Page 173 of The Housekeeper

I nodded, grabbing my purse and racing for the stairs. “I don’t have time.Youcall them.”

“For God’s sake, be careful,” he called after me.

The drive to my father’s house was pretty much a blur. I sped the whole way, half hoping that a cop would spot me careening through the streets, pull me over, and insist on accompanying me to my father’s house to check out my story.

And discover what?

A belligerent and confused old man with no memory of having called his daughter, let alone pleading for her help?

A seemingly concerned and caring wife apologizing for her husband’s erratic behavior and his daughter’s unfortunate overreaction?

In any event, no one stopped me. I pulled into my father’s driveway, and jumped out of the car, hurrying toward the front door, wondering what the hell I was walking into.

The house was in darkness. I rang the doorbell repeatedly, then knocked—loud and hard—when nobody answered.

In frustration, I kicked at the door, and to my shock, it fell open.

“Dad?” I called, stepping gingerly into the front hall, the sound of my breathing bouncing off the walls. “Dad, where are you?”

I heard moaning coming from the stairway and reached for the switch on the wall next to the door, flipping on the overhead light.

The first thing I saw was the body at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh, my God!” I cried, thinking immediately of my mother, and deciding that this must be another one of the crazy dreams I’d been having lately. This couldn’t happen twice, I assured myself.This can’t be happening at all.

The moaning grew louder, a low wail that filled every inch of the wide hall. My eyes warily followed the sound to the top of the landing.

My father was sitting on the floor at the top of the stairs,clinging to the railing, his pajama-clad body folded in on itself, his eyes staring blankly into space.

I moved forward, pushing one reluctant foot in front of the other, as if I were wading through a heavy syrup.

This isn’t happening. Wake up, damn it! Wake up!

“Is she dead?” my father asked as I knelt beside the body.

I knew even before my fingers reached out to feel for the pulse in Elyse’s outstretched arm that she was gone. Her head was twisted horribly to one side, her neck obviously broken, her open eyes seeing only death.

“How…what…?” I began, unable to complete a thought, let alone a sentence.

“Is she dead?” my father repeated.

“Yes,” I heard myself say, my eyes shooting toward his. “Are you all right?”

“I had no choice,” my father was muttering as I mounted the stairs. “She gave me no choice.”

I sat down beside him, surrounded him with my arms, hugged him tightly to my side, feeling his bony frame beneath the soft cotton of his pajamas.

“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly. “Where’s Tracy?”

I was too tired, too numb, to be offended. “You calledme,Dad.”

“I did?”

“What the hell happened?”

He shook his head, as if trying to make sense of my question. “She was taking too long to die,” he said finally.

“What?”