by Lisa Gardner
Get in touch with your inner angel, Andrew Lightfoot had said.
Asshole wouldn’t last a day in homicide.
“I think Danielle Burton is the key,” D.D. murmured after a moment. “The nurse had a little episode when I was questioning her, then her boss Karen and her boyfriend, Gym Coach Greg, closed ranks. Karen let it drop that A Bad Thing had happened to Danielle’s family and out of sheer compassion we should play nice with her. Then Andrew Lightfoot essentially said the same.”
“Gym Coach is her boyfriend?” Alex asked with interest.
“Almost positive. Definitely something above and beyond the call of duty.”
Alex smiled at her. “I feel the exact same way about you.”
D.D. laughed, which finally made her feel a little lighter on the inside.
“I’m telling you, they’re an item, and she has a secret,” D.D. said.
“And I’m telling you … I know her secret.”
“Say what?”
“Way back when, Danielle’s father killed Danielle’s mother and siblings. Little bit of unemployment, lot of whiskey, and he shot the entire family, except her.”
“How’d you learn this?”
“A milieu counselor named Ed told me everything. How sad it was for Danielle to have to deal with Lucy’s tragedy, particularly so close to the anniversary of her family’s death, yada yada yada.”
“Sure it was only a gun?” D.D. asked. “What about a knife? Maybe her father also stabbed someone?”
“We’ll have to look it up.”
“Oh, we’ll definitely look it up.” D.D. leaned back in the passenger’s seat. “Interesting. Personal. Isn’t that what you said after the Laraquette scene? Whoever is doing this is following a script. The murder business is personal to him. Or her, as the case might be.”
“Danielle survived her father’s massacre. If she’s reenacting a past trauma, shouldn’t the scene involve a lone survivor?”
D.D. shrugged. “Hell, I’m a lowly sergeant, not a criminologist. Maybe she resents being the survivor. Maybe she’s determined to get the deed done right. Maybe Danielle’s actually a very strong man, which would explain her ability to take out Denise Harrington and Jacob Harrington, each with a single killing blow.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Alex agreed.
“One way or another, all roads lead back to the acute-care facility,” D.D. pressed. “And inside the acute-care facility, all fingers point at Danielle Burton.”
“Bears consideration,” Alex granted.
They were almost in the North End now. He slowed the car and D.D. felt her earlier fatigue. Another lonely return to her one-bedroom wonderland. Another sleepless night, followed by another single-espresso morning. It really had been an atrociously long time since she’d had anything other than an Italian coffee machine to make her smile.
“You know who would be extremely good at taking out an entire family?” Alex was saying now. “The kind of player who has height, strength, and fitness on his side?”
D.D. regarded him blankly. “Who?”
“Couple of the MCs on the unit. Particularly, Gym Coach Greg.”
Alex double-parked outside her condo building. D.D. looked at the tall brick unit, tucked shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other two-hundred-year-old brick units. Then she looked back at Alex.
“Wanna come up?” she heard herself ask.
He hesitated. “Yeah,” he answered. “I do want to come up. But I think I’m going to pass. I think, if we’re going to do this …”
“When we’re going to do this?” she tried.
“Okay, when we’re going to do this … I want to do it right. I’m thinking red sauce and homemade pasta and really terrific Chianti. I’m thinking eating and talking and laughing and then … then all of that, all over again. It’s the advantage of being older and wiser. We know good things are worth the wait.”
“I’ve waited a long time,” D.D. said. “You have no idea.”
He smiled. “I’ve waited a long time, too.”
D.D. sighed, gazed back up at her building. “What if I said no hanky-panky?”
“No hanky-panky?”
“Just two consenting adults, remaining fully dressed.”
“Different,” he said.
She blew out a puff of air. “I don’t want to be alone. Okay? Maybe you don’t want to be alone either. So we go upstairs and we work on not being alone together. I’ll leave my shirt on, you leave your shirt on, and we’ll both go to bed.”
“Will there be spooning?” he asked.
“I hope so.”
“All right. I’m in.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Alex said, and pulled away from the curb in search of a parking place.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
VICTORIA
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cat.”
“Interrupting cat—”
“MEOW!”
I dutifully laugh as Evan cuts me off. Interrupting cat is his favorite knock knock joke. He’s been telling it for three years now, and it never grows old for him. I don’t mind. I’d expected a long night with Evan, one where he worked out his agitation and frustration from being overmedicated the day before. Instead, he slept all the way till six this morning, one of his longest stretches ever.
He woke up surprisingly happy. We went for a bike ride around the neighborhood, then broke out the sidewalk chalk and drew an elaborate race car shooting flames on the driveway.
After a midmorning snack of raspberry fruit smoothies, we’re now relaxing in the shade of the backyard, birds chirping, squirrels scampering, and a neighborhood cat stalking both.
This is charming Evan, silly Evan, let’s-goof-off-and-hang-out Evan. This is the son I can’t let go.
“Your turn,” he says now.
I think about it for a second. “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Iguana.”
“Iguana who?”
“Iguana give you a hug.” I lean across the grass and capture Evan in a giant bear hug. He bursts into a fit of giggles, squirming his way out my arms.
“Mommy germs!” he shrieks.
“Iguana kiss you, too!” I growl, crawling after him. The backyard is more dirt than grass these days, but I bravely stalk my eight-year-old across the patchy lawn. Evan scampers away just enough to pretend to resist.
We’re no different from any other abusive relationship, I think as I chase my laughing son around the yard. After every episode of explosive violence comes the temporary euphoria of reconciliation. Evan’s contrite for yesterday’s incident in the park. I’m contrite for drugging my child so I could have sex with a man who wants me only for my body. Now Evan and I are both on our best behavior. We need these moments, or neither one of us would make it.
The phantom would win.
We run around for a bit. I declare defeat first, flushed and panting from the oppressive humidity. Evan appears equally overheated, so we retreat inside for a blast of AC. I set up Evan on the couch with water and SpongeBob, then I return to the deck, filling the kiddy pool. Today would be perfect for going to the beach. I’m not that brave, or maybe I just don’t want to risk ruining the moment, so I work on the kiddy pool. Evan will add a fleet of fire engines and two Super Soaker guns. He’ll splash and spray. I’ll sit on a deck chair with my feet in the cool water, grateful for the relief.
I’ve just finished filling the pool when the doorbell rings. I pause, rooted to the spot in surprise. We don’t exactly get a lot of visitors. And there aren’t deliveries on Sundays.
Evan is still engrossed with whatever SpongeBob and Patrick are up to. Warily, I make my way to the front door and peer through the peephole.
Michael is standing there.
I have to concentrate to fit the key into the lock. I focus on my hands, willing them not to tremble as I crack open the front door, facing my ex-
husband, but holding him at bay.
“Morning, Victoria,” he says stiffly. He’s dressed in summer business casual. Brooks Brothers khaki shorts, a sharply pressed button-up shirt with little yellow and green stripes. He’s like a picture from a men’s magazine: fit high-finance at play.
“Is Chelsea all right?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.
He nods, then clears his throat, shifting from one brown leather boat shoe to the next. He’s nervous. I remember my ex-husband well enough to recognize the signs. But why?
“I thought about what you said,” he states abruptly. “About Evan and the wedding.”
“What did I say?” I ask stupidly.
“Chelsea misses Evan. She thinks it’s unfair for her to be in the wedding but not him. In fact, she says she won’t serve as flower girl if Evan’s not included.”
Michael flushes charmingly, admitting with his expression that he knows he’s being outmaneuvered by a six-year-old, and is already declaring defeat. I’m used to angry Michael. Cold Michael. Frustrated Michael. I don’t know what to make of this man.
He spreads his hands. “Can I come in, Victoria? See Evan? Maybe discuss?”
I still have my body in the doorway, blocking Michael’s presence from our former home. Despite my pleas for him to see his son, now that he’s here, I wish he weren’t. His sudden appearance will agitate Evan, wreck our happy morning. I’ve enjoyed the past few hours. I don’t want them to end.
Too late. I hear footsteps behind me, Evan’s natural curiosity driving him toward the entryway. I know the moment he’s spotted his father because Evan’s footsteps still. I turn around, and will myself to handle whatever Evan does next.
“Daddy? Daddy. Daddy!”
Evan rockets across the foyer. He’s through the door and hurtling into his father’s arms with the speed of eight-year-old lightning. Michael staggers under the unexpected onslaught, but manages to keep his footing. Then Evan is holding his father’s hands and dancing all around him, touching him, poking him, plucking at him, while saying over and over again: “DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy.”
Michael shoots me a look. I shrug. You don’t surprise a kid like Evan. Michael knows that as well as anyone. At least he should.
To give Michael some credit, he doesn’t say or do anything right away. He lets Evan bounce around on his tiptoes, circling, prodding, jumping, shrieking, blowing off steam. Then, when it appears the initial euphoria is subsiding, Michael pats Evan lightly on the shoulder, and says: “Hey, you got tall.”
“I’m very tall. I’m HUGE.”
“Strong, too.”
“LOOK AT MY MUSCLES!” Evan screams, dropping into a bodybuilder’s pose.
I wince. “Evan,” I say, as calmly as I can, “I just filled your pool. Why don’t you show your father your new pool?”
Evan loves this idea. He bounds back into the house on his tippy toes—a sure sign of agitation—and goes running straight for the sliders. In his heightened state, however, he forgets to open the doors. Instead, he smashes into the glass, ricocheting onto the floor, nose exploding, blood spraying. Evan scrambles up, covers his bleeding nose with his right hand, and attempts to leap through solid glass a second time. This time, he stuns himself enough to stay down for the count.
“Jesus Christ,” Michael says. But he doesn’t retreat down the drive. Instead, he enters the fray.
We fall into old patterns, rituals so deeply entrenched they come back naturally, without either of us ever saying a word. Me, the nurturer, crossing to Evan, taking his hand and murmuring words of comfort as I inspect the damage. Michael, the fixer, already in the kitchen, filling a washcloth with fresh ice, then returning to place it high on Evan’s nose. I have a flashback, to the days when Michael stood shoulder to shoulder with me to handle Evan, to raise Chelsea, to fight the war. He simply grew tired. Who could blame him?
Evan’s not crying. He’s so revved up by his beloved father’s unexpected return that he’s beyond tears. His emotions are running about three planets beyond the moon, and there are no tears in outer space. Just black holes everywhere.
We need to get him to his pool, where he can splash and jump and scream out the tension wiring his bony frame. He’ll come down from orbit without anyone getting hurt.
Michael seems to remember about water, too. After brushing back Evan’s hair—another old pattern, a natural gesture of fatherly tenderness—he opens the unlocked sliders and gestures toward the pool.
“Doing okay, buddy?”
“Yeah,” Evan replies in a thick voice. He probably still has blood in his throat. Sure enough, he takes two steps out onto the deck, then turns and spits out a huge wad of gory red.
It doesn’t faze me anymore. I’ve seen worse.
Michael leads him into the pool. Evan climbs into the shallow water. Michael takes back the ice-filled washcloth. He dabs under Evan’s nose, doing a little cleanup. Evan will have a giant, swollen honker. But again, we’ve seen worse.
“Super Soaker!” Evan shouts. He picks up the first gun, fills it with pool water, and lines up his father in his sights. I wait for Michael to protest, to make some motion to protect his sharply pressed shirt. Instead, he grabs the second Super Soaker, and for the next ten minutes, father and son go at it while I retreat back inside the house to watch from behind the safety of the glass slider.
Maybe this is therapeutic. Maybe this is exactly what they need. Because Evan’s coming down off his toes. And his shrieking slowly transitions from glass-shattering to little-boy fun. Maybe this will turn out okay after all. Maybe this will be my lucky day.
Michael’s soaked. He’s laughing, declaring defeat. “You have gotten strong,” he tells Evan. “Here, I’m gonna stand in a sunbeam and dry off.”
Evan hesitates, unsure if his father is leaving now, disappearing forever. But when Michael remains standing at the edge of the deck, eight feet away, Evan finally relaxes. He gets busy with his fire engines and I join Michael outside.
“He’s calming down,” Michael says softly. “Managing his emotions better than I thought.”
“Some days are like that,” I say.
“And other days?”
“I administered Ativan five times last week.”
Michael looks at me. For once, he doesn’t seem distant or angry. He seems tired. Maybe he looks as tired as I feel. Or maybe that’s only my wishful thinking. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he begins, so naturally, I brace myself. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do. I’ve come to accept that, Victoria. Whether we’re married or not, you’re Evan’s mother and you’re going to do what you think is best for him, regardless of my opinions on the subject.”
“What’s best for him,” I repeat stubbornly.
“Sure. But, Victoria …” He spreads his hands. “For your own sake … how can you go on like this? For every good moment, there’s gotta be half a dozen more when you’re pulling out your hair. Every day is about trying to hold off the inevitable explosion, then picking up the pieces afterward. You don’t get time for yourself. You don’t get time with your daughter. Chelsea misses you, you know. One night a week isn’t what a six-year-old needs from her mom.”
“You said you didn’t come here to fight.”
Michael sighs, drops his hands. “I’m trying to find some middle ground. For Chelsea’s sake. For Evan’s sake. For all of our sakes.”
“Such as?”
“Chelsea’s therapist thinks—”
“Chelsea has a therapist?”
Michael appears bewildered. “Of course she has a therapist. It was part of the terms of the divorce.”
“I didn’t realize … I thought you had a different opinion on that subject.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Victoria, I’m not a total asshole.” His voice has grown hard. Evan immediately stares at us from the pool, body tensing, as if ready to join the battle. Which side would he take? His father’s; no doubt in my mind.
Michael, however, waves him off. “Sorry, buddy. Just telling some story from work. Hey, I see another fire engine over there on the deck. Maybe that one can help the others with the rescue operation.”
Evan obediently trots out of the pool to fetch his smaller fire truck. Michael and I resume our conversation.
“The therapist, Dr. Curtin, would like you to bring in Evan a few times, just to get to know each other. Once Evan is comfortable with her and the surroundings, then Chelsea can show up, too. She and Evan can visit each other, in a controlled environment where both of them will hopefully feel safe.”
I don’t know what to say. “When? How … how often?”
Michael shrugs. “It’d have to be weekends, given that Chelsea’s school’s about to start. I figured a couple of times a month? Say, every other weekend, an hour at a time, see how it goes.”
“And if it doesn’t go well? If Evan has a bad episode?”
Michael shrugs, as if to say, what’s he supposed to do?
“It would be unfair to string them along,” I say. “To reintroduce Chelsea and Evan, only to halt the relationship again.”
“I agree. Hopefully, having a professional such as Dr. Curtin involved will help manage the downside. Then again, given Evan’s volatility … We try it or we don’t try it, Victoria. Those are the options.”
I have to think about it. He’s right, of course. There are no guarantees with a child like Evan. We’re supposed to set him up for success, but some days I don’t know what that is.
“He misses his sister,” I say at last. “He asks for Chelsea nearly every day.” I look at him. “He misses you, too.”
Michael looks down now. He studies his leather shoes. “I’ll be there every other weekend, as well.”
“The History Channel is his favorite channel,” I hear myself say. “He knows almost everything there is to know about the Romans. Dates, famous leaders, major battles. He’s smart, Michael. He’s unbelievably smart. And he’s incredibly lonely.”
