What she really wanted was to talk to Bobby, make sure he was all right. But she’d called last night and Robert had grudgingly let her talk to him and he seemed okay then, if still quiet and distant. She couldn’t keep calling every night. Robert would refuse to put the boy on, harrangue her about bothering him at home, and then hang up; he’d done that before. And if she called and he wasn’t home and Francine answered, the bitch would hang up right away. That had happened before, too.
Would Robert let her know immediately if anything serious happened to Bobby? He might, and he might not. She might not know about it for hours, even days.…
“Stop,” she said aloud. “Stop, stop.”
She went down the hall into her office, booted up her Mac, and opened the Hardiman file. Her current project—designing an extensive new Web site for Hardiman Industries. It was half-finished, the graphics satisfactory so far, but she hadn’t been able to work steadily on it for days. The deadline was looming; she’d have to get back to it soon or risk losing the commission. Now? Not now. Her thoughts were muzzy and the color images blurred as she stared at the screen. Tomorrow morning …
And the rest of tonight?
It was too early for bed. Maybe she could do a little more work on one of the three unfinished watercolor paintings.… Bad idea, for the same reason she couldn’t concentrate on the Hardiman Web site design. Her headache had worsened; she felt a little sick to her stomach.
Warm bath, she thought, that might help. In the bathroom again she drank a glass of Alka-Seltzer to relieve the queasy feeling. She was leaning into the tub to turn on the water taps when the doorbell rang.
Jake? He usually called before he came over … unless he had something new and important to tell her. She hurried out to the front door, unlocked it, and pulled it open without first looking through the peephole. And sucked in her breath and felt her body go rigid because it wasn’t Jake standing there in the glow of the porch light.
“Hello, Bryn,” Francine Whalen said through one of her bright, empty smiles.
“… What do you want here?”
“It’s about Bobby. Can I come in? I won’t stay long.”
“What about Bobby? Where is he?”
“Home with his father.”
“Is he all right?”
“Of course he’s all right. Well? Are you going to let me in?”
Reluctantly Bryn complied. Once Francine was inside with the door closed, the smile disappeared. She had a longish, narrow face framed by long, feathery blond hair—an expensive designer cut to go with the expensive leather jacket and tight slacks and Gucci boots she wore. All paid for by Robert, no doubt. Her eyes were her most striking feature, large gray eyes with irises so pale they were almost translucent. The kind that men would find warm and smoky, that to Bryn gave the exact opposite effect. Ice eyes.
“The reason I’m here,” the woman said, “is to tell you straight to your face—stop trying to turn Bobby against me.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Filling his head with nonsense, trying to convince him that I’m some sort of wicked witch.”
“That’s just what you are.”
“Oh? So now you admit that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“You’re the one who turned him against you, not me. And we both know the reason.”
“Yes? What reason?”
“You’ve been hitting him, hurting him. A little boy, for God’s sake.”
“That’s a damn lie,” Francine said. But nothing changed in her expression; no shock or surprise or outrage. The face of unrepentant guilt. “Why would I do something like that?”
“Yes, exactly. Why? Why did you fracture his arm? Why do you leave bruises all over his body?”
“I did no such things. He gets into fights with other boys his age and he’s accident-prone.”
“Like hell. You, you’re the one.”
“Did Bobby tell you I was hurting him?”
Bryn didn’t answer. Rage was like a probe moving through her; the dead side of her face burned as if it were on fire. She locked her fingers together at her waist to keep them still, keep herself under control.
“Well? Did he?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“I’ll bet he’s never said a bad word about me.”
“He hates you. He said that much.”
“Natural in a boy his age to have some hostile feelings toward the woman who replaces his mother in his father’s affection. Particularly when the mother reinforces it, stuffs his head with lies.”
“I’ve never lied to my son and I never will.”