Page 31 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“I said you could get her a lawyer.”

“And I can. But this is different. Better.”

“The only thing different is that the world no longer revolves around you, Ma. You know why Jack calls you Prima, right? Well, you aren’t the star of this show. This is my house. Jack is my daughter. And—”

“Why won’t you let me help you, Beth?”

“You think that’s what you’re doing? Helping me? Like how you helped me move up here on my own when I was pregnant? Like when you sent gold-plated baby shoes instead of showing up yourself to give me a hand with Jack? Or maybe the way you’ve spent the last four months helping me see how far every single thing I’ve accomplished is from your impossible standards? If you want to help me, Ma, just stop. Just lie down on your European mattress and take your damn medicine.”

Lana couldn’t decide if it was the harshness of Beth’s words or her headache that made her want to sit down. But she stayed standing, staring at Beth, refusing to look away or give in to the part of her that did want to curl up in bed, take a pill, and go to sleep. She could feel her real self, her strong, hard self, grasping for a weapon she could use. Lana’s eyes swept the room, from the messy table to the new couch. And then to the back door, behind which Jack could probably hear their shouting.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Lana moved toward Beth and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Not of the sheriffs—it’s more than that. You’ve got this fantasy that you’re this perfect little team here, you and her against the world. You’re terrified of anything screwing that up. You’re afraid you’re going to lose your precious baby when she goes out and for once in her life does something you don’t want her to do. You’re scared that when she does that, she’s going to decide she likes being out in the world, she doesn’t want to hide in this dead-end town, she wants to be big and powerful and wholly on her own.”

“Don’t tell me what my daughter wants.” Beth’s hazel eyes were dark, her voice a low warning.

“I don’t have to! She’s telling you, if you’d take half a second to stop and listen.”

“You’re talking about you, Ma, what you want. But Jack isn’t like you. She’s a good girl.”

“That doesn’t mean you can control her.” Lana set her feet steady beneath her. “I had a good girl once too, you know. Before she ruined her life by getting pregnant.”

Beth blinked. She took one step back, then another. “Jack didn’t ruin my life, Ma,” she said, her voice filling the room. “She saved it. She got me out from under you.”

Beth grabbed her soda, turned, and speed walked to the front door. The latch clicked behind her.

Lana ran after her in stocking feet. She made it out to the front porch just in time to see Beth hurl the half-empty Diet Coke into the recycling bin, miss, then slam her car door and drive away.

Jack inched out from around the side of the house, keeping one hand on the stucco, as if it were helping hold her up. Lana saw her, but she didn’t say anything. She wrapped her thin arms around her torso and watched the soda bubble out over dry dirt, shriveling to nothing.

That night, Lana couldn’t sleep. She kept straining her neck to hear Beth come in, falling back into the pillow each time a creak revealed itself to just be the wind. Around midnight, Lana finally heard the front door open. She shut her eyes, feigning sleep in case Beth came in to check on her. But the back bedroom door stayed closed.

Shit. She may not have been a contender for one of those tacky “Mother of the Year” mugs, but Beth had to see Lana was trying. They both just wanted what was best for Jack. Even if they defined that differently.

Though she had to admit that Beth wasn’t entirely wrong in pointing out Lana had her own reasons for pursuing the investigation. The last two days, Lana had almost felt like she was back at work, not in her prime, but in the early days after Ari left, when she was a nobody, the only woman in the room, the tiny divorcée with big hair and sharp elbows. She could still remember her first win, at a meeting about a Culver City condo complex, when she smiled sweetly at the investors and explained how they could get another 2 percent of profitability by replacing the phallic tower the architect had insisted on with another floor of units. She felt the warmth of the nods from the bankers, but she only had eyes for the architect. She saw the exact moment his assessment of her shifted, his furious gaze upgrading her from arm candy to adversary. She lived for that shift. She’d felt it earlier at the Kayak Shack, with Paul and the detectives. She didn’t like being underestimated. But it rallied her to fight, and fighting made her feel alive.

It also kept her awake. The steroids she took didn’t help, stirring her agitation into a lather. By 1 a.m. Lana had fallen into the itchy, overheated half sleep of the uncomfortably medicated. By two she was up again to open the window, deciding she’d rather get bitten by a river bat than sweat through another set of sheets. But when she pulled up the blinds, she saw movement on the water. It was a kayak, moving east, away from the marina and into the slough.

Lana grabbed her binoculars and strained her eyes. She could see the thin glow of a flashlight illuminating a wavering halo ahead of the kayak, a blot of silver in the blue-black water.

There was one person in the kayak, bundled in a jacket and a knit cap pulled down to their eyes. A duffel bag rose toward the bow from between their legs, as if the kayaker were riding an enormous cigar through the water. It was impossible to tell if it was the person she’d seen with the wheelbarrow the week before.

Whoever it was, they weren’t out for a casual cruise. This person clearly knew where they were going. She could just barely make out the slow, deliberate strokes, the water breaking and re-forming each time the paddle entered it. The kayaker was moving steadily upriver, melting into the shadows.

Once the boat was no longer visible, Lana dropped the blinds, switched on the bedside light, found her cell phone, and groped for the detectives’ business cards. Then she remembered Nicoletti’s reaction to her last tip. She wasn’t ready to be another 2 a.m. voicemail on the sheriff’s phone tree for the overnight cops to laugh at. She put down her phone and got out her legal pad. She printed the date and time carefully across the top and wrote down what she’d seen. And then tried, impossibly, to get some rest.

Chapter Seventeen

Beth avoided her mother all day Friday, knowing better than to hope for an apology and not yet ready to offer one of her own. But when she stumbled out of her bedroom Saturday morning in search of coffee, Lana surprised her. Her mother was standing next to the table in a burgundy dress, a silk scarf with horses galloping across it, and a dark pageboy wig with an attached beret. She wore an assured smile on her face.

“Going to Paris?” Beth asked.

“I’m coming with you to the rancher’s wake.”

“You should be in bed.”

“Tell that to my steroids,” Lana replied, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m stuck all day in this stupid house. You don’t want me to disappear on you or redecorate. Fine. Take me with you. I want to meet the neighbors.”

“This isn’t exactly a plus-one situation, Ma.”