The Final Judgment by Richard North Patterson Page A

lacquered grand piano, sang Edith Piaf in the breathy French she had never bothered to teach Caroline, that no one in their home could speak or understand. But even this language, Caroline came to know, was not quite her mother’s own. History had left her without family or country, or any home but this. Even her mother’s “La Vie en Rose,” Caroline remembered, had the sound of irony. Dark head poised, eyes nearly shut, Nicole Dessaliers Masters would sing with a faint half smile .... Turning from the music room, Caroline slowly climbed the stairs, to Bret’s room.
    Brett sat facing the window. At first, Caroline could see only her back—the first impression of slimness, brown curls. And then she turned, a quick twist of her body, startled from thought. Caroline gazed at her for what felt uncomfortably long, though it could only have been seconds. Saw a delicate chin, full, even mouth, slender face and high forehead. Saw that Brett was more than pretty. Saw the smudges above her cheekbones, the hours without sleep. But the green eyes—startlingly alive—gazed at Caroline with uncanny direcmess. “You’re Caroline, aren’t you. My aunt.” Her voice was soft, yet clear. For an instant, Caroline replayed the sound of it. “I’m Caroline, yes.” Closing the door, she forced herself to stop looking at Brett, to glance around the room at the mishmash of early womanhood—a red pantsuit slung over a chair; some CDs by the singer Tori Amos; Susan Faludi’s Backlash on top of a stack of paperbacks. After a moment, she managed to say, “This isn’t quite how I remember it.”
    “This was your roon, wasn’t it.” From birth, Caroline thought, until the day she had left. Every night of her childhood, her father would climb the stairs and kiss her on the forehead. And then there were those much rarer nights, surprising and priceless, when
    Nicole Masters would read to her, a faint smell of claret on her breath, her lively French-accented English lending each story a touch of the exotic. Turning out the lights, Nicole bent her face to Caroline’s .... Caroline found herself staring at Brett. “What is it.”?” Brett asked. Caroline composed an answer. “Nothing, really. Just a foolish memory—my first childhood act of defiance. At night, I used to listen to Red Sox games. After my mother or father would turn off the lights and my radio, I’d sneak a transistor under the covers and keep listening, rapturous to be getting away with it.” Caroline smiled faintly. “Looking back, I’m sure he knew. Perhaps was even pleased.” Brett’s eyes showed the faint glint of kinship. “Grandfather used to take me to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox.” A quick sideways glance. “Did he take you?” Caroline nodded. And then remembered, so suddenly that her forgetfulness shocked her, why she had come. Crossing the room, Caroline sat two feet from Brett. What happened next surprised her. For close to half her life, Caroline had sat this close to clients accused of rape, or child abuse, or murder by torture or mutilation. The serial killer whom Caroline had described to her father—a pockmarked man with ferret’s eyes—would have raped and killed her for the pleasure of it had there not been Plexiglas between them. So that Caroline had learned to stifle certain images. But as Brett gazed back at her, eyes filling with hope and fear, Caroline imagined the blood on her fingertips. She touched her eyes. “Forgive me if I seem more like a lawyer than an aunt. But we’ve quite a lot to cover.” Suddenly, Brett looked tense, deflated. Caroline fought back sympathy: she knew too well that the most intense emotions—anguished innocence or the horror of guilt—mimed each other on the faces of her clients. “Actually,” Caroline said, “I’m most interested in whatever you told the police. That’s what you have to live with.”
    Brett sat back. Her voice was taut. “I told them the truth. Just like I’m telling you now.” Brett, Caroline realized, had suddenly