My Lost Daughter (45 page)

Had she imagined what had transpired between her and Alex last night? She must be crazy just like everyone thought. If she could just get out of Whitehall without going to prison, she would never complain about law school again, never let some idiot guy exploit her, and she would appreciate all the sacrifices her mother had made to pay for her education and give her a good life. How could she not respect a person who had killed to protect her?

Something flickered in the back of her mind, something she had done everything in her power to suppress. And it was big, a far more serious sin than taking money from her mother. She was a
demanding, selfish bitch, used to getting everything she wanted from her parents. Although her mother had made every attempt to discipline her and teach her the right thing to do, up until his death, her father had spoiled her to the point that she treated him like a slave. Didn't he know the monster he had created?

Memories from a day shortly before her father's death flooded her mind. Because of her, an innocent young man was dead. She tried to push the memories back, but being strapped to a bed with nothing to do but think made her powerless to stop them.

2000
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

“Dad,” Shana called out from her bedroom. “Where's my ice cream?”

John Forrester was asleep in a brown leather recliner in the two-bedroom duplex he shared with his eighteen-year-old daughter. Located on a tree-lined street, the exterior was constructed out of stucco, the pale pink paint cracked and faded. The yard consisted of a small patch of grass. Even though the living room was sparsely furnished, it appeared cramped and cluttered. A green velvet sofa was backed up to a large picture window overlooking the street. Shana had insisted that her father rent a place with a fireplace, which limited their wall space. If they hadn't placed the sofa in front of the window, they wouldn't be able to see the television. The only other furniture was an oak coffee table, the top littered with glasses, newspapers, and stacks of unopened mail.

Dressed in jeans and a black tank top, Shana left her desk to see why her father hadn't answered. “Wake up,” she said, shaking his shoulder. “You promised you'd go out for ice cream. The chicken you made tonight tasted like an armadillo.”

“What time is it?” he asked, looking at his watch. “Why didn't you wake me up before now?”

“Because I was busy writing a paper. Can't you get rid of all this trash? You know I can't concentrate when the house is a mess. A cluttered house is symbolic of a cluttered mind.”

John stared up at her, his eyes groggy from sleep. Up until her first day in college,
Shana's room had been a pigsty. Now the pendulum had swung the opposite direction. The duplex had to be kept in perfect order. He stood, tucked his shirt in, and stepped into his loafers. At five-nine, he wasn't a large man. His daughter stood five-nine, only an inch shorter than her mother. If Shana hadn't possessed Lily's intelligence and drive, she would have had no difficulty earning her living as a model. Her red hair fell to the center of her back, but tonight she had it tied up in a ponytail on the top of her head.

“Baskin-Robbins might be closed,” he told her, brushing his hand over the top of his head. The only hair he had left was a fringe around the base of his skull. To make matters worse, his hair had turned gray during the past year and he now had to have it colored twice a month. “Don't worry,” he said, picking his car keys up off the coffee table. “Ralph's is open all night. Peanut butter and chocolate, right?”

“I don't want ice cream from the grocery store,” Shana protested. “I missed so many classes last week, I had to stay up until three o'clock this morning studying. Please, Dad, don't go back on your word.” She grabbed one of the glasses off the coffee table and brought it to her nose. “Were you drinking this afternoon? Is that why you burned our dinner?”

“Of course not,” he said, snatching the empty glass out of her hand. “One of my deals fell through. I was trying to see if I could salvage it. That's why I burned your dinner.”

“Maybe you should get a regular job.” Shana picked up the remote to lower the volume. Her father watched TV incessantly, and she was starting to suspect he was losing his hearing. He kept the volume at such deafening levels, it made it almost impossible for her to study, one of the reasons she stayed up so late. “Mom says you're not cut out for real estate. She thinks you'd be better off getting a job that paid you an hourly wage. You know, something you could count on every month.”

John bristled. “When did you talk to your mother?”

“Yesterday.” Shana scooped up the old newspapers and dumped them in the trash can in the kitchen, and then walked the short distance back to the living room. “Mom's already paying my tuition. It isn't right for her to pay for everything, especially with all the money I've been giving you. If she finds out you're driving my car without insurance, she'll be furious. It's not like she's rich or anything. She's a district attorney, Dad. She works for the county.”

“She's makes more money than I do,” he said bitterly. “Why didn't she go into private practice? I'll never understand why she wanted to be a DA.”

Shana hated being trapped between two individuals who were constantly arguing. People thought divorce affected only young children but they were wrong. As much as she loved her parents, the situation was sometimes maddening. She felt like a lawyer forced to defend both the criminal as well as the victim. “Mom's worked hard all her life. I'm proud that she's a district attorney again. She didn't belong in that boring job at the appellate court. All day she was locked in a little room trying to find out if a judge screwed up. She's too good in the courtroom. Because of her, tons of violent criminals are in prison.”

“Lily could have done the same thing in Los Angeles.” John's jaw protruded like a petulant child's. “You could have seen her more often. Then I wouldn't have to listen to her complain that I monopolize all your time.”

“Can't you please stop it?” Shana shouted. “After the years she spent in L.A., Mom wanted to be near the beach. She had to take whatever position was available, anyway. You're talking stupid, Dad. I'm too tired tonight to listen to this crap.” She turned to head back to her room and then stopped. “Hurry and make it to Baskin-Robbins before they close. I bought all those groceries yesterday. I lied and told Mom I needed the extra money for schoolbooks.”

“Why didn't you buy ice cream?”

Shana flashed her dynamite smile, displaying a perfect row of white teeth. “Come on, Dad. You don't like ice cream from the grocery store any more than I do. Most of the time it's burned from the freezer.” She licked her lips. “I know what you want . . . a great big sundae with nuts and whipped cream. Doesn't that sound yummy?”

John lumbered out the front door, climbed into his daughter's Mustang, and backed out of the driveway. Making Shana happy was the focal point of his life, even if she did have a tendency to treat him like an errand boy. He had given up on women years ago. Now that he was in his fifties, certain things weren't as important. After college Shana would be entering law school. He had no doubt that she would become a successful attorney. And she certainly wasn't going to follow in her mother's footsteps if he had anything to do with it, working for peanuts as a county prosecutor. He envisioned her in one of those skyscrapers down on Wilshire, where all the high-powered lawyers had their offices. Those were the people who raked in the big bucks. If Shana played her cards right, she might even get her own TV show someday.

Pulling up at a stop sign, John glanced over at one of his listings, a three-bedroom fixer-upper with a swimming pool. When he'd decided to get his real estate license, he had anticipated earning a large income with a minimal amount of effort. Instead, he
spent every day jabbering on the phone or chauffeuring people around. Resigning from his job with the government might have been a mistake, but there was nothing else he could have done. He ran into some financial trouble a few years back and cashing out his retirement had been his only option.

Outside of his relationship with Shana, his future didn't hold a great deal of promise. He had to get his career as a real estate agent off the ground or he would end up living the remainder of his life on Social Security. The day before, he had suffered the embarrassment of having to call Lily and tell her the truth: that he couldn't afford to continue paying the rent on the duplex. The fact that she had immediately told Shana made him furious. No man wanted to look like a failure in the eyes of his daughter.

A black Mercedes came from out of nowhere, causing him to swerve to avoid a collision. “Idiot!” he yelled out the window. Behind the wheel of the Mercedes, a pretty blonde had a cell phone to her ear. “Try driving instead of talking.”

Before the divorce, John and Lily had owned their own home. Maybe it wasn't a palace but it was certainly better than where he was living now. He missed his old yard, the backyard barbecues, chatting with his neighbors. While Lily devoted herself to prosecuting criminals, he had coached Shana's softball team, prepared their meals, and dropped whatever he was doing to rush to her school when she got sick. Lily was responsible for what had happened to his daughter. She had refused to listen to him. If she had quit the county and opened her own law practice, she wouldn't have lured a criminal home and thrown all their lives into chaos.

Shana's face flashed in his mind, the disgusted way she looked at him. So what if he had suffered a financial setback or needed a little help making ends meet? Why hadn't Lily kept her mouth shut? He had begged her not to tell Shana. But no, she had jumped on the opportunity to degrade him. And his ex-wife was far from perfect. He knew things about her that could send her to prison. Unlike Lily, though, he didn't run around telling people. “Bitch,” he mumbled, wishing he had the money to stop for a stiff drink.

When he reached the corner of Melrose and Santa Monica Boulevard, he spotted the pink-and-white neon sign for Baskin-Robbins. The clock on his dashboard read 8:55. He punched the accelerator and careened into the parking lot, missing the driveway and running up over the curb. He couldn't continue to drive forward as there was a large metal container in front of him, a receptacle for people to place items in that they wanted to donate to Goodwill. Throwing the car into reverse, he revved the engine, wanting to make certain the Mustang cleared the curb.

“Shit,” he said, hearing a loud thud.

Slamming on the brakes he looked in the rearview mirror, certain he must have struck a tree. The area was so dark, all he could see were the lights in the office building across the street. He rubbed his neck, wondering if he could put in a claim for whiplash, then reminded himself that he was no longer insured. After his DWI arrest, his premiums had skyrocketed and he had been forced to sell his car.

He got out to survey the damage and saw a body on the ground, the legs twisted at an unnatural angle. A faint voice pleaded, “Help . . . me.”

John stood frozen. He couldn't breathe, think, or move. He watched in horror as the young man's eyes closed and his head flopped to one side. “No!” he shouted, falling to his knees. “Please, God, don't let him be dead.”

There was no blood, at least none he could see. Positioning his face over the man's mouth, he felt a whisper of breath on his cheek. He reached toward his legs, certain they were broken, and then yanked his hands back as if he were reaching into a flame. What if he regained consciousness? He couldn't let the man see his face. “Are you satisfied now?” he said, blaming Lily. “This would have never happened if you hadn't upset me.”

He had to remain calm, figure out a game plan.

John decided the man must be a pedestrian, as there were no other cars in the parking lot. Dressed in beige khaki pants and a white T-shirt, the victim appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties. His dark hair was long and unkempt, but there was an incredible softness to his features, causing John to question if the person might be female. To make certain, he bent down again and lifted his T-shirt. When he failed to detect breasts, he decided his first assumption was accurate. Regardless, the young man was astonishingly beautiful. A light seemed to emanate from his face.

John rocked back and forth on his knees, overwrought with emotion. How could he call the police? He had been driving too fast. He hadn't been paying attention. The worst was that Shana had been right when she had accused him of drinking. After losing the only real estate contract he had written in months, he had consoled himself with alcohol. “What have I done? Dear Lord, what have I done?”

THURSDAY, JANUARY 21
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

Fifteen minutes after the police officers left, Lee came in to place the restraints back on Shana's wrists. “You know these aren't necessary, Lee. Betsy was wrong to accuse me. I was trying to save Norman's life.”

“I'm only following orders, honey,” Lee said, her hands trembling as she fastened the straps.

“Look at me, Lee. Do you believe I killed Norman?”

Lee let her hands fall limp at her sides. “No,” she said weakly. “Someone made a terrible mistake. They made it a long time ago.”

“Who made a mistake?” Shana said. “For the love of God, tell me, the police are going to charge me with murder. Do you want that on your conscience?”

A slender woman in her early forties, Lee had never married. She'd been severely abused as a child, and still bore the scars on her body. “I need this job. I took in two foster children five years ago. Because I wanted Kate and Jacob to know how much I loved them, I legally adopted them last year. I now have to support them without any help from the state.”