Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [71]
“Maybe someone from the compound.” Genna hurried the girl toward the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street.
“They’re not. At least, I don’t think they are.” Julianne had paused to study them. “I’ve never seen any of those men before.”
“Well, I’m sure Daniel knows them, or he wouldn’t be talking to them. Come on, Julianne. The diner is another block up the street. It’s freezing, and I’m starving. Have you thought about what you might like?”
Minutes later, Genna and Julianne were seated in the diner, shaking off the cold. Every few minutes, Julianne looked out the window, as if watching for someone.
“Is something wrong?” Genna finally asked.
“I was just wondering if Daniel . . . if he was in some kind of trouble.” Julianne looked up and down the street.
“I’m sure if he’d been in trouble he’d have said something while we were crossing the street.”
“Can I bring you a nice hot cup of hot chocolate, honey?” The tall blonde waitress appeared with their menus. “It’s pretty nippy out there today.”
“Thank you.” Julianne smiled. “I love hot chocolate.”
“You, miss?” the waitress asked Genna.
“Coffee would be fine. Thanks.”
They were ready with their sandwich orders when the waitress returned with their hot drinks.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been in a restaurant,” Julianne told Genna. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You don’t travel with your father when he leaves the compound?”
“No. He doesn’t like me to leave. He didn’t want me to come today,” Julianne said sheepishly.
“What does he think will happen to you?”
“I think he thinks I’m going to be kidnapped or something.” Julianne shrugged.
“Why would he think that?” Genna asked.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged again. “Maybe he doesn’t really.”
“You mentioned your mother earlier. . . .”
“She died when I was little.” Julianne tore a tiny hole in the corner of her paper napkin.
“How little?” Genna asked.
“I was five.”
“That’s old enough to remember her,” Genna said. “I hope you have some good memories of her.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do, remember things, that is. But when I ask my father, he says I should just put it all out of my mind. That it was a long time ago and none of that matters now.”
“I lost my mother when I was nine or ten,” Genna confided. “And it still matters.”
“Did she die, too?”
“Eventually.” Even now, Genna found it hard to talk about her past, about the parents who abandoned her, about the life she’d led up until the time the state had placed her in the foster care of Patsy Wheeler. Genna recalled that time as one of fear and uncertainty, until she realized that with Patsy, she’d found her home. Her heart ached for Julianne, for all she would go through during the coming weeks and months. Before the next forty-eight hours had passed, Julianne would lose one parent and find another. She prayed that the shock wouldn’t devastate the child.
“You were old enough to remember your mother, too,” Julianne was saying.
“Yes. I remember her.” Not always fondly, Genna thought of the weak woman who had permitted a tyrannical husband to rule their lives with an iron fist and who had made fire and brimstone a part of their everyday lives.
“I guess your dad raised you, too,” Julianne continued.
“No. No, he died, too.” Why go into that now? Genna mentally shrugged it off. She was grateful when the waitress appeared with their sandwiches.
“I love potato chips.” Julianne grinned as she munched a chip. “We almost never have them at the compound. Mrs. Miller says they’re fatty and greasy and unwholesome. That’s her favorite word. Unwholesome.”
Genna bit into a pickle and wondered if Mrs. Miller, the cook, knew of her boss’s penchant for young girls. Now that was unwholesome.
“Can I get you some more hot chocolate?” asked Jayne, the waitress.
Julianne nodded. “Thank you.” She turned and looked out the window. “Oh-oh. Look at the snow. . . .”
“It is starting to come down, isn’t it?” Genna bit the inside of her lower lip, wondering if the snow would help or hinder their escape.
“I wonder where