Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [22]
“No, wait a minute. We’ve received a letter—a bomb threat. We have to know—did you send it? Did you?” Lex shook her a little, instinctively trying to break through her agitated withdrawal.
“Let go of me! I didn’t send anybody anything!” Suddenly Angela was grateful she had burned both copies of her letter to the mayor. There was no way they were going to pin this on her. No way! She had already said too much. “Let me go!” She pulled away and ran out of the room.
Heather looked at Lex, her face worried. “She’s so different from when I saw her.”
“How so?”
“She’s like a child—an angry, frightened child. Not herself somehow . . .” Heather’s voice trailed off.
“How well do you know her?” Felex asked.
Heather shrugged. “Not at all, really. I don’t know why I said that.”
“I’ll take it for a valid observation.”
“Lex, I can’t help believing her.”
“I do, too. Stoned on tranquilizers and she told it like she was there, had actually seen it happen. She’s so damn scared she doesn’t know what to do. That hardness—it’s all part of her cover. She couldn’t handle it without the front.”
“She could be right. I told you I believed her . . .”
“Easy, take it easy.” Lex saw that Heather was begging him to reassure her, to tell her it was all a drug-induced hallucination, but he couldn’t. “I’m sure Angela didn’t send that bomb threat. I’ll go one step further and say she doesn’t know who did.”
Heather rubbed her temples as she watched Lex’s face.
“Angela seemed to think her mother would be here soon,” he continued. “I say we wait for her. I’ll call Eric Summers and tell him what happened. Okay?”
“Okay. Where do you think Angela went? Shouldn’t we have kept her here?”
“My best guess? She’ll run for a while, but she’ll come back to us eventually. No matter what she says, she can’t walk away from this and forget it. She’s got to try to do something. She hurts too much not to try. Tranquilizers aren’t her answer and she knows it.”
Sylvia Steinhart turned the Lincoln Continental onto the New Jersey Turnpike in a state of controlled fury. The huge car hummed along, as carefully maintained as she was. “Wait till I get my hands on Murray,” she muttered. “Angela doesn’t get this . . . strange behavior from my side of the family. When I get my hands on her I’m literally going to choke the life from her!”
Irma had tried to tell her that the pipes had broken, but Sylvia knew better. It wasn’t cold enough for pipes to break, and even if it were, the pipes were heavily insulated.
The damage was done, and it had to be extensive. Angela’s temper tantrums were out of control. God knows, Sylvia had done everything she could to give her daughter a proper upbringing, certainly more than her own mother had provided and more than most of her friends gave their children. She’d done all the required things, hired all the right caregivers, but it hadn’t been enough. Nothing was ever enough for Angela. She needed more—much more.
The first psychiatrist Sylvia had sought out had suggested family counseling; three sessions a week to start. Sylvia had nipped that idea in the bud right away. Who had time to just sit around and talk? Murray certainly didn’t. He had a business to run. And she certainly didn’t. Stupid shrink. He must have got his license to practice from a mail-order magazine.
Sylvia had been more careful in selecting the second psychiatrist, making sure he was more on her wavelength before taking Angela in to see him. He had suggested that Angela was simply seeking attention and had reassured Sylvia that Angela’s problems