The Perfect Mum

“Suit yourself.” Regina, who was maybe in her early twenties, shrugged. “I’d rather watch TV than sit here all night. Even if it is reruns.”

“Everybody watches Friends,” Summer chimed in. “Monica is so-o pretty. Don’t you think?”

“I wish I looked like her,” Emma agreed. “I like to cook the way she does, too.”

Everyone at the table joined in to talk about Friends and whether Phoebe was too fat and how cool it would be to have a job as a chef as long as you didn’t have to sample anything and which was the hottest guy on the show.

Joey, most of them agreed, although Summer didn’t say anything and Emma didn’t think any of them were that hot. They were old, for one thing. Her uncle Ryan was better-looking than any of them. Her friends, back when she had some, always said he was super hot compared to their fathers or uncles or any of the teachers.

Emma guessed her dad was, too, but now when she thought of him all she could remember was his face contorted with rage and the cruelty of his hands and the terror of not being able to breathe when he shoved food into her mouth until it was smeared all over her face.

It was that moment when she knew how much he hated having a daughter who couldn’t do anything right. He’d mostly hidden it until then, but he’d finally cracked. Now she hated him, too, and dreamed about running into him by accident sometime when she was grown-up, and slim, and so beautiful she drove men crazy. And wildly successful, too—maybe a federal judge or mayor of Seattle or a movie star. She’d raise an eyebrow, just so, as if in faint surprise at his temerity in approaching her. Her expression would say, Do I know you? He’d mumble something about how much he admired her, or he’d say, “I tell all my friends you’re my daughter.” Mostly in these daydreams she was gracious, saying, “How nice,” before noticing someone more important she had to speak to. Sometimes, when she was in a bad mood, she’d imagine the scathing look she’d give him. “I have no father,” she would say icily, before moving on as if he was nobody.

Right this minute, she wished she had no mother, either. Because then she’d be living with Uncle Ryan, and he wouldn’t have committed her like a crazy person who needed twenty-four-hour guarding.

Realizing that even Summer was almost done with her dinner, Emma took another bite of mashed potatoes. Her stomach growled, startling her. Two more peas, then a tiny sip of the milk.

“Do you have to drink the milk, too?” she whispered, because Karen was strolling back her way.

Summer stole a glance toward their captor and kept her voice low, too. “Uh-huh.”

I can’t! Emma cried inside.

She hastily took another bite of potatoes.

“Try your meat,” Karen said pleasantly, with another tap on Emma’s shoulder.

Regina stood and lifted her tray to bus it. “It’s hard the first time,” she said quietly, nodded and left.

Summer left a few minutes later, too, and one by one so did just about everyone else. Only one other girl was left at another table, gazing down in dismay at her plate. Emma saw that her glass of milk was still mostly full, too.

Emma started to stand, but Karen materialized instantly.

“I’m sorry, Emma, but you’re not excused until you’ve finished.”

Bubbling with resentment, Emma said, “I was just going to sit with that other girl.”

“Oh, I don’t think either of you need to socialize when your food is getting cold.” Karen smiled, for all the world as if she’d just said something upbeat, like, You’re doing great. “Finish, and you’ll both have a chance to get acquainted.”

Three hours and thirty-four minutes later, tears in her eyes, Emma cut her cold pork chop, put a bite in her mouth and grimly began to chew.

CHAPTER FOUR

LOGAN FELT LIKE A DAMN IDIOT, making excuses so he could have a chance to see a woman. A woman, at that, who was way out of his league. It was like being a tongue-tied teenager again, coming up with elaborate reasons for taking a round-about route so he could pass her house.

Hesitating, then ringing her doorbell, he hunched inside his coat against the spring chill. It would serve him right if she wasn’t even home. Hell, maybe the missing teenage daughter would sulkily show him into the kitchen and sullenly show him out when he was done measuring.