In the Blood (5 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“Use your fork, not your fingers,” I say to Amy as she picks up a carrot from her plate.”

I notice Mom glance up from pushing her dinner around the plate with a fork, but she doesn’t speak. Not that I expect her to. Before it all happened, dinner time was really noisy. All of us talking about what had happened that day. Now it’s mainly silent apart from when Amy chatters. But for some reason, even she’s quiet most times we eat.

“Why?” Amy asks, her bottom lip jutting out in defiance. She picks up another carrot and pushes it into her mouth. I bite on the inside of my cheek to try and stop laughing. I mean, really, does it matter? Except I remember Mom and Dad both making sure I had good table manners.

“Because it’s not polite,” I reply, thinking that it’s not me who should be having this conversation with her. “Is it, Mom?”

“No. Use your fork, Amy; do as Jed tells you,” Mom says after a few seconds, looking at Amy and frowning slightly.

Amy picks up her fork and stabs at her food, managing to spear a carrot and eat it.

“We’re low on milk and bread. Are you going to the store tomorrow, Mom?” I ask in an attempt to engage her in further conversation. I don’t really know why I’m doing it. Just to see, maybe.

“No. You go. Take the money from my purse.”

I sigh with frustration. That clearly didn’t work. It’s ridiculous. She’s even worse now that the trial is on than she was before. I know we’ve had the press outside, but she can ignore them. It’s what I have to do every day. Anyway, they weren’t there today because the trial has been delayed. So I guess they’re off hounding someone else for a while.

“Whatever,” I mutter under my breath.

…

“What are you watching?” Amy asks as she skips into the den.

She throws herself next to me and wriggles around until she’s resting under my arm as it’s draped across the back of the couch. My hand drops lightly onto her head, and I ruffle her mass of curls, which bounce on her shoulders and fall haphazardly down her back. Despite Mom’s pleading, she refuses to have her hair cut, saying when she grows up she wants to be just like Rapunzel.

Freaky how Amy’s hair is red when the rest of us are dark. It makes you wonder if she has a different dad. That Mom had an affair.

“A rerun of last night’s game.”

The game holds no interest. I came in here after dinner to get away from the silence.

“Can we watch Nickelodeon?” Amy asks, in that cute voice which invariably gets her what she wants. At least it does from me. How can you resist it?
I’m not
sure if she realizes and uses it to her advantage, or if she has no idea. Are children intentionally manipulative at age five?

“After this quarter,” I reply, a pretend sigh escaping my lips.

“Okay.” She sighs, imitating me. “As long as it’s not too long.”

“It won’t be.” I glance down at her and smile. As she meets my gaze with those pale green eyes, so innocent and full of hope, a feeling of warmth rushes through me. She’s so special.

The only one of us untouched by everything.

“What’s a peedeeful?”

My eyes open wide in shock. What the fuck? I can’t believe what she just asked. How the hell does she even know that word? Someone’s said something to her. That’s the only answer. Someone’s told her all about Dad.

“I don’t know,” I reply, drawing in a long breath and trying to sound like she hadn’t asked anything out of the ordinary. Though my fists are tightly clenched and I’m fighting the urge to explode, my anger is so close to the surface.

I glance at Amy and see she’s frowning.

“Yes, you do,” she says insistently, nodding her head. “Mrs. Williams said there’s no hope for you in the future, Daddy being a peedeeful an’ all.”

Jesus. What was that woman thinking, saying that in front of Amy? How dare she? And I don’t need her spelling out the obvious, that there’s no hope for me. Dad’s legacy has seen to that.

“What are you doing listening to Mrs. Williams?” I retort, trying to deflect. “You know you’re not allowed out on your own.” Despite being so tense, I attempt to relax my body. Amy can’t know how much this is disturbing me or it will upset her.

“I was playing fairies by the hedge in the yard before dinner, and I heard her talking to Mark’s mom. They were staring at our house and making faces. That’s why I thought they were saying mean things about Daddy. And you shouldn’t say mean things about people, should you?” She bites on her bottom lip and shakes her head vehemently. If I wasn’t so angry, I’d think her reactions were really cute.

“No, you’re right. You shouldn’t.”

“They were both very naughty, weren’t they?” Amy replies, folding her arms tightly across her chest, just like Mom does, and nodding her head indignantly.

“Definitely.”

I can’t believe our neighbors think it’s okay to stand outside our house talking when anyone could overhear and get hurt. It’s just plain stupid. Poor Amy. She’s such a trusting kid. I can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting her.

Amy snuggles into me, and something flashes in my head making me draw away. Not because I have
those
sort of feelings toward her. Christ, of course I don’t. I’m not my father. It’s just that it made me wonder how he first started. He wasn’t born doing those filthy things. Somewhere down the line, he did it for the first time.

And did he have urges long before he did anything? Or did he act on the first urge he had? And what counts as an
urge
? Is it getting a stiffy? Or half a stiffy? Or no stiffy and just funny feelings inside?

Also, Dad went for boys and not girls. Although for some reason he left me alone. And does that make him gay? According to the research, loads of men who abused boys were involved in heterosexual relationships.

God, just thinking about doing him anything to a young boy or girl disgusts me so much I can’t even go there.

Although deep in my thought, I notice the quarter has finished, and I flick the channel over then go to stand up.

“Stay and watch with me,” Amy says, grinning.

She leaps onto my lap and spreads her arms over my chest in an attempt to stop me from leaving.

“Sorry, I’ve things to do in the garage,” I say, gently lifting her arms from me. “You‘ll have to watch on your own.”

“Please. Just for a little while,” she implores, her eyes wide and hopeful.

“No. Amy. No,” I snap, pushing her off my lap and onto the couch, then jumping up. “I told you, I’m busy.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and tears form in her eyes. Then she curls up in a ball at the end of the couch and wraps her arms around her legs, gently rocking.

I can’t take my eyes off her, and guilt stabs me, over and over. Guilt for being mean, guilt for letting her think Dad is this perfect person, guilt for not being able to protect her from the outside world.

Chapter Seventeen

Leaving Amy alone in the den crying, I hurry into the kitchen to see Mom. She’s sitting at our round glass-topped table in the center of the room, staring into space, a half glass of red wine in her hand, the rest of the bottle close to her. I inwardly sigh, the smell’s so inviting. I’m desperate for a drink. Anything to dull the constant ache in my bones the stress is causing.

“Mom,” I say, my tone spikier than intended.

She jumps at the sound of my voice.

“Yes?” She turns her head and looks at me, her gray eyes dull and listless.

“It’s Amy,” I say.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, suddenly looking concerned.

It makes me catch my breath. It’s like I have a glimpse into the past at
old mom.

Old mom
, who wanted to know everything I was doing all the time.

Old mom,
who, despite my protests, always gave me a kiss good-bye before I left for school every morning and another one before bed.

Old mom,
who baked my favorite chocolate muffins every week, and who wouldn’t mind how many friends I had around. There would always be enough dinner if they wanted to stay.

Old mom’s gone. And reliving the past isn’t gonna change the future. I shake my head to snap myself out of it.

“She’s been asking questions. People have been saying stuff.”

“Oh.” She sighs as if it’s all too much for her to deal with.

It’s like now she knows there’s nothing wrong with Amy, she’s totally switched off from the whole conversation. If you can call it a conversation.

Tempting as it is to tell her to get a grip because I won’t be here to bail her out forever, I don’t, because it would only end up in her retreating even more into herself, and I need her to get her shit together. If anything happens to me, she’s all Amy has.

I prop myself up against the granite counter, draw in a breath, and speak. “Amy heard the neighbors gossiping about Dad. She wants to know what a pedophile is.”

I lean in slightly and wait for a response. Except there isn’t one. Mom doesn’t say a word. She continues staring in my direction, but it’s like she’s forgotten I’m here and that she hasn’t heard a word I said.

“Amy heard the neighbors,” I repeat deliberately, unable to hide the frustration in my voice.

“You just said,” she says. “What do you expect me to do about it?” Her voice is brittle. “They’ve all got an opinion on your father. Why wouldn’t they, after living near us for so many years? Learning about him and remembering how close they were to him, and...,” her voice fades and she goes off into a world of her own, as if she’s being pulled into her memories.

I stand and watch for a while, but she remains silent.

Anger bubbles in the pit of my stomach and, before I have time to check myself, it erupts.

“For fuck’s sake, Mom,” I shout, thumping the counter so hard a mug on there shakes. “You act like this is only affecting you. Like somehow you’re the only one who counts and you deal with it by cutting yourself off from all of us.” I pause to try and gather some self-control. She might not be saying anything, but I know she’s listening. Her fists are clenched, for a start.

“You’ve got two children who need you,” I continue. “Well, one who really needs you, because I won’t be here forever. You have to be strong for Amy, because it’s not fair that she has to suffer just because of you.”

She sits back in the chair and lets out a long sigh. Am I getting through to her? I hope so. I really do.

“You don’t understand,” she says quietly, but with determination. “You think you do, but you don’t. And right now, you’re getting all I can give.” She shakes her head slowly while biting on her bottom lip.

My eyes bore into her. I want to understand what’s going on in her head. Really, I do. But what about Amy? And me? Don’t we count? What sort of mother can be so selfish that she doesn’t try to understand how it is for her children?

Chapter Eighteen

The doorbell rings and, looking up at the kitchen clock, I notice it’s only eight. What idiot calls this early on a Saturday morning? Sighing loudly, I rest my spoon on the edge of my bowl, push the chair out from behind me, and drag my feet to the front door.

I open the door and see two guys in dark suits standing there. For a moment I think they’re a couple of religious nuts wanting to convert me. They’ll be lucky. If I believed before all this happened, then I certainly wouldn’t now, that’s for sure.

One of them holds out a badge, which I glance at. The daylight adds to my thumping head, caused by a mix of not being able to sleep last night and the beers I downed after my
chat
with Mom.

“Detectives Spalding and Lee,” the badge holder says. “Is Mrs. Franklin in?”

The police for Mom. What’s happened? Judging by their facial expressions, they’re not bringing good news. Is it Dad? But what could it be? What if it’s her parents, Gran and Gramps? They might have been involved in an accident. Crap. I don’t think she can take any more.

“She’s in bed. Can you tell me? I’m her son.”

A look of hesitation fleetingly crosses his face before vanishing quickly. “Sorry,” Detective Spalding says. “We’d like to talk to your mom first.”

First? What does he mean by that? Who else do they want to speak to? Me?

“Okay.” I shrug, not pursuing it because there’s no point. And I don’t care. “I’ll go up and get her.” I leave them standing at the door.

“Mom,” I call, running up the stairs. No answer. Like that’s a surprise. “Mom,” I shout when I get to her bedroom. I knock hard on the door. Still no reply. I gingerly push it open and see she’s lying in bed, comforter pulled up under her chin, staring at the ceiling. “Mom, I’ve been calling you. The police are here. They want to talk to you.”

She sits up quickly, almost like a robot, and rubs her eyes. Her hair is sticking out at all angles. “What do they want?”

“I don’t know, they wouldn’t say. They said they want to talk to you.”

She sighs loudly and drops back down on the bed. “Okay, I’ll be there soon.”

I go downstairs and take a quick look in the den to check on Amy. She’s sitting on the floor, thumb in her mouth, watching
Finding Nemo
, her favorite movie. As it’s only half way through. Hopefully, she won’t come out while the police are here. “Hey, kid, you okay?” I ask. She glances up and nods. “Good. I’ll be back in a while.

The police have moved away from the door and are standing in the yard when I get back. “Mom won’t be long. Do you want to come inside?”

“Thanks,” Detective Spalding says.

They follow me into the living room and both sit down on our dark green leather couch. I sit opposite and stare at the floor. The silence is so awkward I can hardly breathe. Finally, Mom appears, hair unbrushed and wearing the usual clothes, so I’m not sure why it took her this long to get here.

Both police officers stand immediately. “Mrs. Franklin, I’m Detective Spalding and this is Detective Lee. Please, come and sit down.” The detective gestures to the chair next to mine.

Mom looks from them to me, her eyes giving nothing away. Then she perches on the edge of the chair. “Yes,” she says quietly.

“We’d like to speak to Jed.”

“Me?” I retort. “Why do you have to ask Mom when I’m right here?”

“Although legally there’s no requirement, because you’re underage and living at home, we wanted to speak to your mom first,” Spalding replies.

Underage, that’s a joke. I might not be eighteen, but I’m the one holding this family together. If they knew the state Mom’s in most of the time, they wouldn’t bother.

“What is it?” Mom asks.

“We’ve had an off the record chat with your husband’s lawyer. Your husband has implied that he might be willing to change his plea if Jed will visit him.”

My stomach plummets to the floor, and I swallow hard. What the fuck’s he playing at?

“No,” I snap. “He’s going to be found guilty anyway. I won’t be blackmailed into going to see him.”

I can’t believe Dad would resort to tactics like that. I’m not his puppet. Just because I went to court doesn’t mean he can force me to talk to him. How could I, knowing all those things he’s done?

“It’s more complicated than that,” Spalding replies.

Yeah, why doesn’t that surprise me? Everything Dad did was complicated. Like whenever we went on holiday the car had to be packed in a certain way. If it wasn’t just so, he’d empty the car and start again. And as for his CD collection, it was catalogued alphabetically, chronologically, and by genre. I just accepted it as normal. And, for him, it was. I understand, because that’s how I am with my stuff, too. But that’s beside the point.

“How?” I ask.

“He’s implied that he’ll tell us where some other bodies are hidden if you do see him.”

Other children? He killed other children and now he’s bargaining with me. What a fucking asswipe.

“Mom?” I plead, glancing across at her deadpan face.

I can’t think straight, my head’s a mass of whirring thoughts. Just once, Mom, help me. Please.

“I don’t know. It’s up to you,” she finally says, with a small shrug.

How can she leave me to decide something like this? Surely she must have an opinion. Suddenly, it’s like all the fight has gone out of me. What an idiot I am, thinking that she’ll step up to the plate when something difficult happens. That sort of thing only happens in movies. And we’re sure as hell not in one of those.

“How long do I have to decide?” I ask Spalding.

“We’d like to go this afternoon, if you’re willing. It’s your decision, but we strongly urge you to agree. If there are other children buried out there, we want to find them. For their families.”