Speaking in Tongues

move a muscle.Then Matthews’s eyes crinkled with what seemed to be humor. His lips moved and he seemed to be speaking to himself. He withdrew the blade.
    “No, Collier, no. Not you. I don’t want you.”
    “But why not?” Tate whispered quickly. “Why not? Tell me!”
    “Because you’re going to live your life without your daughter. Just like I’m going to live mine without my son.”
    “And that’ll take the pain away?”
    “Yes!”
    The lawyer nodded. “Then you have to let her go.” He struggled to keep the triumph from his voice—as he always did in court or at the debate podium. “Then you have to let her go and kill me. It’s the only answer for you.”
    “Daddy,” Megan whimpered. Tate believed it was the first time he’d heard her say the word in ten years.
    “Only answer?” Matthews asked uncertainly.
    Tate had known that eventually it would come to this. But what a time, what a place for it to happen.
    All cats see in the dark.
    Therefore Midnight can see in the dark.
    He leaned his head against the girl’s cheek. “Oh, honey . . .”
    Megan asked. “What is it? What?”
    Unless Midnight is blind.
    Tate began to speak. His voice cracked. He started again. “Aaron, what you want makes perfect sense. Except that . . .” It was Megan’s eyes he gazed into, not their captor’s, as he said, “Except that I’m not her father.”

Chapter Thirty
    Matthews seemed to gaze down at his captives but he was backlit by dawn light in the picture window and Tate couldn’t see where his eyes were turned.
    Megan, pale in the same oblique light, clasped her injured face. A pink sheen of blood was on her cheeks and hands. She was frowning.
    Matthews laughed but Tate could see that his quick mind was considering facts and drawing tentative conclusions.
    “I’m disappointed, Collier. That’s obvious and simpleminded. You’re lying.”
    “When you were stalking Megan and me how often did you see us together?” Tate asked.
    “That doesn’t mean anything.”
    “You followed us for how long?”
    A splinter of doubt, like a faint cloud obscuring the sun momentarily. Tate had seen this in the eyes of a thousand witnesses.
    Matthews answered, “Six months.”
    “How many weekends was she with me?”
    “That doesn’t—”
    “How many?”
    “Two, I think.”
    “You broke into my house to plant those letters. How many pictures of her did you see?”
    “Dad . . .”
    “How many?” Tate asked firmly, ignoring the girl.
    Matthews finally said, “None.”
    “What did her bedroom look like?”
    Another hesitation. Then: “A storeroom.”
    “How much affection did you ever see between us? Did I seem like a father? I’ve got dark, curly hair and eyes. Bett’s auburn. And Megan’s blond, for God’s sake. Does she even look like me? Look at the eyes. Look!”
    He did. He said uncertainly, “I still don’t believe you.”
    “No, Daddy! No!”
    “You went to see my wife,” Tate continued to Matthews, squeezing Megan’s leg to silence her.
    The doctor nodded.
    “Well, you’re a therapist. What did you see in Bett’s face when you were talking to her? What was there when she was telling you about us and about Megan?”
    Matthews reflected. “I saw . . . guilt.”
    “That’s right,” Tate said. “Guilt.”
    Matthews looked from one of his captives to the other.
    “Seventeen years ago,” Tate began slowly, speaking to Megan, finally revealing the truth they’d kept from her for all these years, “I was prosecuting cases, making a name for myself. The Washington Post called me the hottest young prosecutor in the commonwealth. I’d take on every assignment that came into the office. I was working eighty hours a week. I got home to your mother on weekends at best. I’d go for three or fourdays in a row and hardly even call. I was trying to be my grandfather. The lawyer-farmer-patriarch. I’d be a local celebrity. We’d have a huge family, an old manse. Sunday dinners, reunions, holidays . . . the whole nine yards.”
    He took a deep breath. “That was when your aunt Susan had her first bad heart attack. She was in the hospital for a month and mostly bedridden after that.”
    “What are you saying?” Megan whispered.
    “Susan was married. Her husband, you remember him.”
    “Uncle Harris.”
    “You were right in your letter, Megan. Your mother did spend a lot of time caring for her sister. Harris and your mother both did.”
    “No,” Megan said