Page 8 of Whispers

The door banged shut behind her, and Claire whirled on her son. “That was uncalled for.”

“That was the truth.”

“There are kinder ways—”

“Yeah, like letting Candi Suck-Up Whittaker rub Sam’s nose in it! Face it, Mom, Dad’s a sex fiend who likes young girls. Samantha’s better off knowing the truth. That way she won’t get hurt anymore.”

“Won’t she?” Claire whispered under her breath as she ran after Samantha through the house, out the front door, and down the street. A hot breeze turned the leaves of the aspen trees, causing them to shimmer in the sunlight, and somewhere behind the neighbor’s house a dog was barking fiercely. Claire dashed down the sidewalk, dodging a tricycle and a bump in the walk where the roots of a tree had buckled the cement, all the while chasing after her daughter. Samantha was sobbing, her golden hair streaming behind her, her long legs running fast, as if she could leave the horrid words and accusations back in the house.

Running away. Just like you, Claire. But you can’t run. Sooner or later the past catches up to you.

At Center Street, Samantha ran against the light and a pickup squealed to a stop, narrowly missing her. Claire’s heart stopped and she screamed. “Watch out!” No. No. No.

“Hey, kid, watch where you’re goin’,” the driver barked, a cigarette wobbling in the corner of his mouth.

Heart pumping with fear, Claire held out her hand and ran in front of his rig.

“What the hell—”

“Samantha, wait, please,” Claire yelled, but Samantha didn’t even glance over her shoulder.

“Friggin’ idiots!” The truck roared off.

Breathing hard, Claire caught up with her daughter a block away from the park. The sun was blistering, blinding as it reflected off the sidewalk and fenders of cars parked along the street. Tears tracked down Samantha’s red cheeks.

“Oh, baby,” Claire whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“You should have told me,” Samantha charged.

“I didn’t know how.”

“I hate him!”

“No, you can’t hate your father.”

“I do! I hate him.” She swallowed hard, and as Claire reached for her, she yanked away. “And I hate you, too.”

“Oh, Sami, no—”

“Don’t call me that!” she nearly squealed and Claire realized Paul had always called Samantha by her nickname.

“All right.”

Sniffing loudly, Samantha rubbed the back of her hand under her eyes. “I’m glad we’re moving,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Glad.”

“So am I—”

“Oh, no!” Her face suddenly drained of color. Abruptly Samantha turned around, facing the other direction, willing her body to stop shaking. Claire glanced over her shoulder and saw Candi Whittaker, a slim girl with a tiny waist and breasts no decent twelve-year-old should own, sauntering up the street with another girl Claire didn’t recognize. At the sight of Samantha and her mother, both girls stared, swallowed smiles, and began to whisper. Claire used her body as a shield, blocking the little snips’ view of her daughter, waiting until they’d taken a path that wound past the tennis courts and stopped looking over their small, self-righteous shoulders.

“It’s all right. They won’t bother you. Come on.” Claire ushered Samantha back along the street, leading her home. Sean was probably right; moving wouldn’t solve their problems. They couldn’t run away. She’d tried that once before a long time ago and the past seemed to forever chase her, nipping ferociously at her heels.

Now, it had finally caught up to her. She didn’t tell Samantha or Sean that there was another reason they were moving back to Oregon, a reason she didn’t want to face. But she had no choice. Her father, a rich man used to getting his way, had called last week and demanded that she return to Lake Arrowhead, a place that brought back so many nightmares she couldn’t begin to count them.

She’d protested, but Dutch hadn’t taken no for an answer, and she had no choice but to agree. He knew of her trouble with Paul and had promised to help her relocate, put in a good word with the school district, let her live rent-free in the huge house where she’d grown up, give her a hand as she struggled to find her footing as a single mother.

She would have been a fool to say no, but there was something more that bothered her, a dark tone in his voice that caught her attention and caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

Dutch had intimated that he knew something about the past—not all of it—but enough to convince her that she had to face