“Look at me.”
She lifted her gaze to his.
“He said you’d missed four classes in the past four weeks. One more absence and he’s going to take disciplinary action.”
Whether to avoid a response or simply because she was hungry, she bit into another piece of apple.
“Who are these friends you’ve been so preoccupied with?” All through school she’d had such a difficult time making friends. She never seemed to fit in. Without effort she had been an honor student. She hadn’t won any awards; those had always gone to the Gerard girl, but Jerald hadn’t cared. He hadn’t needed any plaques or certificates to tell him how smart his daughter was. Nor had he needed any crowns to show him how beautiful she was. She was perfect.
Jerri Lynn shrugged. Sliced off another piece of apple. “The usual crowd.”
There was no usual crowd. She was lying to him. That hurt almost as much as the idea that his fears may have materialized. “Who?” he repeated.
She toyed with the piece of apple. “Just Tamara Gilbert.” She lifted an uncertain gaze to her father. “Reverend Mahaney’s niece. She’s cool. She likes me. And I feel sorry for her.”
Jerald had to admit that he was glad to hear that she’d made a friend who appeared to want to stick by her, but ... “Your snow boots are crusted in mud.” He wouldn’t say the rest. But he knew blood when he saw it. “Have you and Tamara been playing games in the woods?”
Jerri Lynn frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I haven’t worn my boots lately.”
He motioned for her to follow him.
In the mudroom, tucked behind the wood box, were her SORELs.
She frowned as she picked up one and checked the boot size. He’d already done that. She and her mother had a matching pair, but Lynda’s were a size 7. These—he stared at the damning boots—were an 8. Jerri Lynn’s size.
Jerri Lynn peered up at him and shrugged. “Mom must have worn my boots. You know I leave them in here all the time. Maybe Mom didn’t want to go upstairs for hers.” His daughter made one of those barely tolerant sounds. “Jeez, Dad, what’s the big deal? It’s just mud.”
If only that were the case. But it was more than just mud, and Lynda hated this time of year. She rarely left the house and certainly didn’t traipsearound in the woods or muck. Her heart condition prevented her from such risks. Jerri Lynn knew this.
Jerald knew this.
“Come on.” She tugged at his arm. “I want to finish my apple and then we’ll have some of that bisque. I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”
“You go ahead.” He swallowed at the tightness in his throat. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
When Jerri Lynn had returned to the kitchen, he lingered in the mudroom.
Was he making too much of this? He really had no valid reason for his concerns. Perhaps Lynda was making him paranoid.
“Ouch.”
His daughter’s distressed sound caused him to move back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway in time to see her throw the knife onto the counter. She stared at her left forefinger. Blood oozed and slid downward. She’d cut herself.
When he would have asked if she needed him to fetch a Band-Aid, he hesitated. He couldn’t say why he hesitated. Instinct perhaps.
She continued staring, seemingly intrigued; then she licked the drop that slithered into her palm.
His heart began to pound.
She licked again, trailing her tongue all the way up her finger. Then she stuck her finger into her mouth and sucked.
Emotion warred inside him.
As he watched, she picked up the knife, studied the crimson smear on the shiny blade. She thrust out her tongue, let it slide carefully over the blade ...
His breath evacuated his lungs even as he licked his lips.
28
