The Bad Daughter(58)

Was it possible?

No, it couldn’t be possible.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She splashed cold water on her face, staring at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. “Damn scrunched-up face,” she muttered, pushing at her skin, trying to smooth away the telltale signs of her anxiety. “Alec did not do this,” she told her reflection. He did not do this.

There had to be a rational explanation for his refusal to explain his actions. “What? What possible explanation can there be?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Shit! Goddamn it! Fuck!”

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

Robin froze.

Another knock, stronger than the first. “Aunt Robin?”

“Landon?” Landon? She unlocked the door and pulled it open, the shock of seeing her nephew standing on the other side temporarily interrupting her panic attack.

He was wearing a bright orange T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo, his shoulder-length hair uncombed and falling into his eyes, eyes that shot to the floor the instant she opened the door. “I heard yelling,” he mumbled, staring at his bare toes protruding from under the frayed hem of his too-long jeans.

“Oh, sorry,” Robin said, following his gaze. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I…I stubbed my toe.”

“Ouch,” Landon said without looking up. “That hurts.”

“Yes.”

He turned to leave.

“I like your T-shirt,” she said quickly.

Landon smiled and patted the shirt’s logo.

“You like motorcycles, huh?”

No response.

“Can I ask you something?”

He shrugged, looked toward the stairs.

“I saw that you went for a motorcycle ride the other night.”

Landon’s head bolted up, his eyes boring into hers for half a second before returning to the floor. He began swaying from one foot to the other.

“Who do you know who drives a motorcycle?”

Silence.

“Is it anyone I know?”

“His name’s Donny.”

“Donny Warren?”

“He’s my friend,” Landon said, speaking into his chest.

“Your friend,” Robin repeated.

“He takes me for rides on his bike.”

After midnight?

“My mom says it’s okay.”

“It sounds like fun. Where do you go?”

“To his ranch. He has horses. I like horses.”

Robin nodded. It was the longest conversation she’d ever had with her nephew. “Can I ask you something else?”

Landon glanced back at the stairs.

“I notice you spend a lot of time looking out your bedroom window.”

He began rocking back and forth on his heels.

“And I was wondering…if maybe you happened to be looking out your window…on the night…of the shootings…”

“Landon?” Melanie called from the foot of the stairs. “Is that you up there? What are you doing? Come on down. Your uncle Alec is here.”

“Landon, did you see anything that night?” Robin asked.

But his back was already to her, and in the next second, he was halfway down the stairs.



* * *



—

Robin remained in the bathroom doorway for several seconds before proceeding to her bedroom and closing the door. She lay down on the bed and stared up at the overhead ceiling fan, questions circling her head like flies. Had Alec killed Tara? Had he tried to kill their father and Cassidy? Had Landon? Maybe it had been Alec and Landon together. Or Landon and Donny Warren. Maybe Melanie had planned the whole thing.

“Shit.”

What a family.

What a mess.

Why wasn’t she better equipped to deal with messes like this? Wasn’t family dysfunction something she encountered on an almost daily basis? Wasn’t her own family history at least part of the reason she became a therapist?

She tried to think of how she would advise a client.

“Take it one step at a time,” she would say. “One issue at a time.”

There was certainly no shortage of issues: her anger, her disappointment, her defensiveness in the face of Melanie’s nearly constant attacks. But perhaps all these issues were the result of an even bigger issue—guilt.

For not telling her mother about her father’s infidelities.

For abandoning her mother during her illness.

For abandoning her best friend.

For believing Melanie could be capable of murder.

For believing Landon could be capable of murder.

For believing Alec could be capable of murder.

“That’s a shitload of guilt,” she said out loud.

She shook her head. She was always telling clients that guilt was a useless emotion whose only purpose was to keep you stuck in the past and prevent you from moving forward. That it was easier—less scary—to feel guilty than it was to make positive changes in your life. That guilt was the coward’s way out. “Am I really such a fucking coward?” she asked out loud.

There was a gentle tapping on the door. “Robin?” Blake called softly.

And what about Blake? she wondered, sitting up in bed. Was he the man he claimed to be or just a younger, more polished version of her father? Could she really trust him?