My uncle used to touch me when I was fast asleep. He thought I didn’t notice, but the truth is, I cherished every second… because every second was being recorded. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t an accident. And last night, when he entered my room again, he finally whispered the name he’d been hiding for twenty years.
“What did you say?” I asked.
My voice sounded nothing like mine. It came out small, thin, almost childish, as if the room had taken all the air from my lungs before I could use it.
The gun trembled in my mother’s hand.
Robert stood near the foot of the bed, still as polished stone. But it was not fear that held him there. It was surprise. Real surprise. The kind a powerful man shows only when a servant forgets her place. His eyes moved from the barrel of the gun to Claire’s face, then to the torn IV line hanging from her arm, then back to her eyes.
For the first time since I had known him, Robert Sterling looked caught.
“Put that down,” he said quietly. “You’re not going to shoot.”
My mother took one more step into the room.
Her hospital gown clung to her like wet paper. Sweat had soaked through the cotton at her neck and chest. Her bare feet were dirty, one heel leaving a faint red mark on the pale carpet. The tape that had held her IV had been ripped away, leaving bruised skin and a little trail of blood down her wrist. She looked like someone who had crawled out of her own grave and followed a secret all the way to Beverly Hills.
