Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [36]
He’d put the letter in her mailbox after she went to bed. Hope she checked it early. He could call her, tell her it was there.
Less than ten minutes later, Claire emerged from the house once again. She’d changed from her slacks and blazer to black jeans and a lacy tank top. As she walked to her car in spike heels, she pulled a purple T-shirt over her head. She drove away, speeding through a yellow light and turning onto the on-ramp of the freeway a block over.
Now. What are you waiting for?
He crossed the street, trying not to walk too fast or too slow. His heart pounded. She was his daughter, but she also believed he was a killer. He had to accept the fact that she might turn him in or set him up.
He expected that she’d have an alarm, and was surprised when he didn’t encounter one. Maybe she didn’t have one because of her animals. Perhaps he could stay a little longer.
The dogs in the back barked. There were three or four. A golden retriever gazed through the glass pane on the back door, tongue hanging out, looking as if he’d much rather lick an intruder than attack him. Claire always had a soft spot for animals. Lydia had been severely allergic to dogs and they’d never had one.
An orange and white cat wound around Tom’s legs and he bent to scratch the animal behind the ears, tears burning behind dry eyes.
Bill Kamanski, a detective and the father of a good rookie cop Tom had trained, had become Claire’s guardian. Tom didn’t want to go to prison and leave his daughter with anyone. He’d wanted to be her father, dammit! He’d raised her, he loved her. He hadn’t killed anyone . . .
After sentencing, but before Tom was transported to Folsom Prison, Bill met with him in lockup. Reality had finally hit Tom. He was going to be in prison for the rest of his life—until he was executed. He had appeals, but for the first time since he was arrested, he realized he might never be free again.
“Tom.” Bill sat across from him, his face hard but his eyes compassionate.
“What do you want?” he’d asked. This man already had his daughter. Tom was no longer a father to Claire; the court had given—with Tom’s reluctant approval—custody of his only child to a virtual stranger.
Not completely true. Claire had known Dave Kamanski for three years. Tom liked Dave, but he was too young to accept the responsibility. His father Bill was a widower, owned a home, and was a respected member of law enforcement.
There really had been no other choice. Lydia had never gotten along with her sister Joyce, who lived three thousand miles away in Boston. How could Tom send Claire cross-country to an aunt she’d seen maybe three times in her life?
“I wanted you to know that I’ll take good care of Claire,” Bill said. “I’ll do everything I can to protect her from the media, to give her as normal a life as possible.”
Tom said nothing. He wanted to hit someone, rage against the injustice of being sent to death row an innocent man. But he couldn’t. No one had believed him during the trial, no one would believe him now.
He had wanted desperately to testify on his behalf, but he knew that would have been foolish. The D.A. wanted him on the stand, and anything he said they’d twist and turn to set his temper off. That’s what they wanted to do, his attorney insisted. And Tom became convinced his attorney was right. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have made a difference. He’d never know.
“This is hard for you,” said Bill. “No matter what happened, I know you love your daughter.”
Tom’s voice cracked. “Don’t—don’t talk about me to her. She already believes I’m guilty. Don’t rub it in.”
“I won’t say anything negative about you to Claire, Tom. I promise.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Claire doesn’t want to see you.”
Tom had feared that. The court had allowed a thirty-minute visitation with his daughter before his transfer. But his daughter didn’t want to come.
“That may change, and I