More Twisted

sighed. One of the reasons she’d moved here in the first place was that she’d learned her daughter had relocated to the Northwest. Liz had been meaning to try to track the girl down but had found herself oddly reluctant to do so. No, she’d stay, she’d meet with Beth Anne. But she wasn’t going to be stupid, not after the robbery. Liz now hung the jacket on a hanger and walked to the closet. She pulled down a box from the top shelf and looked inside. There sat a smallpistol. “A ladies’ gun,” Jim had called it when he gave it to her years ago. She took it out and stared at the weapon.
    Sleep, my child . . . All through the night.
    Then she shuddered in disgust. No, she couldn’t possibly use a weapon against her daughter. Of course not.
    The idea of putting the girl to sleep forever was inconceivable.
    And yet . . . What if it were a choice between her life and her daughter’s? What if the hatred within the girl had pushed her over the edge?
    Could she kill Beth Anne to save her own life?
    No mother should ever have to make a choice like this one.
    She hesitated for a long moment then started to put the gun back. But a flash of light stopped her. Headlights filled the front yard and cast bright yellow cat’s eyes on the sewing room wall beside Liz.
    The woman glanced once more at the gun and, rather than put it away in the closet, set it on a dresser near the door and covered it with a doily. She walked into the living room and stared out the window at the car in her driveway, which sat motionless, lights still on, wipers whipping back and forth fast, her daughter hesitating to climb out; Liz suspected it wasn’t the bad weather that kept the girl inside.
    A long, long moment later the headlights went dark.
    Well, think positive, Liz told herself. Maybe her daughter had changed. Maybe the point of the visit was reaching out to make amends for all the betrayal over the years. They could finally begin to work on having a normal relationship.
    Still, she glanced back at the sewing room, where the gun sat on the dresser, and told herself: Take it. Keep it in your pocket.
    Then: No, put it back in the closet.
    Liz did neither. Leaving the gun on the dresser, she strode to the front door of her house and opened it, feeling cold mist coat her face.
    She stood back from the approaching silhouetted form of the slim young woman as Beth Anne walked through the doorway and stopped. A pause then she swung the door shut behind her.
    Liz remained in the middle of the living room, pressing her hands together nervously.
    Pulling back the hood of her windbreaker, Beth Anne wiped rain off her face. The young woman’s face was weathered, ruddy. She wore no makeup. She’d be twenty-eight, Liz knew, but she looked older. Her hair was now short, revealing tiny earrings. For some reason, Liz wondered if someone had given them to the girl or if she’d bought them for herself.
    “Well, hello, honey.”
    “Mother.”
    A hesitation then a brief, humorless laugh from Liz. “You used to call me ‘Mom.’ ”
    “Did I?”
    “Yes. Don’t you remember?”
    A shake of the head. But Liz thought that in fact she did remember but was reluctant to acknowledge the memory. She looked her daughter over carefully.
    Beth Anne glanced around the small living room. Her eye settled on a picture of herself and her father together—theywere on the boat dock near the family home in Michigan.
    Liz asked, “When you called you said somebody told you I was here. Who?”
    “It doesn’t matter. Just somebody. You’ve been living here since . . .” Her voice faded.
    “A couple of years. Do you want a drink?”
    “No.”
    Liz remembered that she’d found the girl sneaking some beer when she was sixteen and wondered if she’d continued to drink and now had a problem with alcohol.
    “Tea, then? Coffee?”
    “No.”
    “You knew I moved to the Northwest?” Beth Anne asked.
    “You always talked about the area, getting away from . . . well, getting out of Michigan and coming here. Then after you moved out you got some mail at the house. From somebody in Seattle.”
    Beth Anne nodded. Was there a slight grimace too? As if she was angry with herself for carelessly leaving a clue to her whereabouts. “And you moved to Portland to be near me?”
    Liz smiled. “I guess I did. I started to look you up but I lost the nerve.” Liz felt tears welling in her eyes as her daughter continued her examination of the room. The house was