The Good Daughter (38 page)

Kit nodded. “She has cancer.”

“Is it bad?”

Kit nodded again.

“I’m sorry,” Delilah said.

“Thank you, Delilah.”

“I take care of my mom a lot, too,” the girl said after a moment. “When I was little, I used to be mad that I had to take care of her. I wanted her to take care of me. But maybe my mom’s like your mom. She just can’t take care of me anymore. And so it’s my turn to help her.”

Kit swallowed around the lump in her throat. “She’s lucky to have you, Delilah. You’re a good daughter.”

Delilah turned her head to look at her. “Have you read my journal lately?”

Kit shook her head guiltily. Since she’d started to see Jude she’d been a lot less disciplined about grading and reading journals, but since Jude was gone all week, she’d planned to get on top of her work but hadn’t yet, not with everything happening at home with her mom and then that phone call to Bree the day before yesterday. “No. But I can read it tonight.”

“You don’t have to. You probably won’t want to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“No?”

“I stapled most of the pages shut. That way you won’t be too upset.”

Kit felt a flutter of worry, and dread. “Why would I be upset, Delilah?”

The girl shrugged, her expression lost, sad. “I guess you’ll just have to read it.”

T
he moment Kit was home from school she changed into sweats, as she intended to sit down and read Delilah’s journal, but her phone rang, first with a call from Meg wondering if Kit knew when Brianna was arriving, and then a call from Sarah, who was flying in tomorrow and bringing the children and hoping Kit could pick them all up at the airport. While still talking to Sarah, she got a call that went to voice mail, this one from Aunt Linda, who wanted to take the menu and food planning over from Dad for Saturday’s party but Dad kept insisting he could handle it, even though everyone knew he didn’t cook.

Kit was battling through all the calls, thinking how businesslike everyone was being as they made their travel arrangements and plans for dinner and scheduling visits with each other. Death was so civilizing, wasn’t it?

Exhausted, hungry, and confronted by an empty refrigerator, Kit jumped into her car, went through a fast-food drive-through, and ordered a chicken burrito to take home.

Once she was home again, she sat on her couch, eating the burrito in little bites, trying to keep her mind clear so she could get the food down.

But once the burrito was gone, she couldn’t ignore what she’d intended to do ever since returning from school. It was time to read Delilah’s journal.

Opening her briefcase, she pulled out a stack of papers and Delilah’s black notebook. She had noticed the stapled pages earlier
but she’d had no idea just how many pages the girl had stapled shut.

Flipping through the journal now, she noted that page after page was stapled, signaling Delilah’s request for privacy. Delilah had obviously written something personal, very personal, and didn’t want Kit to read it.

Fear slithered down Kit’s back, through her veins.

Kit had lost a student once, it’d been ten years ago, and it’d been devastating. He’d been a sensitive, bright, gifted boy and he didn’t know where he fit in the world, didn’t feel as if he had a place, and so he removed himself from it. Kit would never forget his funeral, or his parents’ terrible grief. She’d cried with them, and then later at home off and on for weeks.

Kit’s fingers now played over the staple in the corner of a page, the metal thin and brittle beneath her fingertips. She wanted to respect Delilah’s privacy, she did, but she also had a responsibility to keep her student safe.

She couldn’t ignore that responsibility, couldn’t let Delilah become a statistic like Jamie.

Nervously, reluctantly, she tore the paper off the staple and unfolded the page to read.

Kit stopped reading. Her stomach heaved. She folded the page back down, pressing at the crease to make it flat again.

Was Delilah serious?

Was Howard truly that violent? And would Delilah really do something to hurt him?

Kit flipped through the journal, back ten or more pages to a stapled page in the middle. It seemed like most of Delilah’s journal had been folded over. Hidden. Secured.

Hand shaking, she tore the page open.

Kit scanned the rest of the page but it was all about Delilah’s friends in Mineral Wells and how much she missed Texas.

She flipped forward two pages, saw something about how you could improve Catholic schools if you cut out the religion classes and Friday-morning Mass, and was relieved these entries seemed almost normal for a teenage girl; then she flipped forward to the next stapled page, peeled the paper off the staple, and unfolded the page.

Kit stopped reading. She closed the journal.

Oh, God.

Jude should have told her when Delilah went to him, asked him how much it’d cost to hire someone to kill someone. How could he not tell her that? He had assured her he’d keep her informed.

Kit rubbed her knuckles across her mouth, queasy. Afraid. She wished she’d never read any of the journal. Wished she hadn’t unstapled the pages. But she had read it, and she would have to report this.

It was the law.

Delilah needed help. She needed a lot of help, but the help she’d get if Kit reported this wasn’t the held she needed.

Except, by law, she had to go to the police. That was the procedure. And the police would arrive, along with a social worker, and together they’d remove Delilah from her home.

Shit. Shit.

Delilah would feel so betrayed. And Kit couldn’t blame her. All she wanted was to be with her mother, together with her mother, and yet once Kit reported her writing, Delilah would lose her mother.

Kit tried to look ahead, see what would happen after the social worker took her away. They’d have a psychiatric evaluation done, and once that happened, they’d put her where? Kit wasn’t entirely sure where they put troubled kids…a foster home? A group home? A hospital?

And maybe Delilah meant none of it. Maybe this was just teenage ranting…an unhappy fifteen-year-old girl venting in the privacy of her journal. But it wasn’t a private journal. It was a
school journal, a notebook assigned for English composition and writing.

But Kit had told them to make it theirs. She’d told her students, class after class, year after year, that the journals were there for the students to be themselves, express themselves, to have a voice and be comfortable with their voice…

Kit pressed her hands to her face, covering her eyes. The law was clear in a case like this. But her conscience wasn’t clear. Her conscience screamed for her to protect Delilah. But how? How could she help the girl without putting others at risk?

Jude.

He’d know what to do. But Jude was going to be gone for the next few days, as long as a week, and had warned her it was unlikely he’d be able to call or her even respond to texts.

She got to her feet, walked to the kitchen, walked back to the living room. She wanted to call someone but had no one to call. Too bad she didn’t have Jude’s mom’s number. She’d call her.

As she walked in circles around her house, Delilah’s words and troubled world filled her head. Kit glanced at her watch. Eight-ten.

Eight-ten. Still early. Early enough.

She went upstairs, changed into clothes, knowing that if she left her house now, she could be at Delilah’s in twenty minutes at the most.

Kit wasn’t sure what she’d do or say when she got to the house. She prayed that the words would come to her once she arrived. Prayed that God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit and Mary and all the saints would be with her now, because she didn’t know what to do, only that she had do something to help Delilah.

I
was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and say hello to Delilah,” Kit said, standing on the porch of the Dempsey house, smiling calmly, professionally, as if it was every day she dropped by one of her students’ houses at eight-thirty at night. “Can you let her know I’m here?”

Howard looked at her for a long moment, his gaze narrowed. “She’s doing homework.”

“That’s great. She’s a smart girl. Can you let her know I’m here?”

He stared at her, unblinking. “It’s not a good time. My wife, Missy…she’s not well.”

“You know, I’ve never met her. I’d love to meet her.”

“Tonight’s not the night.”

“Then I would definitely like to see Delilah.”

Howard shifted in the doorway, so big he nearly blocked out the light coming from within the entry. “I thought you were in the neighborhood and just dropping by.”

Kit met his gaze, held it. “I know she’s here. And I’d like to talk to her.
Please
.”

There was a moment of strained silence. “Did something happen to bring you here tonight?” he asked softly.

“Nothing specific, but I have been doing some grading and reading, and after reading Delilah’s student journal, I thought it might be good for me to check in, let her know I’m here for her, and that I’m aware of what’s going on.”

Howard didn’t blink or move a muscle and yet Kit suddenly felt afraid, the fear physical and real, and it was all she could do to hold her ground.

“What is going on, Miss Brennan?”

The softness in his voice was pure menace. And it was clear that he knew it. They were both done playing nice.

Kit locked her knees and steeled herself, aware that there was no way she could leave Delilah in this house with him. “She’s my student,” she said.

“And she’s my stepdaughter.”

“I’d like to speak with her mother.”

“Her mother is indisposed.”

“I’d like to speak with Delilah.”

“And I’d like you to leave.”

He started to close the door on her and Kit shoved her purse between the door and the frame, keeping him from shutting it completely. “I know who you are now.” Her voice shook, a combination of adrenaline and rage. “I know what you do. I’ve read all about you—”

“In her journal?” he interrupted mockingly.

“Yes. In the journal. I’ve handed it over to the police,” she said, fibbing brazenly, not knowing what else to say, or do, but desperate to protect Delilah in any way she could. “It’s considered evidence. They wouldn’t let me take it home. But someone will be contacting you in the morning—”

“Nobody’s going to believe a kid.”

“Maybe not. But they’ll believe your neighbors and your neighbors are talking. Everybody knows who you are and what you do—”

“Get off my property.”

“Or what? You’ll hurt me? Hit me? What will you do,
Michael
?” She pulled her purse out of the door and turned around, walked down the steps, heart pounding, legs trembling, waiting for him to follow, waiting to feel his hand on her shoulder or the back of her arm.

Instead, he let her go and the front door slammed closed behind him.

Delilah heard the front door slam closed behind Miss Brennan’s departing back.

“Fuck!”
Howie swore, turning away from the door and spotting Delilah and Missy hovering in the hall. He slammed his fist into the wall. “Fuck,” he repeated, punching the wall again.

Missy put one hand behind her, reaching for Delilah, trying to push her away, but Delilah couldn’t move. She was so scared she could barely stand up straight.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Missy asked, trying to sound calm, but the quaver in her voice gave her away.

“It’s over,” he said.

Missy nudged Delilah again with her hand, wanting her to go, hide, scram. “What do you mean?”

“We have to go. Pack your things.”

“But why? She’s gone—”

“That interfering bitch of a teacher went to the police. Told them God knows what. Gave them Delilah’s journal.” He spotted Delilah hiding behind Missy. “What did you write, Dee?” he demanded, lunging for her. “What did you put in your journal that’s so bad the police are holding it as evidence?”

Missy caught at his hand. “That teacher’s talking nonsense, honey. Don’t listen to her.”

“She’s got the police talking to neighbors. The neighbors. Christ!” Howard swung his head in Delilah’s direction. “And this is all your fault, you disloyal little bitch. Can’t keep your mouth shut…you should have kept your mouth shut…”

Delilah knew she should move but she couldn’t. Her legs were frozen, she was frozen, frozen with terror and shock. Miss Brennan had betrayed her.

“Pack your things,” Howie snarled. “We’re going. We’re leaving tonight.”

Mama’s hands fluttered up, trying to soothe him. “Howard, honey—”