Page 70 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

James didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared hard at me and rolled his hands together. I shifted uncomfortably, not sure what he was thinking.

“All I’m saying is, it’s just easier not to get attached,” he muttered. I sighed and got up to leave, patting his shoulder as I brushed past. I wished that my son, the person who knew me best in the world, had a little more faith in my marriage, in me. Then again, he did know me pretty well. . .

It could have ended there. I could have stayed happily married to Robert in Manhattan. I really believe that we could have made it work, if it hadn’t been for Gabrielle.

It’s funny, you expect the girl who ruins your marriage to be a twenty-something cocktail waitress with zero-gravity boobs. But in my case, it was a twelve-year-old girl.

It all started one day when I came home from a productive afternoon shopping to find my husband sitting on the floor by the phone, his face the same shade of gray as his wool suit.

“Are you all right?” I asked, carefully depositing my shopping bags on a table as gently as you’d lay down a baby, then crouching down next to him.

“I got some news,” Robert murmured. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just tell me,” I said firmly, helping him up onto the couch. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I resisted the urge to tap my toe like a schoolmarm waiting for an answer.

“Today I was contacted by a lawyer in California. My ex-wife has died,” he said quietly. I shrugged. Who cared? If I fell apart every time a spouse died, I’d never get anything done!

“Maybe that’s a bit sad but you haven’t seen her for over a decade,” I replied. Robert took a rattling breath and then wiped his mouth. His face seemed slack and rubbery, as if it was numb from visiting the dentist.

“The lawyer. . .he told me that Sheila was pregnant when we got divorced, that I have a twelve-year-old daughter.”

“What?”

“I’m named on the birth certificate. I just can’t believe she kept this from me,” he said bitterly. “That was Sheila all right.”

“Are you going to meet this girl?” I asked, already wondering if I might be able to spin this in a way that would benefit me. I had never been to California before.

“Meet her? She’s coming to live with us,” Robert snapped.

“What?” I said again, dumbfounded.

“Sheila’s will said that she wants Gabrielle to come live with me,” Robert said, his voice still angry. He never snapped at me. I hadn’t even met this kid and she was already affecting my marriage.

“You can’t though,” I said faintly. “You don’t even know this girl!”

“I’m aware!” Robert growled. “But what do you expect me to do? Besides, this house is full of kids anyways, we might as well throw another one on the pile!” He leapt up and stalked away.

“She might not even be yours!” I called after him.

My hope that Sheila was a lying whore disappeared the moment I met Gabrielle. She was the spitting image of Robert; the same dark hair, lean face, and gray-blue eyes. Sheila had been telling the truth. I hated the dead bitch.

Gabrielle didn’t look like a Californian. More of a Bostonian really, with her milky skin and expensive features. She stood in the hall, wrapped in the red designer coat I’d chosen for her and sent out with Robert, since we assumed she wouldn’t have clothes fit for a New York winter.

“Hello,” I said, reaching out to pat her shoulder.

“Hello,” she responded woodenly. I had thought she might be intimidated meeting me but her half-lidded eyes barely flickered. She reminded me of an iguana I had once seen perched on a branch at the zoo, not moving a muscle even as schoolchildren hammered on the glass.

“My name is Daphne Hanks. I’m not sure what you’d like to call me. You can call me Mrs. Hanks or Auntie, whatever feels right,” I said. I hoped she got the hint that “Mommy” was off the table. I waited for her to speak but she said nothing, just stared at me imperiously, so I continued.

“My kids and I are looking forward to getting to know you and show you around the city.” Not true but I felt saintly for saying it. All those other rich wives were out there, throwing benefits to help children, but how many of them were doing the truly charitable thing of bringing an unknown child into their home?

Still no response from Gabrielle. Tough crowd. The last time I heard crickets like that was at the twins’ violin recital, but they earned those, dammit. I was just trying to be nice.

“Would you like to see your bedroom? I’m sure you could use a rest.”

She nodded and I led her down the hall.

Her bedroom had been my vanity room until recently. I had sullenly packed away my makeup and jewelry, already feeling like this girl was crowding me out of Robert’s life. But I had thrown myself into shopping, creating a dream bedroom for a preteen girl: white wicker furniture, a canopy bed with blue silk hangings, floral wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots. I opened the door with a sense of ceremony, as if I was unveiling it, and glanced at her for a reaction, maybe a smile or a gasp. But her expression didn’t change. She shrugged off her new coat, letting it flop to the floor and flung herself on the bed without taking off her shoes. Finally, she spoke.

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