by Karen Rose
Her hand trembling, she picked up the ring between her thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s his. It’s your father’s. It has his initials inside. I had it engraved the day before our wedding.’
Sam fanned the photos out on the table. They were either wallet-sized portraits or snapshots cut to be wallet-sized. His parents on their wedding day. A snapshot of Sam and his mom wearing leis, taken by his father on their one and only family vacation to Hawaii. The pictures of Sam were school portraits, all from elementary school.
When they were still a family. Before his father became a junkie who’d stolen from them, lied to them. Used his fists on them when he needed a fix.
The only recent photo was the one taken at the police academy, the day Sam had graduated. His father had shown up, shaved and sober. He’d behaved himself and Sam and his mother had once again hoped.
Six months later his father was using again. And then one day he’d simply disappeared without a trace. Without a word. There had been no contact of any kind . . . until today.
‘Why?’ his mother cried. ‘What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know, Mom,’ Sam said quietly, but that wasn’t true. He knew exactly what it meant – and suspected she did, too. It meant that his father was dead and may have been for a long time. That someone either just found his stuff or just got around to sending it.
‘He had his ring.’ Her voice broke, her shoulders shaking with harsh, heaving sobs. ‘He had his ring all along. I . . . Oh, God, Sam. I accused him of selling it. For his habit. He promised me he hadn’t, but he wasn’t wearing it the last time I saw him.’
Sam had never been able to stand seeing his mother cry, even though he had a lot of practice doing so, which was just one of the reasons he hated his father so much. Gently he drew her into his arms, patting her back. Wishing he knew what the hell to say.
How many times had they done this same thing? How many times had he patted her back helplessly as she sobbed her heart out? Not in eight years. Not since his old man had left without a backward look. That someone would put his mother through this now . . .
The wedding ring clenched into her fist, she pressed her face into Sam’s shirt. ‘It was the last straw, seeing his finger bare. Having him lie to me about not selling it. I told him to get out of my life. Never to come back. And he never did. God help me, he never did.’ Her sobs became more desperate, each breath she drew harder than the last until Sam’s helplessness became fear.
‘Mom, please. You have to calm down. You’ll have another heart attack.’
She shook her head. ‘He didn’t lie. He still had it. Why didn’t he wear it?’
God only knew why his father had done any of the things he’d done. He’d probably pawned it for drug money or maybe even had taken it off because he was having an affair.
‘I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know. But throwing him out was something you had to do. He was never going to get clean.’
Her sobs faded to little whimpers. ‘But he might still be alive if I’d let him stay.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Sam said gently. ‘He was an addict. He wasn’t going to change. That has nothing to do with you or what you said.’
Another heavy sigh. ‘I suppose.’
‘I know.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘Go wash your face. I’ll finish mashing the potatoes and setting the table.’
Steeling her shoulders, she turned for the powder room, her step even less steady than it had been, and once again Sam cursed his father to burn in hell. Even dead, the old man managed to break his mother’s heart.
He widened the mouth of the envelope to slide the hat and the pictures back in, but paused. Stuck in the bottom of the envelope, snagged by the bubble wrap, was a matchbook. Carefully he worked it loose, pulled it out. Then froze. On the matchbook’s face was a drawing of a woman wearing nothing but bunny ears, with ‘The Rabbit Hole’ printed beneath.
His heart was suddenly pounding so hard it was all he could hear. The Rabbit Hole. The powder room door was still closed. His mother hadn’t seen. Thank God.
That the matchbook would be among his father’s things should have come as no surprise. It would have been the kind of sleazy place his father would have patronized, but it wasn’t the kind of place Sam frequented. His mom had brought him up better than that. Sam had never been to the place.
Except that one time.
That one night. The night he’d made himself forget.
Oh my God. He thought about the timing of the arrival of the envelope in his hand and had to swallow back a wave of nausea.
It’s not possible. It’s just not.
The water stopped and he heard his mother’s shuffling steps in the hall. Guiltily, Sam shoved the matchbook into his pants pocket.
Looking more worn than he’d seen her in weeks, his mother returned to the kitchen and lowered herself into a chair. She opened her clenched fist and stared at the ring on her palm. ‘I just don’t understand why today of all days,’ she said wearily. ‘Who could be so cruel? Who would even know?’ She didn’t look away from the ring. ‘When was that envelope mailed?’
Sam’s hand trembled as he turned the envelope over to check the postmark. ‘Yesterday.’ Oh my God. This is not happening. Not possible. But it was happening. ‘From Baltimore.’
‘Yesterday,’ she repeated dully. ‘The day I threw him out was eight years ago yesterday.’
Sam had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling. ‘I didn’t know that was the day you threw him out. I thought you threw him out months before.’
‘I did. But he came back that night, not wearing his ring. So I threw him out and told him to never come back. And he didn’t.’
That night . . . The night he’d gone to the Rabbit Hole had been eight years ago yesterday.
The night that had come before the morning he’d woken alone in a dirty hotel room on the wrong side of town, hung over and smelling like a brewery.
With a revolver on the floor beside him. A revolver that was not his Baltimore PD issued sidearm. A revolver that been fired recently.
The morning he’d woken hadn’t been the very next day. He’d woken just before dawn, thirty hours later. Not a moment of which he had any recollection of whatsoever.
He’d lost a day of his life. He’d lost this day of his life, eight years ago.
Dad, what the fuck did you do? Sam carefully exhaled. And what the fuck did I do?
Saturday, March 15, 6.05 P.M.
Two women were dead, their faces etched in Stevie’s mind. The woman who’d done nothing more than show up for a wedding anniversary lunch with her husband had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. As had the waitress, who’d done nothing more than show up for work. Because of bullets meant for me.
Stevie paused at the bottom of her front porch steps, looking up at her house with weary determination. Déjà vu. She’d stood just like this a few hours ago, looking up at the stairs leading up to Harbor House’s front door, cursing each step, her useless leg, and the crazy teenaged bitch who’d shot her three months ago.
Now she was cursing the steps, her useless leg, her arm that throbbed and burned like hellfire, the crazy teenaged bitch who’d shot her three months ago, and the gunman who’d shot her four hours ago. It hadn’t been much more than a graze. But it still hurt.
But you’re alive. Unlike Elissa Selmon and Angie Thurman. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. Goddammit.
The house was dark. Quiet. The minivan was gone from the driveway. Cordelia and Izzy weren’t home yet. Which would be perfect except that Stevie had no idea where they were because Izzy hadn’t answered any of her texts, voicemails, or emails.
Dammit, Izzy. Where are you? Where is my daughter? Please let her be all right. Please don’t let her be hurt. Don’t let her be—
Stop this. You’ll be no good to anyone if you panic. Cordelia is all right.
She had to be all right. Wherever she and Izzy were.
Which at least
wasn’t here. Stevie didn’t want them around her. She didn’t want anyone around her. I have a price on my head. And the collection agency didn’t seem terribly worried about collateral damage.
‘Um, Stevie?’ Emma’s calm voice came from just behind her, on her right. ‘You’re still a target, hon. Let’s get you up the stairs and in the house.’
‘Or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you up,’ JD added grimly from her left.
Stevie clenched her teeth, but did as he said, propelling herself up her front steps. ‘I don’t need a bodyguard or a babysitter. If you touch me, JD, you’ll be singing soprano for a week.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ JD muttered. ‘One last time, Stevie. Go to the goddamn safe house.’
‘One last time, JD, no. I will not be driven from my home.’ Stevie hissed a curse when her key missed the lock entirely. Her hand was trembling, dammit. Like an old woman’s.
Or like a person who’d just watched two people die. Because you wouldn’t back off. You had to pursue Silas’s old cases. You had to know. You won’t leave well enough alone.
The inner voice that taunted her morphed from her own to that of her twin. Sorin had been so upset when he’d called last night to beg her to stop the investigations that were bringing the slime out of the woodwork. Begged her to let the other cops review all of Silas’s old cases.
She’d heard the love and fear in his voice . . . and then the furious disgust when she’d refused to back down, because BPD was investigating. They’d formed a special task force that had spent the last year reopening dozens of cases thrown by dirty cops working in secret for an even dirtier defense attorney. But there were so many cases and Silas hadn’t been the only dirty cop.
But he was my partner. My responsibility. She couldn’t, wouldn’t walk away.
And now? Now that she knew that the dozens of cases BPD knew about might be only the tip of the iceberg? Now that she knew that more dirty cops still walked the street? Still wore a badge, just like Silas had done for all the years they’d been partners?
She couldn’t walk away.
But none of this had she been able to share with her brother. Instead, she’d borne his rage in silence, which he’d interpreted as sullen stubbornness.
If you don’t care about your own life, have the decency to think about the lives of everyone around you. Our sister. Our parents. Your daughter. If the next bullet hits you, we’ll mourn. If the next bullet misses you and hits one of them? What then? His voice had broken, his next words choked with tears. I love you, Stefania, and watching you destroy yourself is killing me.
A sob was building in her chest. She forced it back down. He’d been right. He’d been so right. Two women were dead. I’m sorry. I really am. But it changed nothing.
Sorin didn’t understand. Nobody understood. She couldn’t stop investigating. There was this pressure in her mind, in her heart, pressing her forward. So many injustices. So many innocents paying for the crimes of others. And all under her very nose. For all those years . . .
She had to make it right.
Tears blurred her eyes and the key missed the lock again. ‘Fuck,’ she whispered.
Emma took the key from her hand and wordlessly opened her front door.
JD checked the first floor, then sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, his gun drawn. He was checking for monsters under the bed, true to his nature.
Emma locked the front door and began closing the blinds and drawing the drapes, plunging the living room into semi-darkness. ‘Sit down,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve got to hurt.’
Stevie obeyed, grimacing as she lowered herself to the sofa. Elissa, Angie, I am so sorry.
But nothing would bring the women back. All she could do to make it right was to catch the shooter and put him away forever. Which she couldn’t do from a goddamn safe house.
With an eye on Emma, Stevie checked her cell phone for the two hundredth time in the last two hours. And scowled.
‘No answer from your sister?’ Emma asked.
‘No. Cordy’s ballet class finished hours ago. They should have been home already.’ She took the cordless home phone from its cradle. No incoming calls from Izzy. ‘She should have called me. She knows better. She knows I worry.’
‘Stevie, listen. Today was a stressful day for you, even before all the craziness at the restaurant. But it’s a stressful day for Cordelia, too.’
‘She lost her father,’ Stevie murmured. ‘She never knew him.’
‘Well, that, too. But I suspect her stress comes mostly from knowing how unhappy you are.’
‘She doesn’t know about that. I don’t let her see it.’
Emma’s brows lifted as if Stevie was the most foolish woman she’d ever known. ‘You keep thinking that if it makes you feel better. Look, I bet Izzy’s taken her somewhere to get her mind off things. Maybe they went to a movie. Izzy would have turned her phone off in the theater.’
Stevie closed her eyes, letting Emma’s words wash over her. But the sense of foreboding was not abated. ‘But what if something did happen to them? I’d never forgive myself.’
‘The police have their descriptions, right? If something has happened, you would have heard by now. It’s far more likely they’re just having fun.’
Stevie drew a sharp, hard breath. ‘You’re right.’ She focused on the next concern on her list – Emma. Who shouldn’t be here either. ‘You missed your plane.’
‘It’s okay. I called Christopher, told him what happened and that I’d need to stay with you for a few days.’
A few days? Under other circumstances Stevie would’ve enjoyed spending a few days with Emma. But not now. And she couldn’t imagine Emma’s husband being crazy about the idea of his wife sitting in the line of fire. ‘And he was fine with that?’
Emma’s slight hesitation was her answer. ‘He’s not fine, but he’s not un-fine, either.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He was scared, of course. I just let him “what if” until he’d purged all the possible deadly scenarios from his mind. Then I assured him I was fine, that you were fine.’ She sighed. ‘And then I didn’t argue when he insisted on taking the red-eye to Baltimore tonight, as soon as he’s given his speech. I’ll pick him up from the airport in the morning.’
‘I have a better idea. Have him fly back to Orlando. You take the next flight to Orlando. Then you can pick him up at the airport and have a wonderful vacation with your boys.’
Emma looked mildly amused, as if she’d expected as much. ‘Nice try. Not goin’ anywhere.’
‘Dammit, Emma, you shouldn’t be here. Not in Baltimore and really not here. In my house. You should be at your hotel. Where you’ll be safe.’
Emma met her eyes, shrewdly. ‘So you won’t go to a safe house, but you’d put everyone you care about in one. Is that it?’
‘Pretty much,’ Stevie said, unapologetically. ‘So when JD goes, he can take you with him.’
‘Sorry, not gonna happen. I’m sticking.’ Emma sat in a wingchair in the corner, far away, Stevie noted, from the window. Even with the drapes drawn, Emma was taking no chances.
‘Emma. Be reasonable.’
Emma snorted. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You want me to be reasonable? You want me in a safe house? Then you go with me. And before you threaten to push me out the door, just remember that I was there when the ER doctor examined you and I know all of the places you’re bleeding and/or bruised. One good jab and you’re down for the count.’
‘I like her.’ JD came down the stairs. ‘She’s smart.’
Stevie glared at them both. ‘She’s a stubborn pain in the ass.’
Emma shrugged. ‘Hello, pot. Meet kettle. So, Detective Fitzpatrick, do we need to worry about the Boogie Man jumping out of a closet when we go to sleep tonight?’
‘Nope. I thought at first that someone had tossed Izzy’s room, but I think it was Izzy. Clothes everywhere. Half of her closet’s on her bed.’
Stevie frowned
. ‘Her room was neat when we left today.’
‘Then either she’s been home to change, or Goldilocks tried on her clothes, put on her makeup, and locked up her jewelry box before leaving.’
Stevie pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’ll check it out.’
‘How do you know someone put on her makeup?’ Emma asked.
‘Her makeup brushes were still damp and there were lipstick-covered tissues all over the dresser.’ JD lifted a shoulder. ‘I have a wife who likes to wear makeup. I’m always shoving Lucy’s brushes out of the way just so I can have a few inches of counter space to shave.’
‘Poor baby,’ Stevie muttered. She pushed past him and muscled her way up the stairs, with Emma behind her and JD bringing up the rear. Izzy’s room was a mess, very uncharacteristic of her neat-as-a-pin sister. ‘It looks like a tornado went through here.’
‘Is anything missing?’ JD asked.
Stevie stepped into Izzy’s closet. ‘Her glass slippers are gone.’
Emma stuck her head through the closet doorway. ‘Izzy has glass slippers?’
‘They’re really acrylic or something, but Cordelia called them glass slippers when she was a toddler, and it stuck. Izzy wears them with her best dress.’ Stevie sorted through the clothes. ‘Which is missing, too.’ She surveyed the shelves. Pointed to an obviously empty space. ‘Her camera is missing. All her lenses and filters, too.’
‘Maybe she took pictures of Cordelia at ballet?’ Emma suggested.
‘Maybe. But it was just a class. Cordy’s recital isn’t until next month.’ Or was it? Oh God, please don’t let it have been today. She’d already called the ballet teacher four times, but the teacher didn’t usually return calls until all of her afternoon classes were over. Which should have been by now. Hurrying to Cordelia’s room, Stevie dialed again.
Reva Stanislaski answered as Stevie threw open Cordelia’s closet door. Her leotard and practice shoes were gone, but the pink tutu she wore to recitals was hanging there undisturbed.
‘Mrs Stanislaski, hello. This is Stevie Mazzetti, Cordelia’s mom.’
‘Mrs Mazzetti. How good it is to hear from you. I hope Cordelia is well.’
