at that…

Kate slid into her car and clutched the steering wheel, trying to stop the trembling in her hands. She should’ve walked here, stupid. It was only ten minutes away. But he would’ve left this note for her anyway, at home. He watched her everywhere, right? That note didn’t make her want to scoff anymore. Just what information did he have? Was it something to do with the news that Mrs. Galvin had just told her?

Kate crumpled the paper in her fist and threw it onto the passenger seat. She started the engine, but let it idle. She had some time to kill before her shift at Dolly’s. What should she do? The usual? The image of her Miata accelerating along the curve of the Coronado Bridge flashed through her mind. The briny air tickling her nostrils, the wind tousling her hair, and Sandra’s whooping, Woo-hoo! This bridge is so freakin’ high! We’re, like, zipping through the clouds. And look down, Kate. Those sail boats are totally cool! They’re like little toy ships made of paper.

Sandra…

A lump in Kate’s throat made it difficult to breathe. No, a drive on the bridge wouldn’t bring her relief. Nothing could. Unless… Should she pay him another visit? It’d been a month. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell him about the notes, but at least she’d get his attention by spilling the news.

Kate, are you all right? Sandra’s mother called out of the window.

With a wave of her hand, Kate sped down the street.

Chapter 2

CHUCK FLANAGAN’S TWO HUNDRED FIFTY pounds slumped on the couch, his bare feet propped on the coffee table, a can of Budweiser in one hand, a remote control in the other—it was his usual pastime during evenings when he wasn’t out. His eyes didn’t linger on any channel, his thumb drumming a button on the remote control. He took a long swig of beer, burped, squashed the can in his meaty fist and flung it in the direction of a trashcan in the corner. The can bounced loudly off the wall before joining the crumpled napkins, torn newspapers, and other waste scattered on the floor. Which looked no worse than the overall clutter of dirty glasses, paper plates, plastic utensils on the table, and a heap of wrinkled shirts and mismatched socks on the chair beside it. He popped the top off another beer.

It was a typical sight for Kate when she visited her father at his apartment. A place that reeked of alcohol, greasy fries, curdled milk, sweaty socks. She didn’t knock, knowing that the door was never locked. Until nighttime, she hoped. Had he left it unlocked intentionally, expecting someone to visit? Surely someone else, not her. He hated it when she showed up on his doorstep. That’s why he ignored her presence, like he hadn’t heard her enter the room. But he had. She noticed his back tense up, his neck sink deeper into his shoulders.

As minutes passed, Kate stared at his back, wondering if he would lash out at her again. He probably wouldn’t bother. He’d even moved the couch from the wall to the middle of the room so he wouldn’t have to face her. Suddenly she felt like her body had shrunk to something as infinitesimal and insignificant as an insect that wasn’t worth noticing, much less fighting. She felt her cheeks flood with color. She couldn’t go on like this, she realized. She couldn’t stand this stupor, this silent treatment. She’d rather have him slap her, knock her down, something, to acknowledge his daughter. Only he wouldn’t. He had completely given up on her. The way he’d given up on himself, too, retreating to this seedy apartment in this squalid building, munching junk food, washing it down with Bud, wearing tattered T-shirts and frayed jeans…

What are you doing here? Dad’s question cut into her thoughts.

Startled, Kate said quietly, It’s the second anniversary today.

Get out! he spat out. I don’t need you here. He downed the rest of his beer. Don’t need anyone, he muttered, and belched.

Encouraged nonetheless, Kate tried another tack. Rudi misses you.

No effect.

She remembered her first visit here, when she had brought Rudi with her to this room. The poor dog had almost choked on his ecstatic barking, licking his face all over. But Dad had swept his hand over his silky coat and pushed him away, scolding Kate for dragging the animal into this. Hard to handle such open, unconditional love, huh? she’d asked him silently.

Now Kate was waiting. She wouldn’t leave. Not when he finally broke the silence. Not when she finally brought the news. Probably unrelated to them, but still news.

On channel eight, she began, they said someone left a newborn baby at the hospital. Right at the entrance.

Dad seemed undisturbed.

It could be Sandra’s. I mean, if she’s being held someplace, with Angie, she could’ve had a baby, and someone could’ve just brought it to the hospital. I paged Detective Torres. He may tell us, when he calls back. Kate paused, thinking of the possible repercussions of her fib that she’d made up on the spur of the moment. But getting caught in a lie wasn’t her biggest problem, was it, since lying used to be her second nature. She went on saying, I’m thinking, if they didn’t harm the baby, maybe they aren’t so bad? I mean—

Get the hell out! Dad put an end to her anguished soliloquy. Without turning, he hurled the flattened beer can over his shoulder. Missing Kate by an inch, the can hit the door.

Kate froze. Seconds ticked by in stillness save for the soft whirring of the ceiling fan. She’d wanted violence? She got it. But Dad didn’t even look at her. She was nothing to him, nothing. Why did she come here? What did she expect, seriously? That they’d sit on that ratty couch and talk reasonably, like a father and a daughter should? Yeah, right.

He would never change, ever. Just like they’d never change this ugly, faded wallpaper, torn at the corners and streaked with something brown—beer, ketchup, urine? So what would be the point of telling him about the notes that she kept receiving from some freak? Dad would probably be glad that somebody—even a stalker—got under the skin of his horrible daughter. It served her right.

Her chin quivering, Kate left without so much as a scrape of her shoes on the worn-out linoleum floor.

Chapter 3

TENSION RECEDING FROM HIS SPINE, Chuck Flanagan sank deeper into the couch, swiped a hand over his wet eyes. Dammit, why did Kate show up here again? She brought this pathetic news and expected him to… what? Some slut disposed of her baby like a piece of trash, and she concluded that it may be…

As if of its own will, his thumb pressed zero eight on the remote control. The anchors droned on and on about yet another sorry-ass high-mucky-muck’s apology to the nation for his extra-marital affair, the oil spill in the Gulf, the earthquake in Japan, the tornadoes in the South, suicide bombings in Afghanistan, starving babies in Darfur—anything, but the baby dropped on the steps of the hospital in San Diego. Swearing, Chuck hit the off button and flung the remote control to the floor. Fists denting the vinyl of the couch, he pushed himself up with a grunt and snatched the phone from the table.

Time to check up on the developments. He hadn’t heard from the detective in quite a while. The busy cop had moved on to other cases, but hey, a little shove might steer him back on track. Chuck punched in the number. No answer. Yup, too busy. A message would do, then. Detective Torres? Chuck Flanagan here. Got any news for us? Give me a call, will you?

He stared at the phone. How long had it been since he’d last spoken with Sandra’s folks, face to face? Months. When the tragedy had hit them, the Galvins didn’t mince words with the Flanagans when they were flinging their accusations. Not that Chuck held grudges. If switched places, his treatment of them would’ve been a hell of a lot worse.

Chuck recalled the day when he—a suspect in the abduction and possible murder of his own daughter—had been summoned to the police station for a round of unbearable questions. When he was leaving the station, his eyes cast down from grief and anger, he bumped into Pete Galvin, another heartbroken father and suspect, heading for his share of grilling. The unfairness of it all, added to his loss, had settled in Pete’s drooping eyelids and suddenly sagging jowls. Chuck knew that he himself looked no better. Eyes met, shoulders shrugged in a what-can-you-do defeated way, they passed each other wordlessly. But on the same evening the two men teamed up and combed the city and its suburbs in Chuck’s truck. They raked through the dumps, bribing all kinds of scum and lowlife in exchange for bits of information that might lead to their daughters, dropping off flyers with their photos by the hundreds at all places imaginable. None of their efforts brought any answers as to who had snatched their girls.

Then Chuck had moved out. As time dragged on, he and Pete updated each other by phone, uttering the hopeless no trace and no clue and dead end, and now, there was nothing that Chuck remembered more clearly about those calls than their silence hanging heavily after each remark. What could they have said to each other? Nothing. Then Chuck stopped making calls. To anyone.

Ain’t that a shame, he muttered, and hurried out the door.

Chapter 4

A THIRTY-MINUTE DRIVE DIDN’T HELP KATE slip into her carefree working mood. Parked at Dolly’s Diner, her forehead resting on the headrest, she was reliving her visit to her father’s. He hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the news about the abandoned baby. He’d lashed out at her instead. Her good-natured, gregarious father had turned into an ill-tempered slob. Nothing could bring him back now, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time, except one thing. Which she couldn’t do anything about. But she had to do something . How about calling the detective and making her lie come true, at least? It wasn’t like her day could go any worse.

Torres, he answered on the first ring, steel in his voice.

Hi. It’s Kate Flanagan.

Hello, Kate. How are you doing?

Fine. I have a…um… She hesitated. Should she tell him about the notes? It said no cops. It was obviously a threat, but against whom? Her, her sister, Sandra or all of them?

A new theory, Kate? Is it strong enough to stand up in the wind? the detective asked mockingly.

Right, like he’ll believe me. Better not say anything. Wincing, she said, It’s a question. About that newborn baby found near the hospital? It was on the local news. You think—

"There’s no need to jump the gun, Kate. If there is a connection, I’ll let y’all know."

So you’re still working on our case?

Until it’s solved, yes. That’s the procedure. You and I covered that.

I know. It’s just…Mrs. Galvin says this baby could be Sandra’s.

"Mrs. Galvin says that about every abandoned baby in the area. She’d rather believe that about her daughter than the worst outcome, which is understandable, of course. I know it’s tough for y’all, Kate, but people disappear and babies get abandoned. It’s good that you stay alert, but you shouldn’t think that everything that happens in the city is linked to your case."

His tone of voice wasn’t mocking anymore; it was patronizing. Is that baby okay? Kate asked.

For now.

"But it could be Sandra’s, right?" she pressed.

Silence. Kate imagined the detective chewing his nicotine gum to soothe the craving.

Tell you what, he finally said. Let’s wait until the DNA results are out. I’ll let y’all know. You’re still working at…what’s that place called again?

Like you don’t know. Dolly’s Diner, she said. How long will it take to get the DNA results?

I can’t tell you that. Could be days, could be weeks. When I have them, I’ll come over to the diner, grab a hamburger or something. Take care.

Kate snapped her phone shut and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her frazzled nerves once again. How could she work tonight? She should’ve called in sick. But she’d hate lying to Dolly and Dave. They’d trusted her from the get-go. Of course they’d never known the badass Kate, but it still counted.

Kate watched a couple stop in front of the diner. Did they like it? What’s not to like? Dolly’s words rang in her head. Her boss loved everything bright. She’d planted those roses, geraniums, hydrangeas, azaleas, and whatnot all by herself. She’d hung the baskets with white and red petunias on both sides of the entrance. An eatery should attract customers like a flower draws bees. It surely did, Kate thought, watching the man steer the woman toward the entrance. The bees were in!

Kate had been such a bee too when she’d first seen this place. She’d been going out with Trevor then. One evening, making out with him in the back of his car made her so hungry she thought she’d pass out. But she pushed away a bag of potato chips that he’d offered and demanded something better—in a restaurant. No problem, said her ever-so-obliging boyfriend, getting behind the wheel. After a few minutes of cruising around, Kate saw it: a red roof, white walls, and blossoms, blossoms, blossoms encircling the building like a brilliant wreath. Wow, she said. Let’s check that one out. They did, and returned many times afterward.

Once Dolly brought them dessert herself. She plunked a plate with two turnovers between them. Here’s something sweet for you two. On the house.

Kate, her mouth full, nodded thanks.

I see you keep coming here, lovebirds. Dolly winked at Kate. You like my cooking?

Mmm, Kate murmured, her eyes half-closed in appreciation.

Thanks, sweetheart. That’s a good enough compliment. You’re, what, seventeen?

Sixteen and a half.

Working?

Kate giggled, as if it was the silliest question she’d ever heard. I’m still in high school.

So? Dolly crossed her arms over her enormous chest. You can earn some money for makeup and clothes—after school. And I need a busgirl here. Care to try?

Kate looked at Trevor, as if asking for his opinion, then expressed her own, I don’t have a car yet.

Dolly brought her round face closer to Kate’s. "That’s what you’ll save your money for—a car! But for now, you can take a bus here. I figure you don’t live too far? Kate shook her head. There you go. What’s your answer, beautiful?"

Kate opened her mouth to reply, but Trevor put his fingers on her lips, hushing her. She isn’t interested in your job, all right? He glared at Dolly. "She has my car for rides. She doesn’t need her own."

How dared he? Kate pushed his hand away and took another bite of the turnover. She chewed it slowly, swallowed, and licked her fingers. Mmm, she murmured again. For free turnovers like this? I’ll wash the floors for you, too.

Dolly’s ample stomach rippled with laughter. "You can eat anything for free here. And you know what, missy? I think you’ll move up in your career fast." She smiled triumphantly, like it was already a done deal.

Trevor rolled his shoulders. All right. Then I’ll be a busboy.

Dolly sized him up. "No, you won’t, Mister. Busboys aren’t popular ’round here." And gave Kate another conspiratorial wink, sealing their friendship.

Kate did move up fast. It had taken her only three months to start waiting tables and earn the title of Kate the Great.

Now, she winced at her nickname. Kate the Great… Right. Not anymore, no. But whose fault was it? She was the one to have knocked down the first domino.

She massaged her temples with her fingertips. She had to do something about the notes, seriously. But what could she do, except wait for him to approach her? The words see you in his message were pretty clear: he’d show up one day. But not here, obviously, since he’d never planted his notes at the diner. Not yet.

Relieved, even if slightly, Kate arched her back, pulled her hair through an elastic band, and stretched her lips in a practiced smile. She swung her long legs out of the car in one fluid motion, gave her blue shirt a tug, smoothed down her flared skirt, and glided toward the diner, her ponytail bouncing.

Chapter 5

CRUISING AROUND HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, CHUCK Flanagan was taking in the view. Palm trees towered over the grid of streets running parallel and perpendicular to the beach. The proximity to the ocean allowed cottages, duplexes, bungalows, and even shacks looking like eyesores, to keep their values up at all times. Tourists inundated this white-sanded coast like flocks of gulls settling on the breakwater—regardless of the weather. Which was dandy most of the time, if you asked Chuck.

This particular area was his bonus from fate. By sheer chance had he, a bored seventeen-year-old, bumped into an arthritic widower patching up his fence. Chuck lent him a hand. Then the foundation needed some fixing, then the shutters, then the roof. Chuck had spent many a weekend acquiring construction skills, spiced up with the old geezer’s wry jokes. The camaraderie they’d shared seemed a good enough reward for Chuck’s time and effort, if not counting the contribution to his career choice. A few years later, however, his childless friend set out to move to a nursing home. I got me some savings, pal, he said. I don’t need this shack no more. It’s not worth much anyway save the land. I’d give it to you for free, but I don’t believe in charity. You pay for something, you value it. You can tear it down and build whatever your heart desires. You want it?

You bet.

So Chuck had bought that shack dirt-cheap. He’d torn it down and built, single-handedly, a spacious one-story house, topping it with an orange tiled roof. He’d put his brain, heart, and soul into his home. He proposed to his girlfriend in it. They had started a family in it.

For the past twenty years, minus eighteen months, he had circled and crossed this neighborhood on two wheels and four wheels and on foot. Now, he couldn’t bring himself to get close to his house. So instead of driving on Voltaire Street, as he used to, he took a detour to get to Saratoga Avenue.

Pauline Galvin had flung the door open even before Chuck rang the bell. Not only did the woman have a sharp-pointed nose, but sharp eyes and ears too. And a high-pitched voice to boot.

Chuck, good Lord!

Hi, Pauline.

We’ve been wondering about you. Her red-rimmed eyes scanned over him like two flashlights. Goodness! You’ve changed.

That’s Pauline for you. ‘Subtle’ as always. Yup, he said. The woman had been crying after all. That’s how things…life…

Sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize you.

The hell you didn’t.

Are you all right, Chuck?

Yeah, considering… He coughed uncomfortably, shifted from foot to foot.

So glad to see you. Come on in. Pauline stepped back, letting him in.

Chuck closed the door behind him, followed her into the living room, and stopped short. A gallery of photographs—all blown up to eleven by fourteen inches, all in gilded frames—covered an entire wall. Sandra as a baby, sucking on a pacifier; wearing a big hat on the beach; flaunting her new braces; blowing out the candles on her birthday cake; leaning over a piano, fingers spread wide on the keyboard; brushing her wiry red hair; laughing hysterically; sticking her tongue out in mockery…

Chuck frowned. How could they live like that, with her staring at them day in, day out? How could they smile, as Pauline did now?

She pointed at the couch across from the shrine, but he took a chair under it, averting his gaze from the black shiny piano reflecting the photos of the missing girl.

Can I get you something? Ice tea, soda?

No, thanks. Anything new with you?

No. Pauline perched on the piano bench, like a bird on a tree branch. Her smile vanished, her lips twitched. It’s a terrible day, Chuck. Two years… Her hands, welcoming and sure seconds ago, were now trembling. She produced a tissue from her shorts pocket and pressed it to her eyes. I just wish…I wish…

Kate’s a goddamn liar. There was no abandoned baby. The girl hasn’t changed. Chuck harrumphed and pulled himself off the chair. Well, I gotta go.

Pauline shot to her feet. Oh, Chuck, don’t leave.

What the hell can I say? I just wanted to see how you were holding up and…

Pauline waved at him with her wet Kleenex. Sit down, Chuck. Please!

I’m kinda…tied up…

"Please, Chuck. I know. I know you men can’t stand us crying women. I won’t cry, I promise." She blew her nose noisily. Red now, it appeared more pointed.

It’s not that, Pauline. Sorry. But he sank back, squashing the cushy chair.

We’ve been worried, Chuck, about you and Liz, Pauline started speaking in a rushed voice, as if afraid he wouldn’t let her finish. "Maybe you should do counseling, like me and Pete. This therapist—I’ll give you her number—she’ll help you get back together. She’s well-educated. Tells us about the stages of grieving, and we agree with most of them, especially with the first stage, denial. Then comes anger. Then bargaining, which makes sense too. I bargain with God all the time. ‘Please, Lord,’ I say, ‘please! I’ll do anything, anything, if you just help me get my baby back.’ And Pete’s the same way. He was never into religion, my Pete, but now he prays too. But the last step, Chuck, is acceptance. A final step. Can you believe it? Acceptance! Resentment twisted her thin lips. How on earth can you accept any of it? Some days we’re still on step one, denial. Some days we’re stuck in it, period."

She looked upward, heaved a sigh.

Yeah, take a break. This jabbering will give you a heart attack.

But Pauline continued, words tumbling over one another, her pale hands gesticulating. "But to be honest, Chuck, what does she know, this therapist? She uses all kinds of medical terms, messing up my head completely sometimes, but where does she get this stuff? From books! And who writes them? Those big shots with degrees lined up on the walls who have never lost their own child, that’s who. What do they know? You’ve got to experience this, to know, right? And even if you do, it’s impossible to describe these feelings. I can’t. And it’s not like we lost our daughters for good, either. Right, Chuck? I don’t believe it for a minute. They’re out there—she pointed at the window—somewhere. Though, like I said, this therapist is right about the anger step. We’re so angry at…at…everything... The words came out in a sob, pinning Chuck deeper into his chair. I was so mean to Sandra, always nagging about the mess in her room, bad grades, bad boys. I didn’t want her to date any boys, for that matter. I thought she was too young."

She was too young, dammit! But Chuck knew better than to contradict Pauline.

All I wanted for her was to get better at school and play this damn piano. She slapped the instrument. We paid through the nose for her tutor—for years! But the result? She lost interest! She glanced at Chuck with fury, as if blaming him for the fact, but as she looked back at the piano, the fury gave way to sadness. She affectionately patted the shiny surface. But my sweet baby used to play so beautifully! All those fugues and sonatas. I’d be in the kitchen, listening, and my heart would blossom with such pride and joy… She slid off the stool, dashed to the photos on the wall, and touched the one with her daughter playing the instrument. Look at her, Chuck. She looks like a prodigy. Isn’t she beautiful?

Chuck was startled by the poignancy of the ruined resemblance between the mother and her child: the same flames of hair, the same heart-shaped face sprayed with freckles, the same green eyes; but the red luster had left Pauline’s hair, the delicate curves of her face had thinned and sharpened, as if the flesh from her cheekbones had been sliced off, and the impish sparkle in her eyes had vanished.

Damn shame, he cussed inwardly and said, "She is, Pauline. Beautiful."

Thank you. The grieving mother moved to the couch. My baby was going through her own stages, like any other teenager. It’s part of growing up, right? But I didn’t understand that. No wonder she took off. When we were fighting that day, you know what she said to me? She said, ‘You want me to run away? You want me to?’ And you know what I said to her? ‘Go ahead!’ I said. ‘Get out of my sight!’ I said. Those were my exact words. To my own child! My own flesh and blood! She hit her bony chest with her fist. Can you believe it, Chuck?

Yes, he could. He’d heard this story countless times. When Pauline had come out of a daze, a week after the girls’ disappearance, she recalled the last bits of her altercation with Sandra, giving the police a new lead in the case. Which was subsequently dismissed as implausible, since Angela Flanagan would never have run away from her parents. What Chuck couldn’t believe now was that after all this time, and despite the testimony of a witness on the scene, Pauline still refused to accept the abduction theory.

Don’t beat yourself up, Pauline. You couldn’t have known.

She wagged her finger at him. "No, Chuck. I would’ve done the same thing if my mother said such an awful thing to me. I used to be wild too when I was her age. I remember one time when…"

I can’t listen to this anymore. That’s not why I came here, dammit. When do you think the girls will decide to come back? he cut in. Sandra’s nineteen now. Time to grow up, forget the grudges.

Have you been listening, Chuck? Pauline lifted her both arms—a bird taking a flight. It’s been two years! They would’ve been back by now if they weren’t angry. Why would a girl come back when her own mother, her flesh and blood, told her to get out of her sight?

Dammit! The woman must’ve lost her marbles. So much for therapy. A money pit. Chuck made another attempt at changing the subject. How’s Pete?

Oh, he’s my rock. I would’ve gone out of my mind already, if not for his support. We’ve never been closer. It’s ironic, isn’t it? To drift apart like we did…we almost divorced, you know…but after Sandra was gone, he just couldn’t leave me. I was in no state to… She twisted a tissue around her thumb, her eyes down. Sometimes I think Sandra got away intentionally, just to bring us back together.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. "Where is Pete? I’d like to have a word with him."

About what? Not about that baby found at the hospital?

There we go. Kate didn’t lie, after all. Yeah. You heard?

"How could we not? No soap operas for me anymore and no sports for Pete. We’re news junkies now. They found that baby two days ago, but the police were hush-hush about it. Imagine that? I personally think they’re committing a crime too, keeping news like that from the public—for two days! What if that baby is Sandra’s?"

Did you ask Torres?

Of course! But you know his response: ‘We’re doing all we can.’ So Pete’s at his brother’s now, mulling it over. Hold on. She dashed to a cabinet in the corner, her arms flinging, her loose T-shirt shifting around her skinny hips, and plucked the receiver from its cradle. He’ll be back in no time. Liz, too.

Chuck’s mammoth body felt weightless as he lurched toward Pauline, grasping her claw-like hand. It’s all right. I can’t stay, anyway.

Why not? she squeaked. Liz won’t forgive me for not telling her you came over.

Then don’t tell her.

She studied his face critically. You do need to see a psychiatrist, Chuck. I even told Kate about it.

Kate? Chuck pricked