Beneath Her Skin, Gregg Olsen [ereader with android .txt] 📗

question, but I don’t have the answer. Whoever thought she was pregnant was AB. That’s about all I can say.”

It was early evening. The Ryans’ dinner table had been cleared and the girls were upstairs doing their schoolwork, though Hayley said she really didn’t have any.

“I’ll just do some sympathy homework for you, Tay,” she said, trying to worm her way back into her sister’s good graces.

Taylor begrudgingly thanked her. She had to write a paper for art class.

“Can’t you just do a drawing or something?” Hayley asked.

“I wish. I thought art would be easy. This teacher is actually making us write papers on technique. I’m doing mine on chiaroscuro.”

“Yum… I love churros,” Hayley teased.

Downstairs, things were quiet. Valerie had gone out to gas up her car so she wouldn’t have to do it in the morning, and Kevin went into his office to catch up on email.

He was pleased to see two fan letters in his inbox. The first was from a woman in Alabama who said she’d never written to a “real life” author in her entire life, but after reading Kevin’s Handsome as the Devil, about Dylan Walker, a charismatic serial killer who stalked women and girls in the Northwest, she felt compelled to do so.

The next one was from S. Osteen. Her tone was too familiar for a mere fan letter, which he instantly knew it was not.

From: S. Osteen

To: Kevin Ryan

RE: WARNING!

Mr. Ryan, hopefully you remember me. I observed your girls for the linguistics project from the U. I’m Savannah Osteen. I have done something terrible, and I wanted to warn you. I apologize for it, and I truly hope no harm comes to you or your family. I showed a reporter named Moira Windsor a tape I made when I was there filming your girls. Maybe you know what was on that tape. Maybe you don’t. I know Mrs. Ryan does. Please forgive me.

Kevin could feel his heart sinking. He hit the PRINT button on his computer and fumbled for an aspirin in case he had a heart attack. Sweat collected above his brows and wicked in his shirt under his armpits.

Val, hurry home. You’ve got to see this.

* * *

Upstairs, Taylor reread her paper for art class. There had been a two-page requirement, and she’d managed to meet that by using a fourteen-point font. She was sure the teacher would call her on that, but she’d done her best. She knew other kids would basically wiki their whole paper, but she’d tried to do them all one better by using web sources from other sites, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The New York City museum was hosting a traveling exhibit from Italy called Chiaroscuro: Our World in Light and Dark.

The wiki kids were so lazy. It really didn’t take any more time or effort to actually use a search engine to find something beyond the very obvious.

Taylor popped her head into her sister’s room and told her that her “sympathy” homework could end.

“Good,” Hayley said, “because I’ve been Facebooking for the last hour anyway.”

“Thanks for the support,” Taylor said as she made her way down the hall and downstairs to their dad’s office, where the networked printer commanded a little table next to the door. She noticed the bathroom door was shut and wondered if the dinner she’d made—a kind of beef stroganoff without beef—had made him sick.

Taylor picked up her report and returned to her bedroom to proofread. On her computer screen, she could never find the mistakes that spell-checkers missed. Somehow they just leaped off the page when it was actually a page.

She pulled out a yellow highlighter and positioned it to mark whatever she needed to fix.

First page, perfection. Not a single mistake, grammatically, thematically, or otherwise. The second page, not so much. She’d switched the first name and the surname of the Italian artist. She wasn’t too hard on herself. It could happen to anyone.

Underneath was a third, and ultimately devastating, sheet of paper.

It was an email to her father and she almost didn’t bother reading it. But the subject line caught her attention: Warning!

Before she even finished reading she had it in her sister’s face.

“Holy crap,” Hayley said. “What’s she talking about?”

Taylor shook her head. “Dunno, but let’s ask Dad.”

As they went downstairs, they could hear their mother and father talking by the kitchen sink in slightly hushed tones. Valerie had just gotten home from filling up the car. She hadn’t even removed her coat. Her face was ashen, her eyes pinched together in worry. Kevin, who had his back to his girls, noticed Valerie’s eyes track the twins as they entered the room.

“Hi, girls,” he said, turning to face them. He wasn’t a very good actor, but he tried valiantly just then. He put on a smile. “Great dinner tonight. Mom and I were just talking about how you both are giving her a run for her money when it comes being Top Chef around here.”

Taylor held up the email. “That’s not what you’re talking about, Dad,” she said.

He looked at the paper. “Where did you get that?”

“She picked it up from the printer by mistake,” Hayley said.

Taylor spoke up. “Mom, Dad, what is this woman…” She looked down at the paper. “What is Savannah Osteen talking about?”

Kevin took the paper and pretended to give it a cursory read. Its contents were already burned into his memory. If a radio game show host called just then and asked for a word-for-word recounting of the “worst letter you’ve ever received” for a $10,000 prize, Kevin would be able to start spending the cash right then.

Instead, he lied.

“I don’t know,” he began, clearly struggling before gaining some steam. “Nothing. She’s a nut. I get letters like this every day from people who want to marry me or want to kill me.”

Valerie studied Hayley and Taylor. It was clear that Kevin’s blame on a crazed fan was a complete failure.

“Girls, I think we should all sit down