Who Are You? (9780307823533) Read Free Page A

in intensive care, how do you get in to see him?”
    “You usually don’t, unless you’re family,” Dad says, and shakes his head.
    “I’m just trying to help,” I tell him. “And besides, it’s like the bear. You know?”
    For a moment he looks puzzled. Then his eyes spark, and I can see that he has remembered. Hesmiles at me. “You mean the nightmare bear,” he says.
    “That’s right. The one that I’d dream about and then wake up crying when I was a little kid. You taught me to face the bear and say, ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ so he’d go away. And finally he did.”
    “Mr. Merson’s real. He’s not a nightmare bear,” Dad says.
    “But I have to face him, Dad—just like I did with the bear. I have to know what he looks like. And I have to know why he kept a folder of pictures and stuff about me. You understand, don’t you?”
    Dad nods. “I understand, Kristi. I’m your father. I want to know too. You’ll have to be patient. So will I. Ben Taub Hospital has one of the best emergency rooms in Houston, and most gunshot victims are taken there. But Mr. Merson’s a wealthy man. When he’s able to leave intensive care, he’ll probably transfer to a smaller, private hospital. Then Detective Balker can arrange a visit.”
    “But—”
    “You don’t have a choice,” Dad says firmly.
    Oh, yes, I do
, I tell myself. This intrusion is something that makes me totally uncomfortable. It’s terribly important to me to see Douglas Merson. I am not a baby. Hospital rules or no rules—I must see him as soon as I can, no matter what anyone says.

C HAPTER T HREE
    O ur Sunday-morning newspaper is still on the kitchen table. The story about the shooting is on the front page of the
Chronicle
, and there’s a picture of Merson’s house, with crime tape stretched around the trees on the broad front yard. No address. Just the description “posh River Oaks home.” But down in the story is the name of the street: Buffalo Bayou Lane. I stare at the photograph until I memorize the look of the house.
    It’s a large, modernistic, two-story, white brick building with a tile roof, and three rounded steps up to a gigantic front door with a center panel of leaded glass. The house stretches wide wings out among the trees, some of the oaks dripping with strands of gray moss, and there are huge windowseverywhere. The house is a light, bright spot in spite of the heavy shade, and the front yard is so beautiful it could only have been planted by a landscape designer.
    There are no photographs of Merson with the story, as I thought there surely must be.
    Who are you?
I silently ask.
Why did you suddenly shove your way into my life? I didn’t ask you to.
    I’m scared at what I’m about to do. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe someone besides Merson has been stalking me to take those photos, so I should keep someone by my side and not go out alone. But it can’t be Mom. And not Dad. Not with what I plan to do. With them everything is rules, regulations, and order, in tidy, even columns. Sometimes those things come in handy, sometimes I even appreciate them, but right now rules are the last things I need.
    I snatch up my purse and car keys. As though it’s a good-luck charm, I tuck Detective Balker’s card into my bag.
    Dad’s in the same spot where I left him, sitting motionless, frowning at something invisible. “Could I take your car or Mom’s?” I ask him. “Mom’s going to be on the phone for hours and hours—maybe days. Edna talks forever, and Mom will want to call Grandma and Aunt Darlene. I want to tell Lindy what happened. I’d rather see her than wait for the phone.”
    Dad’s frown deepens. “We aren’t sure who took the photos of you. And your mother suggested asking for police protection. I think maybe you should stay home, or one of us should be with you, Kristi.”
    “Surely, if I were in danger, the detectives would have said so.”
    “Maybe you should check your plans with your