The Bad Daughter(102)

“She’s on the bed. She’s not moving.”

Robin bolted from Blake’s side, rushing into Cassidy’s room and approaching the small figure sprawled facedown across the bed. “Cassidy,” she said, her shaking hand reaching out to touch the girl’s shoulder, her eyes scanning the comforter for blood. “Oh, God.” Had Landon strangled the child to death with his bare hands?

“Robin?”

Robin gasped as Cassidy twisted around on the bed to face her.

“What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” Robin cried, hugging the child and motioning the others into the room. “She’s okay. She’s okay!”

“Shit,” Melanie said. “You scared the hell out of us!”

“I don’t understand,” Cassidy said.

Robin detected the faint but stubborn scent of marijuana laced through the girl’s hair.

“Where’s Landon?” Melanie said.

“I don’t know. He went with that deputy.”

“What are you talking about?”

Cassidy rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “When we got home, there was this deputy waiting. He told Landon to get in the patrol car, and they drove off. I wasn’t feeling so hot, so I came upstairs to lie down. I guess I fell asleep.”

“How long ago was this?”

She glanced at Robin’s watch. “About an hour ago, maybe.”

“I’ve got to go,” Melanie said.

“Wait,” Robin said. “Where are you going?”

“To the sheriff’s department. Hopefully they haven’t placed Landon under arrest yet.”

“Why would they arrest Landon?” Cassidy asked.

“Call McAllister,” Melanie said. “Tell him to meet me there.”

“I’ll take you,” Blake offered. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

For once Melanie didn’t argue.

“I’ll stay with Cassidy. Phone me as soon as you know anything,” Robin called after them. She reached into the pocket of her jeans for her cell phone and called the lawyer’s office, relaying Melanie’s instructions to his assistant.

“I don’t understand. Why would they arrest Landon?” Cassidy asked again.

Robin told her about the warrant to search the house and what they had uncovered.

“They found Mommy’s jewelry in Landon’s room?”

“Yes.”

“And a ski mask?”

“Yes.”

Cassidy shook her head. “No. I don’t believe it.”

“I know. It’s inconceivable.”

“So they think that Landon and your brother…”

“And maybe Donny Warren,” Robin said, shocked at the words coming out of her mouth.

“They killed Mommy? They shot me and Daddy?”

Robin said nothing. Inconceivable as it may have been, the evidence against the three men was mounting every day: Alec had had both motive and opportunity to carry out the attack; Landon had obvious behavior problems, and some of Tara’s stolen jewelry had been found hidden in his room; Landon had been with Donny on the night of the shootings; identical ski masks had been found in both Landon’s room and Alec’s apartment. There was no telling what the search of Donny’s cabin might uncover. “I’m so sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Cassidy bolted off the bed and ran out of the room.

Robin remained where she was, unable to move, the enormity of the day’s events weighing her down like an anchor. She stared blankly ahead, her mind reeling, her head spinning.

Gradually the room returned to focus around her: the small window overlooking the backyard, the bare ecru walls, the ceiling fan whirring gently overhead, the double bed with its billowy beige comforter, the mirrored nightstand beside the bed, the small stack of fashion magazines on top of it, the familiar snow globe beside the magazines.

Robin reached out and picked up the snow globe, turning it over in her hands and watching the flakes of pretend snow cascade around the tiny ballerina at its center.

A sliver of anxiety burrowed into Robin’s side.

“That was awful,” Cassidy said, returning to the room.

“Are you okay?”

Cassidy plopped down on the bed. “Yeah. I hate throwing up. Don’t you?”

“I don’t think anybody likes it.”

“I remember when I was really little,” Cassidy said, “and I ate all this junk—candies and jellies and a whole bag of red licorice—and Mommy warned me I’d be sick to my stomach, but I ate it all anyway, and then I spent most of the night throwing it all up. It was the worst. I haven’t been able to look at red licorice since.”

Robin marveled at the child’s ability to compartmentalize—one minute she was discussing her mother’s murder, the next she was going on about red licorice—and wished she could do the same.

“And after that, every night when I went to bed,” Cassidy continued, “I used to grit my teeth, ’cause I thought that would keep me from throwing up again. I did that for a long time, till the dentist told Mommy I was ruining my teeth and I had to stop.” She motioned toward the stack of fashion magazines. “Some of these models, they have eating disorders. They actually make themselves throw up. On purpose.” She looked horrified by the thought. “That’s really gross. Don’t you think?”