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  “You never said anything about this weekend. Was there something you wanted to do?”

  “It’s a little late now, but yeah, I got tickets for Eddie Izzard’s show at the Henry Ford Theater. Wanted to surprise you.”

  A sick feeling hit the pit of her stomach. Jovanic knew the popular British comedian was a favorite of hers. It couldn’t have been easy to get the tickets.

  “I’m sorry Joel. I had no idea.”

  “That’s what a surprise is, hon—no idea. Don’t worry about it. I gave the tickets to Alex this morning.” He picked up his Windbreaker and slung it over his shoulder. “You know what you do, Claudia? You use other people to keep me from getting too close.”

  “That’s so unfair. What about all the times your work gets in the way?”

  “I’m not talking about work,” he said, closing the front door behind him with a louder snap than he needed to.

  Claudia stood there staring at the door.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Upstairs, the music had ended and things were quiet. Claudia went into the kitchen thinking about what Jovanic had said and asking herself whether he was right about her pushing him away. She collected some Cokes from the fridge and a bag of chips from the pantry. As long as she was being criticized for having the girls over, she might as well make the most of it and take them a snack.

  When she got to the second floor landing, an unmistakable smell hit her nose.

  Marijuana. Dammit!

  Paige Sorensen was probably hanging from a chandelier by her toes, having wild, satisfying sex with Cruz or one of her other admirers—maybe several of them— while she, Claudia, was stuck with a bratty pot-smoking adolescent and an irate boyfriend. Next time someone asked for a favor, she promised herself, she wouldn’t cave in so fast.

  Gritting her teeth, she rapped on the bathroom door. “Annabelle, you want to get me arrested?”

  There was a brief pause, the sound of scuffling, whispering, then innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Open the door. Now.”

  The toilet flushed and a long moment later the door opened. Annabelle and Monica stood there, looking as guilty as sin.

  Chapter 13

  Annabelle slunk out of the bathroom, a pall of hemp-scented smoke clinging to her denim jacket like an invisible cloud. The straps of her backpack were looped over her wrist as she dragged it behind her. She slithered past Claudia and into the guest room, head down.

  Probably to hide the bloodshot eyes, Claudia guessed bitterly.

  Monica just stood there looking shamefaced. “I’m sorry, Aunty C.,” she whispered.

  Claudia glared at her. “I can’t believe this! Your father is going to kill me.”

  “I didn’t smoke it. I swear I didn’t.” Monica’s voice broke. “Please don’t tell him. He’ll never let me leave the house again!”

  “You should have thought of that.” Claudia raked her hand through her hair in frustration, afraid that Jovanic had been right. She raised her voice. “Annabelle, come back out here.” And when she had rejoined them, “I can’t have this going on here. Joel is a cop, for crying out loud.”

  “It was all my fault,” Monica said quickly. “I asked Annabelle if she’d ever smoked pot and . . . she wouldn’t let me try it, though. I wanted to, but she said no.”

  “Listen, both of you. I’m happy to have you here, but you’ve got to follow the rules. Understand?”

  Monica said, “Yes, Aunty C., I promise. Please, don’t tell on me, okay?”

  From Annabelle she got the shrug. “Whatever.”

  “That’s not good enough, Annabelle.”

  The girl swung around on her with a scowl. “How come everybody’s always on my case? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Claudia wanted to shake her.

  After the pot-smoking episode, Claudia took a long, hard look at where she was going with Annabelle. The odor had lingered long enough for Jovanic to notice and go ballistic. She knew that his reaction would have been less heavy-handed if things had been better between them that weekend, but it was a pitched battle to talk him out of turning the girl over to the juvenile authorities.

  In the final analysis, she concluded that what Annabelle needed most was consistency and an adult she could trust. Jovanic’s feelings were important to her, but he would have to find a way to deal with her desire to help the girl. Having settled that in her mind, and figuring she could hold it over the girls in case either of them got out of hand, she decided not to report the incident to Paige or Pete.

  For the next couple of weeks Annabelle was subdued and kept to her nose clean at school. She and Claudia spoke over the phone several times and she dutifully faxed her graphotherapy work sheets twice a week.

  Arriving at the Sorensen Academy for Annabelle’s in-person graphotherapy session, Claudia found the lobby redolent with the scent of fresh pine from an enormous Douglas fir decorated as a Victorian Christmas tree.

  She paused to enjoy the red velvet bows and pearl satin ribbons, the glittering stars and silver garlands draped over the boughs. Natural green branches showed from beneath the ornaments, making her glad the majestic tree hadn’t been flocked with fake snow. Red and white striped candy canes, gingerbread men, and painted glass ornaments sent her back to her childhood at Granny Arlene’s house, before life became complicated.

  Gift boxes were stacked around the base of the tree, some imprinted with the names of Beverly Hills department stores. The gift wrap probably cost more than anything she had purchased during the shopping trip with the girls and Kelly, thought Claudia.

  “They’re for homeless children,” said Brenda, the receptionist, noticing her looking. “Mrs. Sorensen asked all the students and the staff to pitch in. She’s taking the gifts to a homeless shelter in Santa Monica on Christmas Day with Mr. Falkenberg and Mr. Montenegro.”

  Claudia couldn’t help being impressed. She had begun to think that all of Paige’s interests were self-involved. “I’ll run over to the mall after I leave here and drop something off,” she said.

  A big smile transformed Brenda’s plain face. “That would be awesome, Ms. Rose. Those poor little kids need all the holiday spirit they can get.” She reached for the ringing phone as she asked, “You’re here to see Annabelle?”

  Claudia nodded. “Is she ready for me?”

  “Yes, but Mrs. Sorensen wanted to see you first. She’s in her office.”

  Claudia hurried upstairs, wondering about the reason for the summons. There had been no contact from Paige since Annabelle’s visit. Maybe she was ready to say thank you.

  “They’re at it again,” said Paige as Claudia walked into her office. “The twins.” She pointed to her desk, where a sheet of paper lay atop the blotter.

  Claudia dropped into the guest chair. From her vantage point she could see the numbered lines running down the left side of the paper and guessed that it was a legal filing or pleading.

  “What this time?”

  “They’ve filed a lawsuit for ‘undue influence’! We won the forgery case, but now this! They’re claiming I forced Torg to sign the will.” Paige yanked open her desk drawer and withdrew an envelope, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and brandished it at Claudia. “I got this in yesterday’s mail. I want to know what you can tell me about the person who wrote it.”

  The handwriting on the heavy cream-colored notepaper had a wild, uncontrolled rhythm. Thick black ink covered the page. Overly embellished loops, tangled lines, large, extravagant capital letters. The writer had left no margins on any side.

  Claudia gestured at Paige with the notepaper. “Male or female?”

  “Can’t you tell it’s a woman?”

  “You can’t conclusively tell gender or age from handwriting. What it does show is whether the writer’s personality traits are more masculine or more feminine, and the emotional maturity level compared to chronological age.”

  She waved the paper. “This is not a girly girl. This is more of a ma
sculine energy who takes over absolutely everything in her environment. See how she starts writing on the extreme left edge of the paper and doesn’t stop until she gets to the edge of the right side? She bends the writing down on the right edge to cram in what she wants to say. That means you’re forced to either twist your neck or turn the paper if you want to read it. Then she starts the next line so close to the last one that she writes over the tops of the loops on the line before.”

  “So what does it mean?” Paige asked, clicking her fingernails on the desk in a jittery way that made Claudia want to grab her hand and stop it.

  “She crowds people in an effort to control them. She stands too close when you’re having a conversation. She doesn’t know when it’s time to leave.”

  “Diana sent it. That sounds like her all right.” Paige turned her left hand over and stared at her palm, which was still healing from the cut she had suffered in Diana’s attack. “I can’t believe the bitch is threatening me again. Hasn’t she done enough?” She took the letter back from Claudia. “Did you read it?”

  Claudia shook her head. “I don’t have to read it to understand the personality.”

  “Okay, then listen to this.” Paige began reading in a tone that dripped sarcasm. “ ‘Stepmommy Dearest. You killed our father and stole our inheritance. I’m going to prove it and when I do, I promise you’ll pay in spades for what you’ve put us through.’ ”

  “She’s accusing you of killing your husband?”

  “Wait,” Paige said, looking grim. “You haven’t heard the best part.” She took a deep breath and continued reading. “ ‘We know what you’ve been up to. Don’t think you’re going to get away with it. You made our father’s life a living hell, parading your boy toys in front of his face. Better watch your back—you might find a knife in it.’ ”

  Claudia reached out her hand and Paige returned the letter to her. Studying the handwriting again, she tried to assess how much real danger the implied threat might pose. Her eyes rested on boy toys, and she wondered whether Diana’s brother Neil was included in the taunt.

  She could feel Paige watching her, waiting for some kind of reaction. She asked, “What are you going to do about this?”

  “What the hell can I do?”

  “Get a restraining order against her.”

  Paige gave a harsh laugh. “A restraining order? How would that help?”

  “A written threat is an arrestable offense. You have to show this to the police, Paige.”

  “I don’t want to have her arrested!”

  Claudia recalled the jolt of fear she had felt in the face of Diana’s rage. “Why not? She’s made a threat.”

  “I don’t want the police,” Paige said. “I don’t want her going public with these accusations. Jesus, Claudia, would you send your daughter to a school where the headmistress has been accused of having affairs and killing her elderly husband? Just being accused would be enough to destroy me.”

  Refolding the letter, Claudia laid it on top of the court papers on Paige’s desk. A knot of schoolgirls passed the office door, chattering loudly. They called out greetings to Paige, who replied in a sunny voice, making it seem that all was right in her world.

  Once the students were out of earshot, she dropped the Pollyanna act and repeated, “I’m not going to the police with this. I just want to know what you think of her handwriting. How dangerous is she?”

  Claudia chewed on her lower lip, considering. It wasn’t an easy question to answer.

  “What you need to understand is, handwriting only shows potential. She may or may not act on it, depending on circumstances. This is the sort of person who doesn’t plan ahead, she acts on impulse. What disturbs me is she has this need to control everyone and everything, but she lacks self-control. I doubt she meant she would literally stab you in the back but, Paige, why take chances?”

  “I told you, goddamn it—the bad publicity!”

  “Listen,” Claudia said. “The guy I’m seeing is a detective. I could talk to him for you, get some advice.”

  But Paige was adamant. “No! They’re going to find out I’m tougher than they think. They can’t control me with their threats. I’ll call their bluff.”

  “Not so long ago you were so afraid of these people you talked about getting a gun. Now you’ve got an actual threat and you’re not going to do anything?”

  A noise at the door made Claudia turn her head.

  Neil Sorensen wheeled into the room, his wheelchair whisper soft on the carpeting.

  What’s he doing here?

  She hadn’t seen him since the day of Paige’s hearing; nor had Paige mentioned him since the time she’d come to Claudia’s house, claiming to be seeking a confidante. Claudia shot a glance at Paige to gauge her reaction.

  Paige’s face cleared and her smile could have lit the Christmas tree in the lobby. “Hi there, sweetie,” she said. She rose from her desk and went over to him, the bitter animosity she had just expressed toward Neil’s siblings evaporating as if Claudia had imagined it.

  She bent down and kissed his cheek. Neil’s hand reached up and grabbed hers. He turned it over and touched her injured palm to his lips. Maneuvering his chair around the furniture, he stopped a few feet from where Claudia sat on the sofa, watching them.

  “Ms. Rose,” he said, leaning forward and offering his hand, which was speckled with a whitish substance—paint or plaster by the look of it. He wore a gray sweatshirt stained with a similar material, and khaki cargo pants. “I haven’t had the pleasure, at least not formally. I’m Neil Sorensen.”

  His skin felt dry and cool as he took her hand. She had expected weakness; what she got was a firm grasp and the upper-body strength of someone who worked out.

  “Nice to meet you,” Claudia said, wondering how she was supposed to react to Torg Sorensen’s youngest offspring. Didn’t he view her as the enemy the way his older siblings did? He wasn’t looking at her with the same antagonism. His gaze appeared open and direct, curious. Out of the shadow of his brother and sister he seemed far more alive than she remembered from that day in court.

  Oblivious to Claudia’s discomfort, Paige sat next to her on the sofa so that her face was on a level with Neil’s. “What’s up?”

  He swiveled his chair in her direction. “I seem to have picked a bad time. I wanted to talk to you about Annabelle.”

  “Let me guess—she’s causing problems again.”

  Neil’s gaze shifted toward Claudia and Paige said, “She’s been working with Annabelle—some handwriting therapy, supposed to improve her behavior.”

  He tilted his head, the thin lips pursing. “Interesting—it does seem like she’s been a little calmer. But you still need to do something about her, Paige. She’s flat out refusing to do the assignments the way I want them.”

  “What do you want me to do, Neil, lock her in her room?”

  Claudia’s gaze bounced between them like a spectator at a tennis match. Paige noticed her puzzlement and smiled. “Oh, I forgot you didn’t know, Claudia. Neil’s the art instructor here at the school.”

  Chapter 14

  Claudia left the office wondering why Paige had never mentioned that Neil Sorensen worked at the Academy. It seemed an important piece of information to have left out, especially when she had spilled her guts about the rest of the family, and even talked about Neil coming on to her.

  With this latest revelation, Paige’s claims to need a friend rang hollow. Maybe what she really needed was an audience.

  Wondering what other information Paige might have withheld, Claudia was fuming by the time she left the lobby. She would work Annabelle through her graphotherapy program, she decided, and then walk away from the Sorensen Academy and the melodrama that seemed to cling to Paige like Velcro.

  The end of the day. Study hall in session meant silence at the Sorensen Academy.

  When Claudia opened the door to the near-empty classroom where the graphotherapy sessions were held, her ears were greeted by the s
ound of a rhythmic thud-squeak , thud-squeak.

  Alone in the room, Annabelle was hunched over her desk in a corner, a small shadow in her black sweater and black Levi’s. The sound was coming from her sneakers as she lifted her feet a few inches then dropped them, scuffing the polished wood floor.

  Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Claudia said.

  No response. The shoulders stayed hunched. The sneakers continued to rise and fall.

  Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak.

  “Annabelle?” Claudia reached out and put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, only to have the shoulder wrenched away. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.” The mumble was barely audible. “It’s not making any difference.”

  “Funny you should say that. I just heard from your art teacher that he’s pleased with your improvement.”

  “He’s lying. My life still sucks.”

  Claudia sat down at the desk next to her. “Did something happen?”

  Without looking up, Annabelle gave her head a fierce shake. “Just go away. Leave me alone.”

  “I came across town to see you. Why don’t we talk about it?”

  Another sharp shake of the head. “No!” Her voice broke on a half sob and she muttered a few words that included slut.

  “Who are you talking about?” Claudia asked.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Sorry, kiddo, that’s not an option.”

  Silence.

  “Annabelle, please look at me.”

  The girl turned toward her and shot her an angry glare. “What?”

  With her face turned into the light, Claudia understood why she wanted to avoid scrutiny: the makings of a black eye and a swollen lower lip, a scratch across her cheek. The dark eyes sparked with rage and pain.