The Bad Daughter(44)

“Hi, Daddy,” Robin whispered, her eyes once again welling up with unexpected tears.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to start crying again.”

Robin shook her head, as confused by her tears as her sister was.

“Good news, Dad,” Melanie announced, tapping on the bed’s handrails. “Your pool table has arrived. Any suggestions what to do with it?” She waited several seconds. “No? I didn’t think so. You were always better at creating problems than you were at solving them.”

Robin stared down at the comatose man who was her father. His tan was fading, and his complexion had taken on an ashen tinge, all the more noticeable because of the white bandages wrapped around his head and the sheets tucked underneath his chin. He seemed to have shrunk since she’d last seen him, although perhaps that was her imagination. Someone’s finally cut you down to size, she thought, turning away. Dear God, please don’t let that someone be Alec.

“Where are you going?” Melanie asked.

“Doesn’t seem to be much point in staying here. Might as well talk to the sheriff, get it over with. You coming?”

“No. I think I’ll stay and keep Dad company.” Melanie pulled up a chair and plopped down, stretching her legs out in front of her and folding her arms across her chest, as if emphasizing her resolve.

“What’ll I tell Prescott?”

“Whatever you want.”

Robin knew that it was pointless to argue. “Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered on her way out.



* * *



—

Sheriff Prescott stood up as soon as he saw her walking toward him. “I take it your sister has decided not to join us.” He motioned for Robin to have a seat, then reached for a large manila envelope lying beside him. He removed two photographs and handed them to Robin.

“What’s this?” She studied the large prints, understanding that the red Chevy Malibu at the center of both photographs—one beside a pump at a Shell station, one passing through a highway tollbooth—belonged to Alec.

“Recognize the car?”

“I’m sure that my brother isn’t the only person in the world who owns a red Chevy.”

“They’re his license plates,” the sheriff said.

“Okay. So it’s his car.”

“You recognize the gas station?”

“Should I?”

“It’s located about a mile from here. And this tollbooth,” he said, pointing to the second picture, “is located about halfway between here and San Francisco. You want to know when these pictures were taken?”

Not really. Robin held her breath as Prescott returned the photos to their manila envelope.

“First one was taken the evening of the shooting, the second one around two the next morning. Two-eighteen, to be precise. Which would indicate that your brother was here in Red Bluff when the shootings took place.”

“Are you implying that Alec was the shooter?” Robin said, jumping to her feet. “That’s crazy.” Was it? “There’s no way Alec shot anyone. He loved Tara.” How many times could she have this conversation?

“She betrayed him pretty badly.”

“That was more than five years ago.”

“Some men can nurse a grudge a very long time.”

“He still loved her,” Robin insisted. Even after what she did. Even after all this time.

“Maybe he did. But he hated your father.”

“Lots of people hated my father. Including me.”

“Yes. But you weren’t in Red Bluff that night, and it appears your brother was.”

“My brother isn’t capable of hurting anyone, especially not a twelve-year-old girl. Why would he possibly want to shoot Cassidy?”

“Maybe he didn’t. There was at least one other shooter. Remember?”

“Who you think could be Landon,” Robin said, surprised by the anger in her voice. Didn’t she harbor her own suspicions regarding her nephew? “You think they were in this together,” she stated more than asked.

“I can’t ignore the possibility.”

“My brother had nothing to do with what happened,” Robin reiterated, the slight tremor in her voice belying the certainty of her words.

“Then what was he doing here, and why did he run?”

“Who says he ran?”

“Why don’t you sit back down?” Prescott suggested gently, waiting until Robin had resumed her former position before continuing. “After we got hold of these pictures, I contacted the San Francisco police,” he explained. “I asked them to talk to your brother. They went to his apartment. He wasn’t there. He hasn’t shown up for work. His car’s gone. Nobody’s seen him.” Prescott lowered his chin while lifting his eyes. “You didn’t happen to mention to him that I’d been asking about his car, did you?”

Shit.

“Look,” Prescott said, “I’m not saying your brother is guilty…”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That I’d like to talk to him, that’s all. So if you do hear from him…”

“I’ll tell him that you’d like to talk to him,” Robin said, her head spinning from a sudden lack of oxygen. “My turn to ask you a few questions.”