The Good Daughter (The Good Daughter #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,134

Pinkman’s jaw had been shot off almost completely. There had been a bullet hole in his eye cavity.

Sam asked, “So, was Coin lying when he let us believe there was audio of Kelly asking about ‘the Baby’?”

“He’s a liar, and I’m given to believe that liars always lie.” Charlie seemed to think about it for a bit longer. “The cop could’ve told Coin. He was standing right there in the hallway when Kelly said whatever she said. It really affected him. He got angrier than before, and he was pretty fucking angry before.”

Sam finished her notes. “Makes sense.”

Charlie asked, “What about the murder weapon?”

“What about it?”

Charlie leaned back against a chair-shaped pile of junk. She picked at a string on her blue jeans, the same one she had picked at this morning.

Sam took a bite of the sandwich. She glanced out the dirty window. This day had been an exhaustively drawn-out one, and the sun had only now begun to set.

Sam pointed to the Coke. “Can I have some?”

Charlie unscrewed the cap. She set the bottle on top of Sam’s overturned notes. “Are you going to tell Dad about Huck and the gun?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

Charlie did the half-shrug thing.

Sam asked, “What’s going on between you and Ben?”

“Undetermined.”

Sam washed down the peanut butter with a mouthful of Coke. Now would be the time to tell Charlie about Anton. To explain that she knew how marriages worked, understood the petty grievances that could build up. She should tell Charlie that it didn’t matter. That if you loved someone, you should do everything you could to make it work because the person you adored more than anyone else in the world could complain of a sore throat one day and be dead the next.

Instead, she told her sister, “You need to make things right with Ben.”

“I wonder,” Charlie said, “how often you would speak if you eradicated the words ‘you need’ from your vocabulary.”

Sam was too tired to argue a losing point. She took another bite of sandwich. She chewed slowly. “I was looking for the picture of Gamma.”

“It’s on his desk at home.”

That fixed it. Sam was not going to the farmhouse.

“There’s this.” Charlie used her thumb and two fingers to edge a paperback out from under a file box, Jenga-style, without toppling the papers on top.

She handed the book to Sam.

Sam read the title aloud. “‘Weather Prediction by Numerical Process.’” The book appeared ancient but well-read. Sam thumbed through the pages. Pencil markings highlighted paragraphs. The text appeared to be as advertised; a guide to predicting the weather based on a specific algorithm that incorporated barometric pressure, temperature and humidity. “Whose calculus is this?”

“I was thirteen,” Charlie said.

“You weren’t a moron.” Sam corrected one of the equations. “At least, I didn’t think you were.”

“It was Gamma’s.”

Sam’s pen stopped.

“She ordered the book before she died. It came a month after,” Charlie said. “There’s an old weather tower behind the farm.”

“Is there really?” Sam had almost drowned in the stream underneath the tower because she was too weak to lift her head from the water.

“Anyway,” Charlie said. “Rusty and I were going to fix up the instruments on the weather tower to surprise Gamma. We thought she’d get a kick out of tracking the data. NOAA calls it being a citizen scientist. There are thousands of people around the country who track for them, but computers take care of the reporting now. I guess the book proves she was one step ahead of us. As usual.”

Sam flipped through the charts and arcane algorithms. “You know that this is physically unrealistic. The atmosphere has a delicate dynamical balance between the fields of mass and motion.”

“Yes, Samantha, everyone knows that.” Charlie explained, “Dad and I worked on the calculations together. We’d get the data from the weather equipment every morning, then plug it into the algorithm and predict the weather for the next day. Or at least, we tried to. It made us feel closer to her.”

“She would’ve liked that.”

“She would’ve been furious that I couldn’t do the calculus.”

Sam shrugged, because it was true.

She slowly paged through the book, not really paying attention to the words. She thought of Charlie when she was little, the way she would work at the kitchen table with her head bent, tongue between her lips, as she did her homework. She always hummed when she did her math. She whistled when she did art projects. Sometimes, she sang aloud lines that she read in books, but