“I have no idea. Finally: until the day comes when medical science has progressed to a point where it can tell me for certain if you are Gail’s father, you are never to say a word about this to her. Never. I’ve worked in the offices of psychiatric physicians, and I know from typing their notes that for a young woman to discover that a man about whom she’s had fantasies might be her father . . . this could be shattering to a girl who, at the moment, has a very optimistic and sunny view of the world and her place in it.

“And just in case you wonder where my own self-interest rests: I’ve worked very hard to paint a picture of a fine father who was killed in an accident overseas just after Gail was conceived. Russ Hewett, whom I love very deeply, also believes this to be true. I’ve lived a very respectable life since I learned I was pregnant, and I wouldn’t want Gail or Russ to ever learn what kind of a young woman I was when you knew me.”

She grabbed my left wrist, dug her nails hard into my arm above my wristwatch, and held them there. “So you’re going to say and do nothing beyond helping her with this performance of her composition, and then you’re going to leave our lives, at least until someone invents a blood test that can determine for certain if you are her father. But if you turn Gail’s life into a shambles by telling her what you might be to her, even though we may never know for certain if you really are . . . or if you in any way let her down with this project . . . and especially if you make the slightest overture to my daughter, I promise I will take that carving fork I used on you two days ago and drive it into your heart, over and over again. Look at me. Do you have any doubt I would do it?”

“No,” I said.

She let go of my arm. With her nails she had once again caused me to bleed, but this time it was not to acquire medical information. Martha added, “And there wouldn’t be a jury anywhere in California that would find me guilty of murder.”

Chapter 29

29

Coming in from The Rain

Water streamed down in thick ropes from the gutters of Russ Hewett’s level rooftop and twined to the ground, where it formed sloppy puddles. I rang the doorbell and could hear Gail stepping quickly to the door, almost in a run, making no attempt to feign nonchalance. She was sweatered now in a light Irish cable-knit top above her pleated skirt. Her hair spilled down upon her forehead. She looked very happy to see me, as if I’d made it home through dangerous weather.

“Hello, kid,” I said.