when Jeremy and I came to live with Ames. I thought Ames might decide Jeremy and I were responsible for all the trouble and get ridof us. Everything had been so peaceful and loving in our home. The Prince house was fairly crackling with tension.”
“Tension Dara probably wrote about in the diary.” Streak picked up the plastic bag and carefully slid out the book. “Think we should get started?” Christine nodded and he pushed the diary toward her as he leaned back in his chair. “You begin. Then I’ll take over.”
Christine opened the cover. The first page was covered with Dara’s familiar large, loopy handwriting done in red ink. Christine read aloud: “ ‘I received this diary on December twenty-fifth, another merry, scary Christmas in the Prince home. Here we are, all acting like we’re a loving family when most of us hate each other. But that’s nothing new. What’s new is how I feel.’ ”
Christine’s gaze darted ahead and then she paled. Streak leaned forward. “What does it say?”
She drew a deep breath and read, “ ‘I feel like someone wants me dead.’ ”
2
Michael Winter lay staring at the ceiling. He’d been going since five in the morning, it was now after midnight, and he still couldn’t sleep. His eyes felt gravelly, his legs ached from all the walking he’d done, and he was more tired than he had been for a year. But his thoughts churned and he couldn’t sleep.
“Well, hell,” he muttered, flinging back his sheet and blanket. He walked barefoot into the kitchen, got a beer out of the refrigerator, popped open the can, and drank deeply. Its cold bite felt remarkably satisfying. Michael rarely drank, but he realized he’d been craving a beer since he came home three hours earlier.
He wandered into the living room, picked up the television remote, and faced the twenty-five-inch screen. Immediately he saw a woman with bared breasts the size and shape of grapefruits wearing a nurse’s cap as she climbed into a delighted elderly patient’s hospital bed. “I can make you feel lots better then those old doctors can,” she cooed.
Michael tapped buttons on the remote. Suddenly a hot police pursuit was in progress, the cop’s car spinning wildly around corners, the cop looking iron-jawed and deadly. On another channel, well-dressed teens screamed their way down an alley, fleeing from some kind of roaring creature with tentacles. “One more try,” Michael muttered. A young woman burst into view, frolicking through a meadow and tossing her long auburn hair. Apparently, her fabric softener had thrown her into a fit of ecstasy. Michael’s mouth opened slightly as she turned, flashed a brilliant smile, and batted her lashes over heart-stopping large green eyes. “Good God, it’s Lisa,” he said as his ex-wife beamed to all the world.
He and Lisa had been divorced for almost two years, yet seeing her smiling at him in the night still shook him, still made him feel empty. She’d written to him about getting the commercial, but he’d forgotten. Or rather, he’d purposely blocked the idea that he might see her on television. She looked so young. Too young to have been the mother of a two-year-old girl who’d drowned. The woman on television looked like she’d never known a moment of unhappiness, much less the shattering trauma that had torn them apart.
The commercial had vanished to be replaced with a doctor yelling to people only inches away, “Three hundred joules! Clear!
Clear!
” Michael didn’t see him. He still saw Lisa skipping through the meadow and remembered how she’d looked when they met five years ago inLos Angeles. She’d rear-ended him at a stoplight. He’d thrown his car into park and flung out of it, ready to blast the ignorant jackass who shouldn’t even have a license to drive. And there she’d stood with her long hair and big eyes, looking contrite, afraid, and absolutely beautiful. He’d smiled and said, “Looks like we’ve had a little
“Tension Dara probably wrote about in the diary.” Streak picked up the plastic bag and carefully slid out the book. “Think we should get started?” Christine nodded and he pushed the diary toward her as he leaned back in his chair. “You begin. Then I’ll take over.”
Christine opened the cover. The first page was covered with Dara’s familiar large, loopy handwriting done in red ink. Christine read aloud: “ ‘I received this diary on December twenty-fifth, another merry, scary Christmas in the Prince home. Here we are, all acting like we’re a loving family when most of us hate each other. But that’s nothing new. What’s new is how I feel.’ ”
Christine’s gaze darted ahead and then she paled. Streak leaned forward. “What does it say?”
She drew a deep breath and read, “ ‘I feel like someone wants me dead.’ ”
2
Michael Winter lay staring at the ceiling. He’d been going since five in the morning, it was now after midnight, and he still couldn’t sleep. His eyes felt gravelly, his legs ached from all the walking he’d done, and he was more tired than he had been for a year. But his thoughts churned and he couldn’t sleep.
“Well, hell,” he muttered, flinging back his sheet and blanket. He walked barefoot into the kitchen, got a beer out of the refrigerator, popped open the can, and drank deeply. Its cold bite felt remarkably satisfying. Michael rarely drank, but he realized he’d been craving a beer since he came home three hours earlier.
He wandered into the living room, picked up the television remote, and faced the twenty-five-inch screen. Immediately he saw a woman with bared breasts the size and shape of grapefruits wearing a nurse’s cap as she climbed into a delighted elderly patient’s hospital bed. “I can make you feel lots better then those old doctors can,” she cooed.
Michael tapped buttons on the remote. Suddenly a hot police pursuit was in progress, the cop’s car spinning wildly around corners, the cop looking iron-jawed and deadly. On another channel, well-dressed teens screamed their way down an alley, fleeing from some kind of roaring creature with tentacles. “One more try,” Michael muttered. A young woman burst into view, frolicking through a meadow and tossing her long auburn hair. Apparently, her fabric softener had thrown her into a fit of ecstasy. Michael’s mouth opened slightly as she turned, flashed a brilliant smile, and batted her lashes over heart-stopping large green eyes. “Good God, it’s Lisa,” he said as his ex-wife beamed to all the world.
He and Lisa had been divorced for almost two years, yet seeing her smiling at him in the night still shook him, still made him feel empty. She’d written to him about getting the commercial, but he’d forgotten. Or rather, he’d purposely blocked the idea that he might see her on television. She looked so young. Too young to have been the mother of a two-year-old girl who’d drowned. The woman on television looked like she’d never known a moment of unhappiness, much less the shattering trauma that had torn them apart.
The commercial had vanished to be replaced with a doctor yelling to people only inches away, “Three hundred joules! Clear!
Clear!
” Michael didn’t see him. He still saw Lisa skipping through the meadow and remembered how she’d looked when they met five years ago inLos Angeles. She’d rear-ended him at a stoplight. He’d thrown his car into park and flung out of it, ready to blast the ignorant jackass who shouldn’t even have a license to drive. And there she’d stood with her long hair and big eyes, looking contrite, afraid, and absolutely beautiful. He’d smiled and said, “Looks like we’ve had a little
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