Who Are You? (9780307823533) Read Free

Are we going to have to hide Kristi from reporters and photographers?”
    “The information about the folder hasn’t been released to the media,” Nims assures Mom with a hard look.
    But Mom isn’t satisfied. The look she gives Nims is every bit as steely. “And it won’t be?”
    “I can’t promise anything,” Nims says.
    Balker steps on Nims’s words. “Sooner or later the story is bound to come out. A folder kept on a girl who doesn’t even know the man—it’s unusual, which means it’s what they call newsworthy. But by the time the media hears the story, we hope to find out what the folder is all about so we can wrap up that part of the case. Okay?”
    Mom reluctantly nods agreement, but after the detectives leave she gives me a worried look. “Don’t be frightened by all this, honey,” she says. “You’re going to be all right. You’ll be safe. The police—”
    She breaks off and stares at Dad. “We should have asked about police protection. We can’t leave Kristi alone. Somebody should always be with her, even at school. I know this is our busiest season of the year, but we can hire some part-time help for the clerical work—maybe a university student from Rice or the University of Houston—”
    Mom is like a wind-up toy with new batteries, ready to go on for hours without stopping, so I grabher shoulders to interrupt her. “Mom, nobody’s after me. No stalker. No threats. Some guy has just kept pictures. No one’s going to hurt me.”
    “We don’t know that,” she says quickly.
    “Yes, we do. Douglas Merson is the one who was shot, not me. That shooting has nothing to do with us.”
    “In a way it does,” Dad tells me. “We wouldn’t have been aware of that folder if the police hadn’t discovered it.”
    Mom’s question comes out like a wail. “Oh, Drew, what does all this mean?”
    Dad’s answer is little more than a whisper. “I don’t know, Callie. Apparently, no one knows.”
    “Douglas Merson does,” I say. “And I’m going to ask him.”
    “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Kristi, be reasonable,” Mom says. “You heard the police tell us that he’s in intensive care and can’t have visitors.” She turns toward the kitchen. “I know. I’ll call one of my clients, Edna Grayburn. With her public relations job, she knows something about nearly everyone in Houston. Maybe she can tell us about—”
    “But we didn’t finish,” I complain.
    “Finish what?”
    “What we were talking about when the detectives came. About my application to that summer art program. It will help if I’m going to major in art in college, and—”
    Mom claps her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. “Oh, please, honey! Not one more word! We’ve said enough about it already! Pick a career that will support you. Can’t you see thatthose little cartoons you like to draw will never pay the bills?”
    “Drawing cartoons is just part of what I do. You know I’ve even won awards for my watercolors. Ms. Montero is a terrific art teacher. I trust her. And she tells me over and over that I have real artistic talent. She wants me to develop it when I go to college. She says the world would be a happier place if everyone loved their job.”
    I can hear the hurt in Mom’s voice, and I wince, as she says, “Do you care more about what Ms. Montero says than what we tell you? Think about it, Kristi. Ms. Montero isn’t going to pay for your college education. Your father and I are going to put out a fortune to get you through college. Shouldn’t we have some say in the major you chooser?”
    Dad steps between Mom and me. “This is no time to talk about college plans. Kristi has almost two years to think about college,” he says. “Callie, go ahead and call your client Edna. She may know something about Douglas Merson that will help us figure out what the folder on Kristi is all about.”
    Mom gives me an agonized look, then leaves for the bedroom phone.
    I ask Dad, “When someone’s