It reminded her that she was closing in on Bad Luck, a tiny town not far from Austin, a town she’d sworn she’d never set foot in again. The sunroof was open, harsh rays beating down on the top of her head, strands of her red-blond hair yanked from the knot she’d twisted to the base of her skull. She didn’t care. She’d kicked off her high heels at the airport and was driving barefoot, her eyebrows slammed together in concentration, the notes of some old Madonna song barely piercing her consciousness. She took a corner a little too fast, and the tires on the Caddy screeched, but she didn’t slow down. After ten years of being away, ten years ostracized, ten years of living life her way in Seattle, she couldn’t wait to pull up to the century-old home where she’d been raised. Not that she’d stay long. Just do her business and get the hell out.
“We need to talk.” “What the hell are you doin’ here, darlin’?” Disappointment clouded his blue eyes, and a part of her wanted to run to him and throw her arms around his neck and say oh, Daddy, I’ve missed you. But she didn’t. Instead she swallowed back the urge to break down altogether and stiffened her spine. She was no longer a frightened little girl. “Alone, Judge. We need to talk alone.” She stared pointedly at his latest gofers. The men, dismissed by a nod from their boss, kicked out their chairs, and with muffled words and hasty assurances from Judge Cole that they’d get together later, walked stiffly around the back of the house and through a gate. In the ensuing stillness, when the sound of bees humming and a woodpecker drumming were all that could be heard, Shelby didn’t waste any time. She reached into her briefcase, pulled out the manila envelope, ripped it open and spilled its contents onto the glass-topped table where the ice in three half-consumed drinks was still melting. The black-and-white photo of a girl of nine or ten stared up at them, and the Judge sucked in his breath as he slowly sat down again. Shelby noticed that his wedding band had cut a groove in the ring finger of his left hand, a ring that hadn’t been removed in over thirty years, and on his right, he sported a flashy diamond that most Hollywood brides would envy. Shelby leaned over the table so that the tip of her nose was nearly touching her father’s. With one finger she pointed to the black-and-white picture. “This is my daughter,” she said, her insides quaking, her voice unsteady. “Your granddaughter.” She looked for any sign of recognition in the old man’s face. There was none. “She looks just like me. Just like Mom.” The Judge glanced at the photo. “There’s a resemblance.” “No resemblance, Judge. This girl is a dead ringer. And here”—she edged a piece of paper from beneath the photograph—“this is a copy of her birth certificate. And this ... the death notice of her as a baby. Read it—Elizabeth Jasmine Cole. She was supposed to have died, Judge—of complications, heart problems—right after birth. You . . . you told me she hadn’t made it. That those ashes I spread in the hills ... oh, God, whose were they?” she asked, her voice cracking, the immense pain rising up again. Shaking her head, not wanting to hear any more lies, she said, “Don’t . . . oh, God.” Shelby’s throat was clogged and she thought she might throw up. “You lied to me, Dad. Why?” “I didn’t—” “Don’t! Just don’t, okay!” She held both her palms outward, in his face, and stepped back. Bile roiled in her stomach. Beneath her skin, her muscles were quivering in rage. “Someone, and I don’t know who, sent me all this. I got it yesterday, and so I came back here to clear it up. Where’s my daughter, Dad?” she demanded through teeth that were clenched so hard her jaw ached. “What the hell did you do with her?” “Now, darlin’—” “Stop it! Right now! Don’t call me darlin’, or sweetie, or kiddo, or missy or any of those cute little names, okay? I’m all grown up now, in case you hadn’t noticed, and you can’t smooth-talk your way out of this, Judge. I’m not a little girl. I know better than to believe a word that passes through your lying lips, and I only came back here to find my child, Judge—my daughter.” She thumped her chest with her thumb. “Yours and who else’s?” he asked, his smile having disappeared and the old, hard edge she remembered coming back to his voice. “That—that doesn’t matter.” “Doesn’t it?” The Judge scattered the papers across the table and frowned, his eyes narrowing behind wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Odd, don’t you think? You get proof that you’ve got a kid during the same week that Ross McCallum is going to be released from prison.” “What?” Her knees nearly buckled. McCallum couldn’t be given his freedom. Not yet. Not ever. Fear congealed her blood. She was suddenly hot and cold all at once. “Oh, so you didn’t know?” The Judge settled back in his chair and played with the ivory handle of his cane. He looked up at her over the tops of his glasses. “Uh-huh. Ross is gonna be a free man. Oh . . . and Nevada Smith, he’s still around.” Her stupid heart skipped a beat, but she managed to keep her face bland, her expression cool. Nevada was out of her life. Had been for a long, long time. Nothing would change that. Ever. “Yep,” the Judge went on, fingertips caressing the smooth knob, “inherited a rocky scrap of land that he’s tryin’ to ranch. No one knows how he’ll handle Ross’s freedom, but the word is that there is certainly gonna be hell to pay.” He bit his lower lip and scowled thoughtfully, as he’d often done while hearing long-winded summations when he was on the bench. “And now someone sends you bait—a little chum in the water to lure you back to a town you’ve sworn you’d never return to. Someone’s playin’ you for a fool, Shelby,” he said, slowly nodding his head, as if in agreement with himself, “and it ain’t me.” For once she believed him.
Lisa Jackson was one of those favorite authors during my early years of reading purely for pleasure. So, when I grabbed Unspoken, I was disappointed. There was little, if any, suspense that you could identify. The villain was clearly identifiable, since he was already a part of the main character's life. Indeed, he had already attacked her during high school!
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