Mistress by James Patterson Page A

has log siding and a stone chimney and sits on four acres of waterfront property on Lake Anna. The land’s been in my father’s family for three generations, but the lake, in its current form, wasn’t created until the early ’70s as a cooling mechanism for Virginia Electric and Power’s nuclear reactors. My grandfather built the original log cabin on this land, but within a month of his death, in 1983, Father knocked it down and built a two-story, four-bedroom, two-bath structure. Father wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. He didn’t keep a single picture from his childhood and never talked about his parents. My grandfather worked in trade shows. I think that meant he brought shows in and took a commission from the convention center or something like that. He made millions and invested exceptionally well, ergo my trust fund. That’s all I know about Grandpa. Never met the guy and never heard a single intimate detail about him except from Aunt Grace at Father’s funeral, who said that Father hated his dad. So we Caspers are keeping a pretty consistent generational theme going.
    I stop and gaze a moment at the serene lake, breathe in the clean air. Down by the water there is a long, L-shaped dock and boathouse. No boat, though. It’s stored in town and I’ve been too busy this summer to get it out. No matter. Just being here instills a sense of calm. This place is good for the soul.
    Father was a closet drinker, which is a very difficult thing to be, because you’re not fooling anybody when you’re slurring your words and stumbling around like a toddler learning to walk. But he limited his boozing to the evening, so only Mom and I were granted front-row seats to the Marty Casper Show. In the thirty-four years he worked in the history department at American University, I’ll bet there wasn’t a soul there who had any clue that Professor Casper emptied a bottle of Scotch per night.
    I circle the cabin, looking for the best point of entry for my break-in. I settle on the wraparound deck on the lake side of the cabin, which is almost entirely a wall of glass. The view of the lake is breathtaking. Others who live here, in the so-called mid-lake, who like to check out everyone else’s cabins as they motor up and down the water, call our cabin the house of glass.
    I decide on a kitchen window because it’s a standard model that will be easy to replace. I pick up a rock, but it falls from my hand. I poise my hand in the air and watch it quiver. It’s the first time I recognize the tremble in my body. My legs begin to buckle again and I realize that I’ve underestimated the effects of what happened to me. I’m surprised I made it down here on the Triumph without killing myself. Mother would have said, You didn’t have your thinking cap on .
    Mother wasn’t the warmest of people, either. She took a lot of pills and thought I didn’t know. Some days, she’d put me in front of the TV and lock herself in the bathroom for hours. One time, I walked over to the door to ask her what was going on and heard her sobbing and sniffling inside. I never made that mistake again. I just sat in front of the television, ready to turn up the volume when necessary to drown out her cries or her singing. She’d come out eventually, having mustered the courage to face the world, and would wrap her arms around me and hum softly to me while I watched whatever was on TV.
    So maybe she wasn’t everyone’s idea of the ideal mommy, but she was still mine. And she didn’t deserve what happened to her.
    Instead of a rock, I use my elbow to break through the glass of the kitchen window. It’s not an easy fit, but I slide through the window face-first into the kitchen sink, one of those old-fashioned farmer’s sinks of stainless steel.
    I manage to fall to the floor without doing serious damage to myself. I won’t be giving any Olympic gymnast a run for his money, but I don’t break any bones. Maybe I’m like Bruce Willis in