The Good Daughter (The Good Daughter #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,174

stabbed.”

“So they needed someone to talk to a possible suspect,” Charlie said, pretending that the way he’d casually dropped the name of the woman Charlie thought he was cheating with hadn’t driven a knife into her own gut. “I think Dad saw whoever did it.”

“I do, too,” Sam said. “He spun a yarn to me about how there is value in forgiveness.”

“Can you imagine,” Charlie said. “If Dad had lived, he probably would’ve offered to represent Fahey.”

No one laughed because they all knew that it was possible.

Ben put the gear in first. He made the turn into the driveway, driving slowly to avoid the ruts.

The farmhouse came into view, paint chipping, wood rotting, windows crooked, but not otherwise altered since the Culpeppers had knocked on the kitchen door twenty-eight years ago.

Charlie felt Sam shift in her seat. She was steeling herself, strengthening her resolve. Charlie wanted to say something that would bring her comfort, but all she could do was hold onto Sam’s hand.

Sam asked, “Why no security bars and gates here? The office is a fortress.”

“Dad said that lightning doesn’t strike twice.” Charlie felt the lump come back into her throat. She knew that the over-abundant security at the office was for her sake, not Rusty’s. Of the handful of times she had been to the HP over the years, she had inevitably stayed out in her car, laying on her horn for Rusty to come out because she did not want to go inside. Maybe if she had visited more, her father would have taken better measures to keep the place secure.

Ben said, “I can’t believe I was here last weekend, talking to him on the porch.”

Charlie longed to lean against him, to put her head on his shoulder.

“Brace yourselves,” Ben said. The wheels bounced into a pothole, then hit a deep rut, before smoothing out. He started to pull to the parking pad by the barn.

“Go to the front door,” Charlie said. She did not want to go through the kitchen.

“‘Goat fucker,’” Sam said, reading the graffiti. “The suspect knew him.”

Charlie laughed.

Sam did not. “I never thought I would come back here.”

“You don’t have to.” Charlie offered, “I could go inside and look for the photo.”

The set to Sam’s jaw said she was determined. “I want us to find it together.”

Ben looped the truck around to the front porch. The grass was mostly weeds. A kid from down the street was supposed to keep it mowed, but Charlie was ankle-deep in dandelions when she stepped out of the truck.

Sam held her hand again. They had not touched each other this much when they were children.

Except for that day.

Sam said, “I remember that I was sad about losing the red-brick house, but I also remember that it was a good day.” She turned to Charlie. “Do you remember that?”

Charlie nodded. Gamma had wafted in and out of irritations, but everything had felt like it was starting to smooth out. “This could have been our home.”

Ben said, “That’s all kids want, right? To have a safe place to live.” He seemed to remember himself. “I mean, safe before or—”

“It’s all right,” Charlie told him.

Ben tossed his suit jacket back into the truck. He grabbed his laptop from behind the seat. “I’ll go inside and work on the TV.”

Sam placed the USB drive in his hands. She told him, “Make sure I get that back so I can have it destroyed.”

Ben gave her a salute.

Charlie watched him bolt up the stairs. He reached above the edge of the door frame for the key and let himself in.

Even from the yard, Charlie could smell the familiar odor of Rusty’s unfiltered Camels.

Sam looked up at the farmhouse. “Still higgledy-piggledy.”

“I guess we’ll sell it.”

“Did Dad buy it?”

“The bachelor farmer was a bit of a peeping Tom. And a foot fetishist. And he stole a lot of lingerie.” Charlie laughed at Sam’s expression. “He had a lot of legal bills when he died. The family deeded the house to Rusty.”

Sam asked, “Why didn’t Dad sell it years ago and rebuild the red-brick house?”

Charlie knew why. There had been a lot of bills from Sam’s recovery. The doctors, the hospitals, the therapists, the rehab. Charlie was familiar with the crushing weight of an unexpected illness. Not much time or energy was left for rebuilding anything.

She told Sam, “I think it was mostly inertia. You know Rusty wasn’t one for change.”

“You can have the house. I mean—not that you asked, but I don’t need the money.