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the notebook were more than a dozen clippings, most of which had been
pa.s.sed on to her by Teresa and other equally curious cla.s.smates.
The first was of herself, and Michael, from the summer before. She
smoothed it carefully, battled embarra.s.sed delight as she studied her
face and form, depicted so clearly in newsprint. She looked wet and
disheveled, and unfortunately for her ego, didn't fill out the bikini
very interestingly.
But Michael looked wonderful.
Michael Kesselring, she thought. Of course the paper hadn't printed his
name, hadn't bothered to find it out. It had been her the press had
been interested in. But all the girls had squealed over Michael and
demanded to know who he was and if Emma had had a summer romance.
It had made her feel very grown-up to talk about him. Of course, she'd
embellished the tale more than a little, about how he'd carried her in
his arms, given her mouth-to-mouth, pledged his undying love. She didn't
think Michael would mind-especially since he'd never know about it.
With a sigh, she replaced the clipping and took out another. It was the
one Teresa had brought over the night Emma had had her ears pierced. She
couldn't count the number of times she had taken it out, stared at it,
studied it, tried to dissect it. Her eyes were constantly drawn to her
mother's face, frightened as they searched and searched for some
resemblance. But not all heredity could be seen, she knew. She was a
very good student, and had taken a special interest in biology when
discussions of heredity and genes had come up.
That was her mother, and there was no dienying it. She had grown inside
that woman, had been born from her. No matter how many years had
pa.s.sed, Emma could still smell the stink of gin, she could still feel
the pinches and slaps and hear the curses.
It terrified her-terrified her so that just looking at the picture had
her digging bitten-down nails into her palms, had the palms themselves
sweating.
On a choked cry, she tore her gaze from Jane's picture and looked at her
father's. She prayed every night she was like him-kind, gentle, funny,
fair. He had saved her. She had read the story often enough, and even
without the printed words, she remembered. The way he had looked when
she'd climbed out from under the sink, the kindness in his voice when he
had spoken to her. He'd given her a home, and a life without fear. Even
though he had sent her away, she would never forget the years he had
given her. That he and Bev had given her.
It was hardest to look at Bev somehow. She was so beautiful, so
perfect. Emma had never loved another woman more, never needed one
more. And to look at her made it impossible not to think of Darren.
Darren who had had the same rich dark hair and soft green eyes. Daffen
whom she had sworn to protect. Darren who had died.
Her fault, Emma thought now. She was never to be forgiven for it. Bev
had sent her away. Her father had sent her away. She would never have
a family again.
She put it away, and spent some time going through older clippings.
Pictures of herself as a child, pictures of Darren, the wide, stark
headlines about the murder. These she kept hidden deep in her drawer,
