The Bad Daughter(5)

“In surgery? What are you saying? She was shot, too?”

“And Cassidy.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Someone shot Cassidy?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it. What kind of monster shoots a twelve-year-old girl?”

Robin opened her suitcase and removed some fresh underwear, a blue-and-white-striped jersey, and a pair of jeans. She dressed quickly, debating again whether to turn on the television in case the local station was carrying news of the shooting. “Prominent Red Bluff developer Greg Davis, his wife, and stepdaughter are clinging to life in the hospital after being shot,” she imagined a perky yet paradoxically somber-faced reporter announcing.

Once again, Melanie’s voice interrupted her musings. “It’s looking like some sort of home invasion,” she was saying, her voice growing faster and less steady with each word. “Apparently sometime after midnight last night, someone entered their house and…and…”

“Okay. Okay. Slow down. Take deep breaths.”

“Please don’t tell me what to do. You aren’t here. You haven’t been here.”

Well, that didn’t take long, Robin had thought, every muscle in her body constricting. It was the same refrain she’d been hearing ever since their mother’s death. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I told you. It looks like a home invasion.”

“What does that mean exactly? Do the police know who did it? Do they have any leads, any suspects?”

“Not that they’ve told me.”

“Have you spoken to Alec?”

“I called him. He hasn’t returned any of my messages.”

“I’ll try to reach him.”

“Are you coming home or not?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to make arrangements, find out what flights, what buses…It could take time.”

“Fine. Whatever. Your choice.”

Robin sank back onto the bed, lowering her head into her hands and staring at the worn beige-and-brown carpet at her feet. No matter how many times she went over the conversation with her sister, she couldn’t wrap her head around it. It was like a disturbing dream that bolted from your memory the second you tried to make sense of it.

She sat motionless until she felt her stomach start to rumble. She hadn’t had a proper meal since yesterday’s soup-and-sandwich lunch. Probably she should grab a bite of breakfast before the bus left. Who knew when she’d have the opportunity to eat once she got to Red Bluff? She pushed her bare feet into her sneakers, grabbed her purse, activated her cell phone, and headed for the door, vaguely recalling there was a diner across the street.

The phone rang as her fingers were reaching for the doorknob.

“Blake?” she asked, lifting it to her ear without checking the caller ID.

“Alec,” her brother answered. “What’s going on?”

“Have you spoken to Melanie?”

“Thought I’d call you first. What’s up?”

“Brace yourself.”

“Fully braced.”

Robin took a deep breath. “Dad’s been shot.”

There was a brief pause, followed by a nervous laugh. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s no joke. He’s alive, but probably not for long.”

“Did Tara do it?”

“No.” She suppressed a smile. That had been her first thought as well. “She was shot, too.”

“Tara was shot?”

“And Cassidy.”

“Tara’s been shot?” Alec repeated. “How is she?”

“I don’t know. She was in surgery when I spoke to Melanie.”

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

“Melanie says it appears to be some sort of home invasion.”

“Wow.” A second of silence. Robin pictured her brother, younger than her by three years, lifting his hand to his face to massage his jaw, something he always did when he was upset. “Guess it serves them right for building the biggest fucking house in town.”

“I’m on my way there now. You should probably come, too.”

“No, not a good idea.”

Robin was trying to come up with something she could use to lure her brother back to Red Bluff when she realized he was no longer on the line. She returned the phone to her purse, deciding to call him back when she had more information and he’d had more time to think.

She opened the door to her motel room and stepped into the adjacent parking lot. A blanket of heat immediately wrapped itself around her shoulders. Mid-April, not even eight A.M. and already the thermometer was edging past eighty. It would be even hotter in Red Bluff, where the temperature averaged more than ninety degrees a hundred days a year. Just the thought of it made her heart rate quicken.

“Okay, stay calm,” she whispered to herself as she crossed the street to the fifties-style diner. “A diner is not a suitable place for a panic attack.” But waves of anxiety were already sweeping over her as she stumbled through the restaurant’s heavy glass door. She sidled into a booth by the window, her hand knocking against the small jukebox at the side of the Formica tabletop, and she cried out.