The Bad Daughter(14)
Robin watched the space between houses grow as they continued north. Less than a minute later, they turned onto Larie Lane. An enormous wood-and-glass house appeared, surrounded by the yellow tape that identified it as a crime scene and warned the curious to keep their distance. Two police cruisers and a white van were parked in the long driveway leading up to the three-car garage.
“And there it is,” Melanie said, slowing her car to a crawl. “What is it they say? ‘A man’s home is his castle’?”
“It certainly stands out.”
“I think that was the intention.”
“It’s huge.”
“Over eight thousand square feet.”
Which makes it probably the largest home in Red Bluff, Robin thought. The majority of houses in the area were a quarter that size and worth a fraction of what she estimated it had cost to build this place. It sat in the middle of an acre of land, almost daring the general population to come and get it.
“Serves them right for building the biggest fucking house in town,” Robin remembered her brother saying. She wondered idly when he’d seen it, the thought slipping out of her mind as quickly and quietly as it had slipped in.
“They used some hotshot decorator from San Francisco, and it’s all very grand inside,” Melanie said. “Grand and bland, if you ask me.” She picked up speed. “Of course, no one did.” A short distance farther along, Melanie turned in to the long driveway of the much smaller house next door. “Home sweet home.” She shut off the car’s engine and was about to open her door when she stopped and swiveled toward Robin. “Are you ready, or do you need time to acclimate?”
Robin stared at the two-story house she’d grown up in, trying to recall at least one happy memory contained inside those walls. She was surprised to realize that there were several, almost all of them involving her mother. However, even those memories were tainted by the fact that her mother’s brain had been so riddled with cancer in those final weeks after Robin came home from Berkeley to be with her that she had no idea who Robin was.
All her other happy memories included Tara: bringing her new friend home after school one afternoon and introducing her to her parents, who were as impressed by Tara’s bubbly nature as Robin was; she and Tara sharing adolescent hopes and dreams in her upstairs bedroom, and later, trying to mask the smell of the joint they’d just smoked with copious sprays of her mother’s Angel perfume; her pride whenever one of Tara’s clever put-downs left Melanie speechless; her thrill at holding Tara’s newborn baby in her arms when Tara came to visit; her relief when Tara confided that she was leaving Dylan; her joy when, seated around the dining room table five years later, Tara and Alec announced their engagement, and her na?ve conviction that she would have a real sister now. “Think that might be a little too much woman for you,” she remembered her father telling his son. “She’s a real little firecracker.”
Neither Robin nor Alec had suspected that one day that little firecracker would explode in their faces.
So much for happy memories, she thought. She opened the car door and stepped onto the gravel of the driveway, watching a cloud of dust rise in the thick air like smoke. She stood staring at the old house, its white clapboard exterior in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, its dull veneer an obvious consequence of the prolonged construction next door.
Still, the house managed to send shivers up and down her spine. Four bedrooms—five, if you counted the tiny mudroom off the kitchen. Her brother had claimed that space as his own after Melanie’s son grew too big to sleep in the same room with her, and the boy had moved into Alec’s bedroom. Robin could still hear the rhythmic banging of Landon’s chair as he rocked it back and forth compulsively against the hardwood floor for hours every night.
Now she looked toward that bedroom window and was startled to see a hulking figure staring back at her. “My God. Who’s that?”
Melanie was getting Robin’s suitcase from the trunk and replied without bothering to look up. “Who do you think?”
“Is that Landon?”
“No, it’s George Clooney. Of course it’s Landon.”
Robin waved. The hulking figure promptly disappeared.
Robin followed Melanie up the front walk. “Does he understand what’s going on?” She tried to take her suitcase from Melanie’s hand, but Melanie shooed her away, holding firm in her grip.
“He understands. Being autistic doesn’t make him an idiot.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“What’s he supposed to say?” Melanie dropped Robin’s suitcase to the patch of concrete by the front door and fumbled in her purse for her house key.
Robin looked toward the police cruisers next door. “Does the sheriff really consider him a suspect?”
“Who would be more convenient than the crazy boy next door?” Melanie found the key and jammed it angrily into the lock. “Think of the accolades if they can wrap this up quickly. Think of the great publicity: small-town sheriff solves big-time crime. I can picture the cover of People now, with Dateline and 48 Hours fighting over an exclusive. Wouldn’t that asshole Prescott love to be at the center of that.”
Sheriff Prescott hadn’t struck Robin as an asshole, but she decided to keep that opinion to herself as she followed Melanie into the front hall of the old house.