She was not her mother.

She hadn’t wanted a child-most definitely not a son. But when she learned she was pregnant-what good was birth control if it didn’t work?-she just knew the baby would be a girl.

A girl to raise the way a daughter should be raised. To be lavished with attention, dressed in beautiful clothes, taken to fancy restaurants, given a big debutante coming-out party.

She laughed bitterly.

What she had was a boy. Another Davy.

But she was a good mother, dammit! She did everything for him, too. Baked fucking cookies. Cleaned his fucking room. Went to every fucking teacher’s conference and play and soccer game.

What more did he want? Her blood? Would that satisfy him? Would it satisfy any of them?

She took a deep, calming breath. It wouldn’t do to lose control. Her control had kept her from doing stupid things.

Like the night she almost suffocated Ryan in his crib. At the last minute, she pulled back the pillow from his face. Richard would have known, have her thrown into prison.

Or the time she threatened to tell the police about the girl in Portland. She almost didn’t give Davy an alibi. The stupid, stupid idiot! He was throwing away everything for some rich-bitch slut from the Delta-something sorority.

But in the end she gave him the alibi and was very convincing. Because without Davy, her life would fall apart. She needed him just like he needed her.

Together they were stronger.

Now he was dead.

It was all Miranda Moore’s fault. The bitch would pay.