The Other Daughter (6 page)

“You are a piece of shit.”

“Ah, honey, I've been called worse.” Digger flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “How's Brian anyway? I remember him pressing his face to the glass in the witness room — you know, back then. When they fried Russell Lee, it was gruesome, just plain sick. Everyone closed their eyes and covered their ears. But fourteen-year-old Brian Stokes pressed his face against the glass and stared at Russell Lee dying as if he was trying to sear it into his brain.
Sear it
, mind you.

“I hear Brian's gay now. Do you think watching a man die could affect a man's sexual preferences? Just asking.”

The last comment, so cruel in its casualness, struck Melanie like a blow. She had to close her eyes, and then she was so angry she couldn't speak. She wanted to hurt him. The intensity of the desire balled her hands into fists. But she was no match for him, fat and all, and they both knew it.

“I want you away from my family,” she said finally. “Whatever it is you have to say, you say it here. If you honestly have a story, I'm sure a quote from a killer's child is worth enough to you to stay the hell away from them. Deal?”

Larry Digger pretended to consider it. He took another deep drag from his cigarette and looked at the park around them, but his beady eyes were already gleaming triumphantly.

“I like you,” Digger said suddenly. “I don't like most people, Miss Holmes. But I like you. You not only have Russell Lee's eyes, you got his spine.”

“I'm just so darn flattered,” Melanie spat out, and Digger laughed.

“Yeah, you're a fine piece of work. So tell me, sweetheart, what's it like to suddenly get to live with so much money?”

“Oh, it's just as good as you dreamed, Larry, and everything you'll never have.”

“Yeah? Too bad I'm going to ruin it for you.” Larry Digger stubbed out his cigarette on the tree trunk and got serious. “The hospital,” he said. “I think that's the key. Over a hundred hospitals in this city, and you just happen to end up at Harper's?”

“Coincidence.”

“Maybe, but they all start to add up after a while. First we got the timing, Miss Holmes. You just happened to appear the night Russell Lee is fried for killing little kids. Then we got location. You just happened to be dropped at Harper's hospital and he just happened to have blown off an execution to be there. Then we got you. A little girl. Found perfectly clothed and in good health but nobody ever claimed you? All these years, not a single whisper from the people who must've taken care of you for nine years, bought you clothes, fed you, put a roof over your head, hell, even made sure you were found at a hospital, where you'd be in good hands. And then there's the matter of your amnesia. A healthy little girl who couldn't remember
anything
about where she came from, not even her own name. And all these years later, two
decades
later, you
still
don't remember. Seems strange to me that a nine-year-old child could appear out of nowhere, remember nothing, and be claimed by no one. Strange. Or planned.”

“You know what they say, truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Oh, that's a good one, Miss Holmes. Harper ever take you to a hypnotist? What about regression therapy or aromatherapy or whatever else quacks are dreaming up these days?”

“The doctors who checked me out said I was physically fine and that I'd remember when I was ready to remember.”

“Come on, Miss Holmes, surely the great Dr. Harper Stokes had a few opinions on this subject. He coulda taken you to a hypnotist anytime and what would anybody have done about it? What would have happened? You would've remembered, that's what. And your family, sweetheart, doesn't want you to remember.”

“Oh, this is
stupid
! All you have supplied are a bunch of coincidences. And your little scenario has holes you could drive a truck through. Plain and simple, my parents
loved
Meagan. No way would they knowingly have adopted the child of her killer. That doesn't make sense.”

Larry Digger was looking at her curiously. “You honestly believe that, don't you?”

“Of course I do. What the hell do you mean?”

“Huh.” He nodded to himself as if she'd just answered a very important question. Melanie shook her head, starting to feel more confused now, as if she were at the top of a very steep precipice and she'd just taken her first misstep.

The throbbing in her head was growing. Black voids were appearing in front of her eyes. She hadn't suffered from a serious migraine in years, but now she had the faint realization that she was dangerously close to vomiting.

“Maybe you had to know Harper and Patricia in Texas,” Digger was murmuring. “Maybe you had to see them sitting up in their rich palace no fourth-year resident should be able to afford. Maybe you had to see them in Texas with their two kids, one so sweet, everyone loved her, and one already so troubled, half the moms on the block wouldn't let him play with their children. I'm getting the impression, Miss Holmes, there's a helluva lot about your family you just plain don't know.”

“That's not true. It's not.”

“Ah, Miss Holmes.” Larry Digger sounded sympathetic, almost pitying. It confused her more than his vicious comments had. “Let me tell you something, Melanie, for your own sake. I didn't find you on my own, kid. I got a tip. An anonymous call in the middle of the night. Needless to say, reporters don't like anonymous tips, not even washed-up pieces of shit like me.” His teeth flashed, then his voice turned horribly somber. “I had the caller traced the second time, Miss Holmes. Right back to Boston, Massachusetts. Right back to Beacon Street. Right back to
your house
. Why do you think that is, Mel? Why is someone from your house calling
me
about Russell Lee Holmes?”

“I don't …It doesn't …None of this makes any sense.” The world tilted suddenly. Melanie sat down on the ground. She heard herself whisper, “But that was so long ago…”

Larry Digger smiled. “You get what you deserve, Melanie Stokes. By the caller's own words, you get what you deserve.”

“No—”

“How much of a person's temperament is genetic, Melanie Holmes? Are junkyard dogs born or raised? Are you really as polished and refined as your uptight adoptive parents, or does a little Texas white trash lurk beneath that surface? I already know you can be tough. Now, what about
violence
? Ever look at a little kid, Miss Holmes, and feel
hungry
?”

“
No
! No. Oh, God…” Her head exploded. Melanie grabbed her temples, pressed her forehead against her knees, and rocked on the grass.

From far away she heard Larry Digger chortle. “I'm right, aren't I? Twenty-five years later, I'm finally getting it ri—” His words suddenly ended in a yelp.

Melanie turned slowly. A white figure had joined them in the park. He seemed to have his hand clamped on Larry Digger's shoulder.

“She asked you to leave,” the newcomer said calmly.

Larry Digger tried to push the man away. “Hey, this is private. Don't you got horse d'oovers to serve or something?”

“No, but I'm thinking of sharpening my knives.”

The man tightened his grip even more, and Digger held up his hands in surrender. The minute he was released, he backed up. “Okay, I'll go. But I'm not lying. I do have proof, Miss Holmes. I have information, not just about your father, but your
birth mother
as well. Ever think of her, Miss Holmes? Bet she could actually tell you your real birthday, let alone your real name. Midtown Hotel, sweetheart. Pleasant dreams.”

The man took a quick step forward at the sarcastic tone, and Larry Digger hightailed it out of there, his stained coat flapping behind him.

Melanie's stomach heaved. She celebrated Larry Digger's departure by spewing shrimp all over the grass and the man's glossy black shoes.

“Shit!” he yelped, leaping back awkwardly. He didn't seem to know what to do.

That made two of them. Tears of rage streamed down Melanie's cheeks. Her head was throbbing, and images added to the chaos in her mind. Blue dress, blond hair, pleading eyes.
I want to go home now. Please, let me go home
.

“Are you going to be okay?” A hand draped back her hair. “Jesus, you're burning up. Let me call an ambulance.”

“No!” Melanie's fear of hospitals outweighed her fear of pain. She snapped her head up and promptly winced. “Give me …a minute.”

Her savior was not impressed. “Jesus, lady. You go walking with a seedy-looking stranger — what were you thinking?”

“Nothing, obviously.” Melanie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. The man was absolutely right, and she resented him for it. With no other choice, she finally risked opening her eyes.

It was hard to see in the dark. The gas lamp caught the man's features only in half wash, illuminating a square jaw, lean cheeks, and a nose that had been broken a few too many times. Thick dark hair, cut conservatively short. Lips pressed into a grim, unyielding line. She recognized his uniform. Great, she'd just been saved by one of her own waiters.

She closed her eyes again. Nothing like being caught at her worst by someone who could spread stories.

“Are you going to live?” the waiter asked sharply.

“Possibly. It would help if you'd lower your voice.”

He seemed contrite for a moment, then ruined the impression with his next words. “You shouldn't have let him drag you off like that. That was a stupid thing to do. Did he want money?”

“Who doesn't?” Melanie staggered to her feet, needing to move, to just …move. Unfortunately the ground shifted beneath her, the trees bobbed.

The waiter had to grab her arm. “You keep trying to stand and we're going to have to start a suicide watch for you. Vision?”

“White dots.”

“Hearing?”

“What?”

“Prescription meds, right?”

“In the house,” she murmured, and tried to take a step. Her legs collapsed. The waiter caught her. She floated limply on his arm, suddenly beyond caring.

Please, please let me go home!

No, honey. You don't want to go home. It's not safe…

The man muttered something about foolish women, then swung her up in his arms. She leaned against his shoulder. He felt solid and firm and strong. He smelled like Old Spice.

Melanie buried her face against his neck and let the world slip away.

SPECIAL AGENT DAVID Riggs was not happy. First, because he wasn't fond of rescuing damsels in distress. Second, because he was going to take a lot of heat for rescuing this particular damsel.

“We're eyes and ears only at this stage. This is a very delicate investigation. Don't fuck it up.”

Riggs was pretty sure Supervisory Agent Lairmore would consider following, intervening, and now carrying Melanie Stokes to be a fuckup. He was supposed to be shadowing her father. He was supposed to be overhearing Dr. Harper Stokes's confession of healthcare fraud that he would casually drop at his daughter's black-tie event, high on vodka tonics and friends. Uh-huh.

David shifted Melanie more comfortably in his arms and crossed the street. She was smaller than he would've guessed, having watched her dart around the house all evening like a firefly. She never slowed down and hardly even seemed to need a gasp of air. He'd watched her do everything from heft boxes of mangoes to mop up a spill. He'd also noted that she circled back to the living room half a dozen times to discreetly check up on her mother.

Now she was leaning her head against his shoulder in a way a woman hadn't done in a long, long time.

He didn't know what to make of that, so he turned his mind sharply to the file he had on the Stokes family and the few things it told him about Melanie Stokes. Daughter, adopted at the age of nine after being abandoned at the hospital where Dr. Stokes worked. A bit of a media buzz portraying her as a modern-day Orphan Annie. She'd graduated with a B.A. from Wellesley in '91 and was active in various charitable organizations. One of those I-want-to-give-something-back-to-the-world kind of people. Nine months earlier she'd become engaged to Dr. William Sheffield, her father's favorite right-hand man, then ended it a mere three months later without ever giving a reason. One of those my-business-is-my-business kind of people. She helped take care of her mother, who, as Larry Digger had pointed out, had never been the same since the murder of her first daughter. One of those you-mess-with-my-family-you-mess-with-me kind of people. Whatever.

Nothing in the files indicated that Melanie Stokes was the daughter of a serial killer, though David had found the reporter's list of coincidences extremely interesting. Then again, David couldn't decide what he thought of the reporter. For all his bluster, Larry Digger's hands had been shaking toward the end. The man had probably skipped his nightly pint of bourbon to make contact. No doubt he was drowning in it now.

Melanie moaned as the house lights hit them both.

“Don't throw up on me again,” David muttered.

“Wait…”

“
Are
you going to be sick?”

“Wait.” She gripped his jacket. “Don't …tell anyone,” she muttered intently. “Not …my family. I'll pay you…”

Her eyes were clear. Big and earnest and a startling color, somewhere between blue and gray.

“Yeah, well, sure. Whatever you want.”

She sank back down into his arms, seemingly satisfied. David pushed into the foyer and everyone spotted them at once.

“What's going on here?” Harper Stokes immediately strode toward them, William Sheffield in tow. Then Patricia Stokes came flying, sloshing orange juice on her designer dress.

“Oh, my God, Melanie.”

“Bedroom?” David asked, and ignoring everyone's gasps and questions, headed up the stairs. “She mentioned having a migraine.”

Harper swore. “She should have Fiorinal with codeine in the bathroom. Patricia?”

She darted ahead three flights and burst from her daughter's bathroom, pills and water in hand, just as David laid Melanie down on a rumpled bed. Immediately he was pushed aside by her family, Harper anxiously picking up his daughter's hand and checking her pulse. He took the water and held it to his daughter's pale lips to wash down the pills. Patricia followed with a damp towel, gently bathing Melanie's face. That left William Sheffield, who hovered self-consciously in the doorway. It wasn't clear to David why the former fiancé was even in the room.