Grave Secret - Charlaine Harris [84]
I had suspected the boys at our high school, particularly Cameron’s last boyfriend, who hadn’t taken their breakup with good grace. I’d suspected Laurel and Matthew’s druggie friends. I’d suspected a random stranger, any stranger, who’d seen Cameron walking home alone and decided to rob her/rape her/abduct her. I’d suspected the guys who’d sometimes blown wolf whistles at us when we’d been out together. I’d constructed hundreds of scenarios. Some of them were wildly implausible. But they all gave me a possible answer to the terrible mystery of the disappearance of my sister, an answer that didn’t involve feeling even more pain from another personal loss.
I felt a deep conviction that even if I couldn’t see the connection, even if it seemed incredible, two such incidents could not happen that close together without there being some kind of connection, not if the same man was involved in both incidents.
Was I grossly overreacting? I tried to think, though my brain was cloudy with rage. My stepfather knew something about the Joyces. He knew enough to know the name of the doctor who’d “treated” Mariah Parish.
He knew. And I believed he also knew what had happened to my sister. All these years, he’d kept it from me.
I felt it in my bones.
I couldn’t go into the living room and grab him by the neck. He was too strong for me. Tolliver wouldn’t let me kill his father. Probably even Manfred, who had no personal stake in the matter, would feel obliged to intervene. But Tolliver was weak and injured, and Manfred would leave sooner or later.
It took all the self-control I could muster to break away from seriously considering how to kill my stepfather.
For one thing, it would be wrong. Maybe. For another thing, a much more important thing, I didn’t know enough. I wanted to find my sister’s final resting place. I wanted to be sure I knew what had happened to Cameron.
To that end, I had to be prepared to tolerate Matthew’s presence.
I worked on it, there alone in the dark. I schooled myself to be strong. And then I got up and turned on the light and washed my face, as if I could wash the new knowledge off of it and return to what had been my happy ignorance.
I went out into the living room, having to move slowly. I felt I’d been kicked in the ribs—fragile, and sore with the suspicion and loathing I carried inside.
I could tell immediately that Matthew wanted Manfred to leave so he could talk to his son alone, and Manfred had not wanted to leave until he spoke to me again. He looked from Matthew to me as I came into the room, and he shuddered. Whatever Manfred saw in me, neither Tolliver nor Matthew could see. That was a good thing.
“Manfred,” I said. “I’m sorry I flaked out on you. Thanks for going with me today.”
“No problem,” Manfred said, leaping to his feet with an alacrity that told me how anxious he was to get out of this hotel room. “Would you like to go out and get a cup of coffee with me? Or do you need me to take you to the store? Got enough . . . potato chips?” He was reaching, there. We never ate potato chips. I felt a smile twitch at the corners of my mouth. “Thanks, Manfred.” I debated quickly inside myself. Manfred wanted to talk to me about what I now realized was our mutual recognition of Matthew, but I didn’t know yet what I was going to do. Better to avoid the tête-à-tête until I had made a plan. “I guess I’ll stick around here in case Tolliver needs me.”
I hugged him, acting on an impulse. His bones felt small as my arms circled his body. Somewhat hesitantly, he hugged me back. He was floundering under the psychic image he’d gotten from me. If he could see anything like the way I felt, then he