Grave Secret - Charlaine Harris [85]
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll call you if I need help, I promise.”
“Well . . . okay. I do have some readings to work on this afternoon. But my cell phone’s always charged up and in my pocket. ’Bye, Tolliver. Mr. Lang.” And with a last hard look directly into my eyes, Manfred was out the door, walking swiftly down the hall without a backward glance.
“What a flake,” said Matthew. “Tolliver, you hang out much with people like that? He must be a friend of yours, Harper.”
“He is a friend of mine,” I said. “His grandmother was, too.” I felt really strange, kind of out of myself. Matthew was sitting beside Tolliver on the couch, so I took the chair. I crossed my legs and wrapped my hands around my top knee. “It was really messy outside this morning, wasn’t it, Matthew?”
He looked surprised. “Yeah, traffic was a bitch. It always is in Dallas. Raining, too.”
“Did you have errands to run this morning?”
“Oh, a few things I had to do. I have to be at work at two thirty.”
Was he really working at McDonald’s? Or was he meeting one of the Joyces? Had he always been in their pay?
And the man I loved most in the world, the only person I truly loved, was this man’s son.
That might bother Tolliver, but it didn’t make any difference to me. More than most people, I understand the difference between the children and the parents. I had been brought up by the same woman who’d neglected her two little girls so much that her older children had had to take care of them.
I liked to think I’d turned out a little better than my mother.
And yet, if I killed Matthew Lang, would I be any better than my mother?
Well, at least I’d have made my decision with a clear head.
That’s hardly true, said my saner self. Aren’t you so choked with hatred that you can’t even swallow?
True. But wasn’t it better to kill someone when you really hated them? Was there a virtue to waiting until you were calm and collected?
I’d certainly have a better chance of getting away with it. And of living a life with Tolliver, rather than getting friendly with a bunch of women in prison. That was how my mother had lived out her life . . . and I wasn’t like my mother. I wasn’t.
I’m sure my expression was strange while I was going through this process, though it wasn’t really continuous, but flashing through my head in flickers.
Judging by Tolliver’s face, he clearly wanted to ask me if I was all right, but just as clearly he didn’t want to do that in front of Matthew. Matthew was sitting turned toward Tolliver so his back was mostly to me, which was a good thing.
I tried to blank out my mind so I could listen to them talk. Matthew was asking Tolliver if he’d ever thought of finishing college, if he’d consider enrolling in one of the many colleges around the Dallas area when we moved here. He thought Tolliver would be able to find a good job if he got his degree, and then he wouldn’t need to live off of me anymore.
Trust Matthew to plant a poisonous spin on our relationship. Tolliver looked shocked. “I don’t live off of Harper,” he said.
“You don’t have a job other than traveling around with her while she does . . . whatever she does,” his dad said.
“I make sure she gets there to do that job,” Tolliver said. I realized it wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation; it was just that none of the previous times he’d had it were in my hearing. I was almost shocked out of my shell of hatred. “If I weren’t with Harper, she couldn’t do that job at all.”
“He’s absolutely right,” I said. “I get sick when I work, and without Tolliver, no telling what would happen to me.” I tried to make my words a simple statement of fact. I didn’t want to sound defensive when there was nothing to defend.
“You can tell yourself that,” Matthew said to Tolliver, ignoring me, “but you know a man’s got to make his own way in the world.”
“Like you did?” I said. “You made your own way by selling drugs, by letting your wife auction me off to the highest