The Bad Daughter(27)

“When was this?”

“Last night.” Kenny looked to Robin and Melanie for confirmation. “When I was at your house.”

“Neither of you thought to mention his visit to me?” the sheriff asked the women.

“It’s been a rather busy morning,” Melanie said, speaking for both of them. “Guess it slipped our minds.”

“Hmm.” Sheriff Prescott turned his attention back to the boy. “Why don’t you have a seat down the hall,” he told him. “There’s a waiting area—”

“Yeah, I know. That’s where I’ve been waiting, but…”

“But?”

“Maybe I should go. Come back another time.”

“Maybe you should stay,” the sheriff said, leaving no doubt that this wasn’t a request. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

“Sure thing.” Kenny managed a weak smile. “Will you tell Cassidy I stopped by?”

“Sure thing,” the sheriff repeated.

Robin watched the young man retreat down the hall.

“Anything else I should know about that might have ‘slipped your minds’?” the sheriff asked the women pointedly.

“Not a thing,” Melanie said, again speaking for the two of them.

“And from now on, let me decide what’s relevant or not.” He jotted Kenny’s name in the notepad he pulled out of his shirt pocket as they continued toward Cassidy’s room.

“Of course,” Robin said.

“Bastard,” Melanie muttered under her breath, her eyes shooting daggers at the sheriff’s back.

They stopped in front of the closed door to Cassidy’s room. Robin took a deep breath.

“Ladies,” the sheriff said as he pushed the door open.



* * *



—

Cassidy was lying in bed, her eyes closed to the midday sun sliding through the slats of the blinds covering the side window. Her hair had been pulled away from her thin, pale face and secured with a bobby pin, making her appear even more vulnerable than she had the day before. Robin felt the air constrict in her chest like a closed fist.

“Cassidy?” the sheriff said gently, approaching her bed.

“She’s asleep,” Robin whispered, standing back, fighting the urge to flee. “Maybe we shouldn’t disturb her.”

“Cassidy,” the sheriff repeated, touching her exposed arm above the IV protruding from the vein on the underside of her elbow.

The girl’s gold-flecked brown eyes opened wide. A startled cry escaped her lips.

“I’m Sheriff Prescott,” the sheriff said quickly. “You don’t have to be afraid, Cassidy. You’re safe now.”

“Robin?” the girl asked, her gaze shooting around the room.

“She’s right here,” the sheriff said. He glanced over his shoulder at Robin, silently beckoning her forward.

“I’m here.” Robin set one recalcitrant foot in front of the other until she was standing beside him.

“I’m here, too,” Melanie said, approaching on the other side of the bed.

“Robin?” Cassidy said again, ignoring both Melanie and the sheriff.

“Right here, sweetheart,” Robin said, finding her therapist’s voice and taking the girl’s hand as the sheriff stepped back a bit.

“Robin,” the girl repeated, squeezing Robin’s fingers. “I knew you’d come.”

“You did?”

“My mother said she could always count on you.”

“She said that?” Tears filled Robin’s eyes.

“She was always talking about you, said she missed you so much.”

“I missed her, too.” Robin realized it was true. Her natural shyness had always made it difficult for her to make friends, and her trust issues had made it all but impossible to keep them. The truth was that she hadn’t had a real friend since leaving Red Bluff. “What else did she tell you?”

“That I should call you if anything ever happened to her.”

“Why would she say that?” the sheriff interjected, reasserting his presence. “Was she worried about anything in particular?”

The girl stared up at the ceiling for several long seconds, then closed her eyes. For a minute, Robin thought she might have drifted back into unconsciousness.

“Can you tell us what happened the night you were shot?” the sheriff prodded.

Cassidy’s eyes remained shut, but she squeezed Robin’s fingers so tightly that Robin had to fight to keep from crying out.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m right here. Can you tell us what happened that night?” Robin asked, repeating the sheriff’s question. “Do you know who shot you?”

Cassidy opened her eyes, stared directly at Robin. “Someone shot me,” she repeated, as if trying to force the words to make sense. “Oh, God. It hurts. It hurts so much.”

“We’ll get a doctor in here in a few minutes,” the sheriff said. “But it’s real important that we find out what happened the night you were shot, Cassidy, so we can catch whoever did this. Can you help us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” Her voice rose with each repetition.