The Good Daughter (The Good Daughter #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,130

did not want to be perceived as any ruder than before. “I’ll let you decide.”

“I’ll stay.” Lenore clicked open the thumb drive. “One file. Just a series of numbers. Can you see?”

Sam nodded. The extension read .mov, which meant the file was video. “Go ahead.”

Lenore clicked the file name.

The video opened.

She clicked the button to make it fill the screen.

The image could have been a photograph but for the numbers ticking in the corner: 07:58:47. A typical school hallway. Blue lockers. Tan tiled floor. The camera was tilted too far down. Only half of the hall was visible to the lens, about fifty feet of open space. The most distant point showed a thin slice of light that must have come from an open doorway. Posters were on the walls. Graffiti peppered the lockers. The entirety of the space was empty. The footage was grainy. The color was washed, more of a sepia tone.

Lenore turned up the volume on the speakers. “No sound.”

“Look,” Sam pointed to the monitor. As she’d watched, a piece of cinder block had spontaneously chipped away from the wall.

“Gunshot,” Lenore said.

Sam looked at the round bullet hole.

A man ran into the hallway.

He had entered the scene from behind the camera. His back was to them. White dress shirt. Dark pants. His hair was gray, styled in a typical man’s cut, short in the back, parted on the side.

He stopped, abruptly, hands out in front of him.

No, don’t.

Lenore sucked air through her teeth as the man jerked violently once, then again, then again.

Blood misted into the air.

He collapsed to the floor. Sam saw his face.

Douglas Pinkman.

Shot once in the chest. Twice in the head. A black hole replaced his right eye.

A river of blood began to flow around his body.

Sam felt her hand cover her mouth.

Lenore said, “Oh, God.”

A small figure had rounded the corner. Her back was to the lens.

Pigtails flopping on either side of her head.

Princess backpack, shoes that lighted up, arms swinging.

She came to an abrupt stop.

Mr. Pinkman. Dead on the floor.

Lucy Alexander fell quickly, landing on the incline of her backpack.

Her head lolled back. Her legs splayed. Her shoes pointed up at the ceiling.

The little girl tried in vain to raise her head. She touched her fingers to the open wound at her neck.

Her mouth was moving.

Judith Pinkman ran toward the camera. Her red shirt was a dull rust on the screen. She had her arms back, out to her sides, like a winged creature preparing to take flight. She passed her husband, then dropped to her knees beside Lucy.

“Look,” Lenore said.

Kelly Wilson finally came into the frame.

Distant. Slightly out of focus. The girl was at the most remote reaches of the camera’s lens. She was dressed in all black. Her greasy hair hung around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth hung open. She held the revolver in her right hand.

Like I said, the gun was in my hand.

Kelly sat down on the floor. The left half of her body was out of the camera’s reach. Her back was to the lockers. The revolver stayed at her side, resting on the ground. She stared straight ahead.

Lenore said, “A hair shy of eleven seconds from the moment the bullet went into the wall.” She pointed to the time in the corner. “I counted five shots total. One in the wall. Three in Pinkman. One in Lucy. That’s not what the simulation had on the news. They said Judith Pinkman was shot at twice, missed both times.”

Sam let herself look at Lucy again.

Judith Pinkman’s mouth was open as she screamed up at the ceiling.

Sam read the grieving woman’s lips.

Help me.

Somewhere in the school, Charlie was hearing the woman’s pleas.

Lenore held up the box of Kleenex on her desk.

Sam took some tissues. She wiped her eyes. She blew her nose. She watched Judith Pinkman cradle her hand behind Lucy’s head. She tried in vain to staunch the wound that had opened the little girl’s neck. Blood seeped through her fingers as if she had squeezed a sponge. The woman was clearly sobbing, wailing from grief.

Charlie came out of nowhere, leaping into the frame.

She was running up the hallway, toward the camera, toward Lucy and Mrs. Pinkman. The expression on her face was one of complete panic. She barely gave Douglas Pinkman more than a glance. Her knees hit the floor. She was sideways to the camera, her face clearly visible. She clutched Lucy Alexander’s hand. She spoke to the girl. She rocked back and