Xo (Kathryn Dance 3)

He doesn't deserve it. Other people do. That's my point.

--ESKayleighfan

Kayleigh came back on the line with Gerber's number. Dance jotted it down. "Thanks. We're doing everything we can. I'll call you back."

She called Sam Gerber and got voicemail. It was a local area code and exchange so maybe not a mobile. She left an urgent message.

"He lives in Madera," Madigan said. "I'll get a car to his house. If we're lucky he may not have left yet."

"The road," Dance mused. "Let's assume Edwin's going to try something on the route from Madera here."

She realized that, despite Sally Docking's report and the ambiguous evidence otherwise, she was making the assumption that Edwin was the killer. Still, she couldn't help herself and she continued to scroll through the fan site, trying to put herself into the young man's troubled mind.

WHAT SHE WANTED most was for Kayleigh to love her.

Sheri Towne knew she started from a disadvantage, of course. No, she wasn't like Wife Number Three--the Child, as Sheri cattily thought of her, or Number Two, the Tarot Card Reader.

Yet Sheri was a lot younger than Bishop and in her own opinion didn't bring a lot to the table. She was insecure and knew she was worlds away from Margaret, the strong woman who was Kayleigh's and Suellyn's mother. Sheri knew about her not because anyone in the Towne family talked about Margaret in front of her, least of all Bishop, but because she'd listened to and memorized all of Kayleigh's songs; many of the early ones were about her mother.

Despite the tension, though, Sheri liked Kayleigh a lot, independent of being her stepmother, and she liked Suellyn and her husband, Roberto, and Mary-Gordon too. Oh, what a cute kid! Just the sort of child she wished she'd had, whom she would have had, if life had gone just a bit differently.

Sheri wanted badly to fit in. She loved Bishop, loved the odd mix of his power and his neediness, loved his talent--brilliant in the past and still glimmering now. (And maybe it would blossom again in the future; he talked sometimes about returning to performing. This was a secret that he'd shared with no one but her.)

Still, her connection with her new husband wouldn't be complete if she couldn't form a real relationship with Kayleigh. And not that superficial cordiality.

Hey there, Sheri, how ya doing? You have a good day now. Take care.

Hell. To Kayleigh, I'm like the most anonymous fan she sees at a concert.

She finally turned off the long drive from their house on the route to the highway. The car bounded along; the road, though paved, wasn't much better than gravel.

And yet, maybe, just maybe, things could change. There'd been crumbs of hope. Kayleigh's sending Sheri the occasional greeting card. A present on her birthday. And then a half hour ago she'd gotten an email from Kayleigh saying when she came to the luncheon, could she bring a couple of dozen of her CDs from Bishop's house as giveaways to fans? Kayleigh'd forgotten them.

Thanks, Sheri. You're a star!

The woman had been

hurt that Kayleigh hadn't even asked her to the event, which she herself had helped put together. But she'd noted the word "when" she came to the luncheon. So the girl hadn't snubbed her at all. Maybe she'd assumed Alicia had asked her. Or maybe Kayleigh had just assumed all along Sheri would be attending.

Or was the invitation a backhanded apology, reflecting the girl's cooling anger? The two had had an embarrassing fight at the show in Bakersfield not long ago. It had been minor, stupid, really. But some asshole had recorded a minute or two of their harsh words and the video had gone viral. Sheri had been mortified--even if, in her opinion, Kayleigh had started the fight.

All might be forgiven, though. Maybe Sheri wasn't doomed to be the Evil Stepmother forever.

The condition of the road improved and she pressed the accelerator of the Mercedes down further, speeding along the deserted highway, groves of trees on either side.

Maybe she should get Kayleigh a present, thanking her. She--

The flat happened so fast she couldn't respond before the car was careening along the shoulder. Sheri gave a faint scream and struggled to control the heavy vehicle, swerving perilously close to the trees, streaking by at seventy miles an hour.

But Sheri Marshal Towne had grown up in the Midwest and started driving at fourteen. Snow and powerful engines conspired to teach her how to handle skids. She now steered into the swerve, easing off the gas but never touching the brake.

Slower, slower ... the car fishtailed, went straight, fishtailed some more, spewing gravel and leaves and twigs from the tires. But she managed to keep it from flying over the thirty-foot cliff to the right or slamming into the row of pines close by the opposite side.

Fifty miles an hour, forty ...

In the end, though, the ground was too slippery--gravel and pebbles on hardpack--and she couldn't quite prevent the crash as the big Merc slid off the road toward the trees, wedging itself into a ditch, and shuddered to a stop.

Her hands sweaty, her heart thudding, Sheri rested her head against the steering wheel.