Live to Tell

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

D.D. knew she was in trouble when she woke up to a commercial for a sexual lubricant. According to the ad, the man used one lubricant for a cool tingle, the woman used another for a warming thrill, and then, when they got together…

D.D. wanted to know. Hell, she needed to know.

She spent several minutes, standing half-naked in her family room, staring at the TV screen as if it would repeat the commercial. Except this time, it would be her and, say, Alex Wilson in that rumpled bed. She’d be wearing one of his silk ties. He’d be wearing nothing at all.

Ah dammit.

Life sucked.

D.D. climbed aboard her treadmill, banged out three seven-minute miles, then downed two shots of espresso and went to work.

She pulled into HQ by eight-thirty, bearing a dozen donuts. Most of her squad were too health-conscious to eat donuts. That was okay. In her current mood, she’d be good for half the batch. She started with a Boston crème, poured a fresh cup of coffee, à la homicide unit, and got serious.

By nine a.m. Saturday morning, she had her squad plus Alex in her tiny office. They had approximately thirty minutes to hash out the past forty-eight hours, then she needed to report to the deputy superintendent. Given last night’s crime scene, did they have two independent incidents of mass murder? Or did they have one much larger, more horrifying crime? Option A meant two cases handled by two squads. Option B would involve the formal creation of a taskforce.

D.D. handed out large coffees, gestured to the half-empty box of pastries, then assumed the position beside the blank dry-erase board. Alex sat in front of her. Given that it was Saturday, he wore khaki pants and a rich blue golf shirt. The shirt emphasized the deep color of his eyes. The pants draped fit, athletic legs.

Then there were his hands, with those long, callused fingers resting upon his knees…

“What happened to all the donuts?” Phil spoke up.

“Bite me,” D.D. said. She returned to the whiteboard. “Victimology,” she announced. “We got the Harringtons in Dorchester…”

“White, working-class Christians,” Phil summarized. He’d found a maple frosted, and was chewing contentedly.

“School, employment, church, social clubs, prior address?”

Phil rattled off a geographic profile of the Harringtons’ known activities and organizations. D.D. dutifully wrote down each answer, then drew a line down the middle of the whiteboard to create a second column. “Okay, now we have the Laraquette-Solis clan.”

“White, low-income drug dealers,” Phil provided.

Alex spoke up. “Four children, four different fathers.”

“Long history with child services.” Phil again.

“Long history with immigration,” Neil, their third squadmate, countered from the back. Neil’s skin held the ghostly pallor of someone who spent too much time under fluorescent bulbs. Given that he’d spent the past two days at the ME’s office, overseeing the Harrington autopsies, and now there were now six more dead… Neil used to be an EMT. Made him the best man for the job.

“Turns out that Hermes Laraquette was from Barbados,” Neil continued now. He glanced at his notes. “Hermes was a Redleg-some small white underclass that descended from indentured servants, criminals, etc. INS has been looking for him, which is one case file they can now close.”

“School, employment, church, social clubs, prior address?” D.D. prompted.

This list was thin. The Laraquette-Solis clan lived across Boston, in Jamaica Plains. They were not known for their community involvement or their social consciousness. The family had moved into the neighborhood six months ago, and while Hermes liked to saunter around in his rainbow knit hat, the woman and kids were rarely seen outside.

D.D. couldn’t imagine it. How could anyone stay inside with that smell?

She studied the list under the Harrington name, then the list under the Laraquette name. Nothing leapt out at her.

“Enemies?” she prodded.

No one could think of any enemies for the Harringtons. The Laraquettes, on the other hand… They’d need days to research that list, given Hermes’s drug dealings. D.D. filled in TBD, for “to be determined.”

“So,” she declared briskly, “according to our lists, there’s no obvious overlap between the Harringtons’ world and the Laraquettes’. From a logical perspective, how could these two families know each other?”

“ Mission work, maybe,” Alex spoke up, “if the Harringtons’ church does anything with low-income families. Or their own volunteer efforts.”

“Worth checking,” D.D. agreed. “The Harringtons are do-gooders and the Laraquettes could use some good done. Other connections?”

“The kids,” Neil suggested. “Teenage boys are close in age. Maybe knew each other from sporting activities, summer camps, that kind of thing.”

D.D. wrote it down.

“Foster families, troubled kids,” Phil continued, brainstorming. “Harringtons adopted Ozzie, who we know passed through a variety of households before reaching them.”

“You’re thinking the Laraquettes once fostered Ozzie?” D.D. was dubious. “I’d think it would be the other way around-child services looking to place the Laraquette children to get them the hell out of that house.”

“That, too,” Phil agreed. “Again, we know the Harringtons had an interest in at-risk kids, and we know the Laraquette kids were at risk.”

“All right, from that perspective, I can buy it. We’ll call social services. They always love to hear from us. Other possibilities?”

The group was quiet, so D.D. made a few notes, then cleared the whiteboard and set them up for discussion number two: crime scenes.

Neil, the autopsy guru, led the way. “ME confirmed that the mother, Denise Harrington; the older son, Jacob; and the younger son, Oswald, all died of a single knife wound. Of note, there are no hesitation marks on any of the wounds.”

“Christ,” Phil muttered, the lone family man in the room.

“The girl, Molly, suffered a knife wound to the upper left arm. Cause of death, however, was manual asphyxiation. Fractured hyoid bone, which indicates a perpetrator of considerable manual strength.”

“Like a nine-year-old boy?” D.D. spoke up.

Neil gave her a look. “Not likely.” He glanced back down at his notes. “As for the father, Patrick Harrington, ME hasn’t gotten to him yet. According to the doctor’s report, however, he died due to complications from a gunshot wound-swelling of the brain.”

“Okay. So three stabbed, one strangled, one shot. Kind of original right there. Most family annihilators have a singular approach, don’t they?” D.D. looked to Alex for an answer.

He nodded. “Traditional approaches include shooting, drugging, and/or carbon monoxide poisoning. Sometimes, you see a case where the father figure drugs the family first, presumably to limit their suffering, then shoots them. If we look at teenage family annihilators-the abused son seeking retribution-methodology expands to bludgeoning and/or arson. I haven’t heard of a case where a single attacker switches weapons as he/she goes along.”

“Single attacker,” D.D. picked up. “Let’s talk about the number of perpetrators for a second. What about cases where the adolescent child has a partner in crime, like the daughter and her boyfriend who kill her family so they can be together. Or wasn’t there a case where a daughter and her lesbian lover murdered her grandparents so they could be together? Stuff like that.”

“When a teenager is the instigator of family annihilation,” Alex said, “there are instances of partner involvement. In those cases, however, both partners murder the offending family members, then escape together. Not kill the family, plus the adolescent instigator, and then the partner gets away.”

“Coconspirator turned on the instigator?”

“Why?” Alex asked.

“Hell if I know.”

“Not probable,” Alex said. “Furthermore, the Harrington scene is methodical. Two teenagers on a killing spree are never gonna get through a house that clean. We’re looking for a perpetrator of above-average strength and intelligence. Patient, calculating, and skilled. Find me that teenager, and we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough,” D.D. said. “What do we know about the knife?”

“The knife used in the Harrington attack matched a set found in the kitchen.” Phil had finished his donut and was brushing crumbs off his rounded belly. “Handle too smeared to yield prints.”

“And the handgun?”

“Registered to Patrick Harrington. His prints on the handle.”

“So murder weapons came from inside the home?”

Phil nodded.

“All right. The Laraquette-Solis scene?”

Alex took the lead this time, picking up his notes. “Mixed methodology. Four shot-the adult male in the family room, the teenage boy in the hallway, and two girls in their bedroom. Adult female, Audi Solis, was fatally stabbed in the kitchen. Baby was suffocated in her crib, presumably with a pillow. Order unknown at this time. Could be father did family, then lay down on the sofa and shot himself. Could be he was taken out first, then the family, with the handgun returned to the father to implicate him in the crime.”

“Knife?” D.D. asked.

“Matches the set found in the kitchen,” Phil repeated. “Handle didn’t yield prints.”

“Gun?”

“Unregistered, serial number filed off.”

“Stolen,” D.D. said. “Black market.”

“Most likely. Given Hermes’s lifestyle…”

“Hot gun for the dope dealer,” D.D. concluded. She paused for a minute, considering their list. “Interesting that both scenes yield the same three methodologies for murder: shooting, stabbing, asphyxiation. And that in both scenes, the murder weapons originated from inside the home.”

“Not conclusive,” Alex cautioned.

“Not. But interesting. In your words, this type of crime generally has a singular approach. We now have two scenes where an entire family was eliminated using three separate methodologies, and the murder weapons were found inside the home. What are the odds of that?”

“Copycat?” Neil asked from the back.

D.D. shook her head. “Can’t be. We haven’t released cause of death to the media yet. They know Patrick Harrington was admitted to the hospital for a gunshot wound. But we didn’t release stabbing, and we definitely never revealed that Molly Harrington was strangled.”

More silence, which was answer enough.

D.D. set down the blue dry-erase marker.

“ Houston,” she declared, “I think we have a problem.”

D.D.’s boss didn’t want to go nuts yet. Sure, there were some disturbing coincidences between the Harrington scene and the Laraquette case. But coincidence could be just coincidence, while the formation of an official taskforce was bound to attract media attention. Next thing you knew, some Nancy Grace wannabe would announce the two cases were conclusively linked, with a madman running around Boston murdering entire families. Phones would ring nonstop. The mayor would demand a statement. Things would get messy.

It was August. People were hot and short-tempered. The less said the better.

Instead, the deputy superintendent came up with the bright idea that D.D.’s squad could handle both investigations. Thus, if any more coincidences were discovered, they’d be quick to put the pieces together.

D.D. pointed out that assigning three detectives to cover two mass murders was asking a bit much.

D.D.’s boss countered that she was essentially working with a four-man squad: She had Academy professor Alex Wilson to assist with prepping reports on the crime scenes.

She demanded two more detectives, bare minimum.

He granted her Boston ’s drug squad to assist with background info on Hermes.

It was more than D.D. normally got from her stressed-out, budget-bound boss, so she considered it a victory.

Her squad accepted the news without blinking. So they’d be eating at their desks and neglecting their families. That went without saying in this day and age of reduced government funding and escalating rates of homicide. You didn’t become a detective for the lifestyle.

Given that their weekend appeared grim, D.D. decided the first thing they should do was break for lunch. Half a dozen donuts doesn’t last a girl as long as you’d think. Fortunately, the BPD cafeteria was not only located conveniently downstairs but was known for its food.

D.D. went with rare roast beef on rye, fully loaded, plus a giant slice of lemon cake. Phil, who she would swear was half woman, ordered a chef’s salad. Neil requested egg salad, a questionable choice, D.D. thought, for a man due back at the morgue. The lanky redhead downed his sandwich in four bites, then was out the door, whistling cheerfully. D.D. suspected he’d taken an interest in the ME. God knows they were spending a lot of quality time together.

Alex settled in beside D.D. with grilled chicken and penne pasta. She gave him grudging respect for eating hot food on a day when it was over ninety.

He loaded up on salt, red-pepper flakes, then Parmesan. After a bit of experimenting, he seemed to decide his lunch was good to go. High maintenance when it came to food.

Naked. In her bed. Cold chills. Warm thrills.

D.D. took a giant bite of sandwich.

“You can’t really believe the two cases are linked,” Alex asked after a minute. Phil was sorting his way through his salad, avoiding tomatoes, loading up on ranch dressing. He looked up at this, eyeing D.D. with equal skepticism.

She took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “Can’t decide,” she said at last.

“Well, you gotta think something,” Phil countered, “since you just bought us both cases.”

“Victims have nothing in common,” Alex said. “Given the difference between the two families’ geography, occupations, and lifestyle, what are the odds they knew the same homicidal maniac?”

“Could be a stranger crime,” D.D. said with a shrug.

Alex arched a brow. “Even lower probability, given that you’re talking about an attack on an entire family, which, at least in the Harrington case, occurred while still daylight. A disorganized killer might have the impulsiveness for such an attack, but not the methodical approach. Organized killers generally take the time to scout out risky targets.”

“One of BTK’s first crimes was an attack on a family right after breakfast,” D.D. said, referring to the notorious Bind Torture Kill murderer who operated for decades in Kansas. “He talked himself through the front door, then held a gun on the kids until the parents agreed to be tied up. Once he subdued the parents, he proceeded according to plan.”

“No evidence of bondage at our scenes,” Phil pointed out.

“And BTK stalked his targets first,” Alex said firmly. “He spent months on reconnaissance before he made his move. We’re talking two crimes that occurred within thirty-six hours of each other. Where’s the time for stalking, for identifying each family member, formulating a strategy for attack, and, here’s a thought, for knowing that each household happened to have a twenty-two handgun on-site, let alone get possession of it?”

“Perpetrator got lucky?”

Alex gave her a look. “If it’s a serial case,” he continued relentlessly, “where’s the downtime? Most of these guys take a moment between victims, revel in a job well done.”

“That’s sick,” D.D. said crossly, mostly annoyed that Alex was right, which meant she was wrong. Being horny was hard enough, but being horny and stupid would be too much to bear.

“That’s the point,” Alex was saying. “One killer for two entire families in a span of less than thirty-six hours is a long shot. That kind of bloodlust, combined with such high-level control…” His voice trailed off. “I can’t picture it. It doesn’t fit.”

“But two fathers independently deciding to kill their wife and kids, using the same three methods, within a day of each other-that makes sense?”

“Coincidences happen.”

“It’s not a coincidence!”

“Then, what?”

“We need more information. I know: We’ll investigate. What a great idea!”

Alex rolled his eyes at her. D.D. moved on to her lemon cake.

“I think we should have our auras cleansed,” she announced.

“Hey,” said Phil. “I’m a family man…”

“Then you can call child services and get everything you can on Oswald Harrington and the Laraquettes. Alex, you’re with me.”

“But I showered just this morning.”

“Not that kind of cleansing. We’re going to tend to our inner beauty.”

“You mean a spa?”

“No, it’s time we call upon Denise Harrington’s favorite shaman, Andrew Lightfoot.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Evan walked into my room at 4:14 a.m. and demanded to go to the park. He asked again at 4:33, 4:39, 4:43, 4:58, 5:05, and 5:12.

It’s 5:26 now, and we’re walking to the park.

The morning’s beautiful. The rain the night before has washed away the worst of the humidity. The air is warm, but pleasant, like a kiss against our cheeks. We walk the half a dozen blocks, breakfast in hand, and watch the sun paint the horizon. Being at the easternmost edge of the time zone, Massachusetts has one of the first sunrises in the country. I like to think of the early daybreaks as an exclusive treat for people who will spend their lives dropping their “r’s.” Other states have better enunciation. We get this.

“I see purple,” Evan says excitedly, pointing to the horizon and running circles around me. “There’s yellow and orange and fuchsia!”

“Fuchsia” is one of his favorite words. I don’t know why.

The park comes into view. I expected the playground to be empty at this hour. Instead, a small boy waddles around the two swing sets and impressive climbing structure, his mother watching from a nearby bench.

I hesitate. Evan dashes ahead. “A friend! Mommy, Mommy, a new friend!”

By the time I make it to the playground, Evan has already run half a dozen exuberant circles around the toddler. The small boy doesn’t appear overwhelmed, but is grinning at Evan as if meeting a clown for the first time. Encouraged, Evan zips figure 8s all over the playground. The boy toddles after him.

I feel my usual sense of parenting pessimism. Maybe Evan will play nicely with the boy. Maybe they’ll enjoy each other’s company. Evan misses other children so much. Maybe that will give him the incentive to be gentle. Maybe.

I sit down on the bench next to the other mom. It seems the hospitable thing to do.

“Good morning,” she says brightly, a young girl, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, with long brown hair held back in a ponytail. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else in the park this time of morning.”

“Neither did I,” I agree, trying to summon a smile energetic enough to match her own. Belatedly, I stick out a hand. “I’m Victoria. That’s my son, Evan.”

“Becki,” she says. “That’s Ronald. He’s three.”

“Evan’s eight.”

“Wow, he’s a morning person,” she laughs, watching Evan race up and down the slide. He’s already ditched his flip-flops and is in bare feet. I wonder how long before his dark blue gym shorts and red T-shirt follow suit.

“We just moved here,” Becki offers. “As in, the moving van unloaded yesterday afternoon. We still don’t have all the beds set up, nor the window air conditioners in. By five this morning, it seemed better to get outside. Ronald can run around while it’s still cool out, then maybe I can get him to nap through the heat.”

Next to the playground is a soccer field. Around the soccer field is a wooded fringe that separates the park from the neighboring houses. Evan has veered away from the little boy and is racing up and down the white lines of the soccer field. I allow myself to relax a fraction, take a sip of coffee.

“Where did you move from?” I ask Becki.

“ North Carolina.”

“That explains the lovely accent,” I murmur without thinking, and Becki beams at the compliment. It occurs to me that Evan isn’t the only one who misses his friends. I don’t belong to any social groups anymore. I don’t have clients, or coworkers, or close neighbors. I don’t attend playgroups, or hang out with the other moms after school. I see a respite worker twice a week and talk to my six-year-old daughter once a week. That’s the extent of my social life.

I’m pleased I can still make small talk. “What brought you to Massachusetts,” I ask now, warming to the moment. I hold out a ziplock bag containing banana muffins. Becki hesitates, then accepts one.

“My husband’s job. He’s a project engineer. They move him around every few years.”

“You’re lucky to land in Cambridge,” I tell her. “This is a great family area. You’ll love it here.”

“Thanks!” she says brightly. “In all honesty, I picked the town because of the universities. I’m kind of hoping that now Ronnie’s three, I can take some night courses.”

I check on Evan again. He’s made it to the far soccer goal and is climbing in the black netting. Ronald has spotted him and is working his way down the field on his shorter legs.

Becki calls him back and the toddler obediently swings around and returns to the jungle gym. “Sorry,” she says self-consciously. “Nervous mother. Sometimes he bolts on me, so I don’t like for him to get too far away. I know he’s only three but, wow, can he run!”

“I know what you mean,” I assure her. “I haven’t been able to keep up with Evan since he was two. Kids are all muscle and speed. We can’t compete.”

She nods, working on her muffin. “Evan’s an only child?” she asks at last.

“He has a sister,” I reply. “She’s with her father.”

Becki glances at me, but doesn’t pry. I put away the muffins. Get out a container of fresh strawberries.

“Will you have a second child?” I ask.

“I hope so. Once I finish up my degree at least. Ronnie was a bit of an oops. A happy oops,” Becki corrects hastily, coloring slightly. “But I’d hoped to finish college first.”

“Of course.” Evan’s still working the soccer field; Ronald’s back at the jungle gym. I get the lid off the strawberries, hold them out.

“That reminds me-I gotta get to the grocery store,” Becki comments, selecting a strawberry and taking a bite. “Actually, where is the grocery store?”

I give her directions, and that leads her to digging through her diaper bag for a notepad, and that leads me to sketching out several rough maps with the best local restaurants, a great bookstore, this absolutely wonderful bakery over on Huron Avenue. I feel like I’m drawing a map to the life I used to live. Here are places where you should shop, eat, and play. Here are things you, your husband, and your children would enjoy doing.

Cambridge is such a nice town, filled with historic grandeur mixed with the hip Harvard scene. Maybe I could bring Evan to the park more often. Maybe I could attempt the special-needs playgroup again. Or perhaps the local pool. Evan’s pretty good at pools. The swimming tires him out, keeps him distracted. I could bring a book, relax in the sun. I could mix us both fun, fruity drinks. Strawberry smoothies, virgin piña coladas. Michael and I went to Baja once, where we drank the best piña coladas, made with fresh fruit juice and rum. We’d drink them starting at sunrise, while lounging on the beach, digging our toes into the warm, white sand…

“ Victoria?”

I’m lost in my fantasy, making the mistake of remembering better days, of wanting a life beyond the cage in which I live. The high-pitched note in Becki’s voice brings me back. I stop drawing a map to the best coffee shop. I look at the playground. It takes me only a second to understand Becki’s shrill tone.

Evan and the little boy are gone.

I start with the usual platitudes. They couldn’t have gone far, we’d only glanced away for a minute. Why doesn’t she check by the street? I’ll start with the woods.

Becki obediently rushes toward the empty sidewalk. I make a beeline for the woods, calling Evan’s and Ronnie’s names. Nothing.

My heart’s beating too hard, my breath growing shallow. Maybe the boys are playing hide-and-seek. Maybe Evan saw Ronnie toddle off, and set out to rescue him. Maybe they’d just gotten curious. Boys do that. Some boys at least.

I trot down the impossibly long wooded perimeter, calling, calling, calling. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Then I start to think about things a mother shouldn’t have to think about. Those two young boys in the United Kingdom who’d lured the toddler away from the mall and killed him down by the railroad tracks. Then an incident much closer to home, where two teenagers had murdered a seven-year-old boy by shoving gravel down his throat-they hadn’t wanted him to tell his parents they’d stolen his bike. Or maybe the case of the six-year-old who’d lit the three-year-old on fire. Or the child who’d murdered his neighbor with a wrestling move, then stuffed her body under his mattress.

I make it down one side of the field, across the end, then work my way along the other, calling the boys’ names. The woods aren’t that deep. I can see the rooftops of neighboring homes through the boughs of green trees. The morning’s quiet; the sounds of traffic, muted. The boys should be able to hear me. Ronnie, at the very least, should call back.

Unless Evan won’t let him.

My pulse spikes, lights dancing in front of my eyes. I’m going to pass out. Can’t pass out. Have to think, have to think, have to think.

Evan’s not responding. Why isn’t he responding? Because he doesn’t want me to find him. Because he’s Evan and he’s playing some game and he doesn’t want to bother with me just yet. He wants to do what Evan wants to do, whatever that might be.

Incentive. That’s what it comes down to when you are a parent. Evan isn’t responding, because reducing my fear/panic/insanity isn’t enough incentive for him. He needs something better.

“Snack time,” I call out, as if this is an everyday morning. Becki and I just happen to both be racing up and down the soccer field without our children in sight. “Banana muffins and strawberries! Come on, who’s hungry?”

Evan loves banana muffins. It’s some of the only baking he lets me do.

Becki takes up the chant. We both work the wooded edges. “Snack time. Muffins and strawberries. Come on, boys, it’s getting late.”

I can tell by the rising pitch of Becki’s voice that as minute passes into minute, she’s starting to panic. It’s one thing to lose your toddler for thirty seconds. Quite another to still not be able to find him after a couple of minutes of hard searching.

It’s not working. Evan isn’t budging for banana muffins. I need something better.

I return to Becki, turning her so our backs are to the neighboring woods. “Evan sometimes plays this game,” I begin, wondering if my voice sounds as thin and strained to her as it does to me. “He hides and won’t come out unless there’s good reason.”

“What?” she says, clearly preoccupied.

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes.” She digs it out of her pocket and I take it from her, punching in my number.

“I’m going to run to the other end of the field,” I say. “Then I want you to press Send. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t look as if you’re making the call. Once I answer, you can hang up.”

Becki seems confused, but she nods, obedient in her fear, wanting something-anything-to return her world to right. She heads down one end of the field, still calling Ronnie’s name, while I reach the other side. I try not to fidget with my phone or appear like I’m expecting a call. Evan can be very clever.

Thirty seconds later, my phone rings. I don’t grab it right away. I give it a moment or two. Then I make a big show of taking it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen. I put my phone to my ear. “Hello, darling.” My voice still doesn’t sound natural. Maybe that’s okay. I’m looking for my missing son, so of course I’m still a little stressed.

“You want to talk to Evan? I… I don’t know where he is, honey. Ummm, ummm, let me see.” I hold the phone away from my ear, then call out, “Evan, Chelsea ’s on the phone. Evan. Your sister’s calling for you.”

I cross to the other side of the field. Repeat the show, alternating between having a fictional conversation with a dead phone and calling for Evan to take his sister’s call. Becki has stopped searching. She’s standing by the playground, just staring at me.

She’s starting to figure it out. That her new “friends” aren’t as normal as they appeared. That something’s wrong with us, and that something could hurt her.

“ Chelsea has to go,” I call out now. “Come on, Evan. Now or never. It’s your sister.”

At the last minute, just as I’m starting to give up, a bush rustles toward the end of the soccer field. Evan appears. He stands right in front of the bush, his hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. The little boy is crying soundlessly, the way kids do when they’re utterly terrified. Ronnie doesn’t try to step away from Evan, but remains in place, his shirt torn, face smeared with dirt, hair tangled with twigs.

“ Chelsea?” Evan asks.

I look my son in the eye. Hold out the phone without hesitation. “ Chelsea,” I say firmly.

Evan lets Ronnie go. The little boy bolts for his mother, who scoops him up immediately into her protective embrace. Evan walks to my side and takes the phone. He holds it to his ear only a second, then hands it back.

“You lied to me.”

“Why did you take Ronnie away?”

“You tricked me.”

“Why did you take Ronnie away?”

My angelic son smiles at me. “I’ll never tell.”

I slap my son across the face. Vaguely, I’m aware of screaming. Becki, I think. Only later do I realize that it’s me.

Becki doesn’t call the cops. Maybe she should. But with Ronnie still clutched against her chest, she grabs the diaper bag and bolts out of the park. My hand-drawn maps never made it into her bag. The haste of her departure scatters them across the playground. I watch them flutter about.

Directions to the life I used to live.

Beside me, Evan’s sobbing, holding his red-stained cheek. My unexpected act of violence has shocked him, transforming him into a confused eight-year-old, attacked by his own mother.

I should hate myself for what I’ve done. I should feel remorseful, guilt-stricken. But I can’t feel anything. Nothing at all.

After another moment, I cross to the park bench. I pack up the muffins, the strawberries, my travel mug of coffee. I tuck each item into my flowered bag, arranging them just so. I cross to the slide. Pick up Evan’s shoes, lay them carefully on top of the containers. Evan has stopped crying. He stands, shoulders hunched, hands cupping his thin face, hiccuping miserably.

I could leave him. I could throw the bag over my shoulder, start walking, and never look back. Someone would find him. The authorities, unable to contact me, would call his father. Michael could have him back. Evan would be happy about that.

Maybe I could walk to Mexico. Drink a piña colada. Dip my toes into the sand. I wonder how warm the water would feel this time of year.

“Mommy,” Evan whimpers. “Mommy, I want to go home.”

So we go home, where I give us both Ativan and we go to sleep.

Later, three hours, four, six? It’s hard to say. Evan sits on the couch watching SpongeBob. I hide in the kitchen, dialing a number I’m not supposed to dial anymore. We’re on a break. He needed some time. Things had grown strange in the past month. Once, he’d even scared me.

Now none of that seems to matter. Not that last episode, and the way his eyes had turned into black pools and I’d felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Not the strange, guttural way his voice had sounded when he said he needed to go away. Had some business to tend to. But he’d call me on Monday. He’d have a surprise for me on Monday.

It’s Saturday afternoon. Monday is forty-eight hours. I can’t make it that long. I need him. Dear God, I need someone.

Ringing. Once. Twice. Three times.

I almost hang up. Then:

“Hello?”

The second I hear his deep baritone, it hits me. The stress, the terror, the unrelenting fear. Not that my son will kill me, but that despite my best efforts, he will hurt someone else. He’s growing older, getting bigger, stronger, smarter. How long can I keep this up? How much longer before he wins at his own game?

The deep freeze gives way. I start to cry, and once I start, I can’t stop.

“I can’t do it,” I sob into the phone. “I just can’t do it anymore. I’m not strong enough.”

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he soothes. “I’ll help you, Victoria. Of course I’ll help you. Now take a deep breath and tell me everything.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Andrew Lightfoot lived in Rockport, about thirty minutes north of Boston. The quaint little town was perched on the edge of the Atlantic coast and offered all the requisite tourist amenities, including hand-scooped ice cream, saltwater taffy, and pounds of homemade fudge. D.D. would love to live in Rockport, assuming she ever won the lottery.

The GPS system obediently directed them to Lightfoot’s DMV address. D.D. followed the long narrow driveway until a house suddenly burst out of the windswept landscape in front of her. Beside her, Alex whistled. She simply stared, craning her head to see better through the front windshield.

Andrew Lightfoot owned a mansion. A staggeringly tall, modernistic structure that rose straight up from the rocky coastline and featured towers of glass oriented toward the vast gray-green sea.

“Three to four million, easy,” Alex price-tagged the home. “How many auras do you have to cleanse to earn this kind of real estate?”

“Don’t know, but next major hurricane, whole house is a do-over.”

“I think they use a special glass now,” Alex commented.

D.D. remained dubious. “I think builders have forgotten how major the hurricanes we can get up here are.”

She parked the car next to a gurgling waterfall that flowed down a pile of decorative rocks. Next to the waterfall stood discreet piles of smaller stones, granite pavers engraved with Japanese symbols and a sparse collection of dainty flowers and ornamental grasses. Very Zen, she supposed. It put her immediately on edge.

D.D. and Alex made their way up the sinuous walkway. An oversized front door, fashioned from glass framed in maple, enabled them to see all the way through the house to the ocean on the other side. Seven-foot-high windowpanes on both sides of the door expanded the view. A small brown dog sat in the right-hand window. It spotted their approach and started yapping.

“Nice guard dog,” Alex remarked.

“Small dogs bite more people than the large breeds do. Toy dogs just have better PR.”

“It’s the pink bow in the hair.”

“Ignore the accessories, watch the teeth,” D.D. advised.

Alex slanted her a look. “Funny. I was told the same thing about you.”

She flashed her canines at him, then knocked on the door. The little dog spun in a circle, reaching new pitches of hysteria. Then, from somewhere deep inside the house, D.D. heard a male voice calling, “Thank you, Tibbie. I’m coming. Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”

A man appeared in the entryway, his frame eclipsed by the light from the windows behind him. D.D. had an impression of height, then the door swung open and he stood before them. She nearly fell back a step, catching herself at the last second and forcing herself to hold steady.

“Can I help you?” the man asked politely. He wore a thin green T-shirt stretched across rippling pecs and washboard abs. His cream linen trousers emphasized long toned legs, while a simple leather cord drew attention to his tanned neck and the shaggy ends of his sun-streaked hair.

Expensive house. Impressive man. And the smell of fresh baked bread.

“Andrew Lightfoot?” D.D. asked, her voice slightly breathless.

“Boston PD,” Alex supplied, after the man nodded. Alex shot D.D. a curious glance when she remained speechless. “Sergeant D.D. Warren, Detective Alex Wilson,” he provided. “May we come in?”

“Absolutely.” Lightfoot stepped back, gesturing for them to enter. Their presence didn’t seem to surprise him. The Harrington murders were currently front-page news. Given Lightfoot’s work with the family, maybe he’d already connected the dots and anticipated a visit from Boston ’s finest.

Tibbie the dog had stopped barking, and was now running in circles around them. She stopped to sniff Alex’s ankle, then growled at D.D., then returned to Alex once more.

“Tibbie,” Lightfoot chided, not too harshly. “Forgive her. She’s a Tibetan spaniel. The breed goes back two thousand years, once serving as guard dogs for the Tibetan monasteries. Naturally, Tibbie has deeply held opinions regarding strangers.”

Lightfoot smiled at D.D., leaning forward to whisper: “She’s also a little spoiled and doesn’t care for competition from other beautiful women.” He winked, straightened, stepped away from the entranceway. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I have just baked some croissants. I will put together a tray for us. Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” Alex said politely.

D.D. nodded her agreement.

Lightfoot disappeared. Tibbie stayed behind, flirting with Alex. The detective bent down, holding out his hand to the pint-sized spaniel. She sniffed his fingers carefully, then leapt into his arms and made herself at home.

“Nice doggy,” Alex said, obviously impressed with himself. He walked into the vast living space, new friend cradled in his arms. D.D. followed in his wake.

The inside of Lightfoot’s home was as impressive as the outside. The floor was covered in a gray-green slate. Lush plants softened load-bearing columns. Pale sofas and low-backed chairs formed distinct sitting areas. Mostly, however, one admired a wall of four yawning windows that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.

The windows were open this morning, overhead fans circulating tangy ocean air and rustling the palm fronds. D.D. could hear seagulls in the distance and smell the salt of the sea. Nice life if you could get it, she thought. She wondered just how exactly a spiritual healer could get it.

Lightfoot reappeared, carrying a bamboo tray piled high with croissants, three mugs, and a French press filled to the brim. He placed the tray on the coffee table closest to the grand piano so D.D. and Alex moved over there. Lightfoot spotted his dog in Alex’s arms and smiled ruefully.

“You know, I’m still in the room,” he told his fickle pet. She raised her head at the sound of his voice and yawned. He chuckled. “Tibbie is an excellent judge of character,” he informed Alex. “I find canines to be much more open and perceptive of energy fields. Hence, their effectiveness as therapy dogs. If we would only open up our minds as much as they do, we would all be better helpers in the world.”

D.D. accepted a cup of coffee and a warm croissant. She took a seat next to Alex. Lightfoot positioned himself on the chair directly across from them, one leg crossed casually over the other. He still appeared relaxed, the congenial host warmly showing off his home. Interesting demeanor for a man whose client had just been brutally murdered.

“Do you know why we’re here?” D.D. asked.

Lightfoot steepled his fingers, shook his head. “I have faith, however, you will tell me when you are ready.”

This surprised D.D. She shot a glance at Alex, who appeared equally startled. Quickly, they schooled their features.

“Watch much TV?” D.D. fished.

“Don’t own a single set,” Lightfoot replied easily.

“You’re not interested in the news? Too earthly for you?”

Lightfoot smiled. “I’m afraid I’m addicted to the Internet as a source of information. And, yes, I read plenty of news. But the past few days I have been ‘off the grid,’ as they say. I just wrapped up a particularly demanding case and needed some time with just the sound of the wind and the waves.”

“Case?” Alex asked, still petting the dog.

“Ever hear of Jo Rhodes?” Lightfoot queried.

D.D. and Alex shook their heads.

“She was a famous burlesque dancer who was brutally murdered in the twenties. Her body was found mutilated and hanged in a hotel room, the killer never caught. I happened to encounter her soul on the spiritual interplanes. Angry, angry presence. No tolerance for men, as you might imagine. Originally, I blocked her out. But then I began to wonder. It seemed such a tragedy, first murdered, now trapped by her own hate. I decided to offer my help.”

“You interviewed a ghost to identify her killer?” D.D. asked in confusion.

Lightfoot smiled at her. “No, I helped Jo let go of her rage. Her killer died twenty years ago. It was her own negativity that was holding her back. It took a few sessions, but she rediscovered the light inside of herself. Then she journeyed on. A satisfying experience, but a very draining one.”

D.D. didn’t know what to say. She set down her coffee. “Mr. Lightfoot-”

“Andrew.”

“Mr. Lightfoot,” she repeated. “What exactly do you do?”

“In colloquial terms, I am an expert in woo-woo.”

“‘Woo-woo’?”

“Woo-woo. You know, sixth sense, spiritual powers, other planes of being. It’s been my experience that cops are also adept at woo-woo-you just don’t call it such. Detective’s instinct, gut feel. It’s that little extra that helps get the job done.”

D.D. regarded him skeptically. “So you sell… woo-woo, and”-she gestured around the airy living room-“that earns you all this?”

“Before woo-woo,” Lightfoot provided easily, “I was an investment banker. A very good investment banker. I drove a Porsche, fucked women based on their cup size, and screwed over my rivals. I amassed tens of millions of dollars in materialistic wealth. And achieved total spiritual depletion. Money is not happiness, though I’ll be the first to say it was fun trying for a bit.”

“So you just walked away?”

“One day on my way to work, I passed a fortune-teller. She grabbed my arm and demanded to know why I was wasting my talents. I should be healing lost souls, not working Wall Street, she said. Naturally, I shook her off. Crazy old bat. But a week later, I had dinner with a college buddy who’d just been diagnosed with skin cancer. On a lark, I reached across the table and grabbed his hand. I felt searing heat. Like my hand was on fire, then my arm, my chest, my face, my hair. By the time I managed to let go, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I staggered out of the restaurant, drank eight glasses of water, and went to bed.

“Next day, my friend called. He’d gone to his doctor to discuss treatment options, and the growth on his back was gone. They tested four other places on his body. No cancer cells. All gone. I quit my job the next day.”

D.D. arched a brow. “So you traded in your crass, materialistic life in order to selflessly share your gift with mankind. All right. How does mankind find you?”

“Word of mouth. The Internet.”

“You have a website?”

He smiled. “AndrewLightfoot.com. You might enjoy signing up for the online meditation. I link together thousands of consciousnesses via the Internet and channel all of their energies toward a common goal. Powerful, powerful stuff.”

“What’s the common goal?”

“Enhancing the light. Defeating the dark.”

“‘The dark’?”

“Energies work both ways. For every positive, there is a negative. Common sense can agree on that much.” He paused, eyed them expectantly.

“I’ll grant that much,” D.D. concurred. Beside her, Alex nodded. He was munching his second croissant with the dog still nestled on his lap.

“Can you also agree that each of us radiates our own energy, some more strongly than others? Perhaps you think of it as force of personality, or natural charisma. We choose friends because their mere presence makes us joyful or relaxed. We avoid others because being around them is hurtful to us or ‘brings us down.’ We consider them negative-whether angry, or fretful, or generally hateful. Everyone emits energy, and on one level or another, we respond to that.”

D.D. shrugged, “Positive energies and negative energies equals positive people and negative people. What do you bring to the table, Mr. Lightfoot?”

“I have a variety of skills,” he offered.

“Dazzle me.”

“I am a fifth-generation healer, passed down through my paternal line.”

“Lightfoot?” She glanced dubiously at his sun-bleached hair. Not exactly a walking advertisement for Native American.

“I returned to using my great-great-grandfather’s Indian name,” he explained. “Seemed more appropriate for this line of work. Sadly, I can’t do much about my fair features, a gift from my Irish mother.”

“How do you heal people?”

“It’s a matter of becoming receptive to the energies. I put myself in a higher state, then I open myself up to the negativity. Illness or disease feels to me like slivers of ice, as if a glacier has taken root inside someone’s center. I draw upon all the positive energy inside of me and from around me, and I channel it to my hands. Then I place my palms upon the person, and let the positive energy burn the negativity away. People tell me they can feel it. An intense warmth, starting at one point, then radiating throughout their body. Of course, I work with my clients to build their own positive energy as well. To shield themselves from negativity. To embrace the light all around them. Everyone, to a certain extent, can learn to heal themselves and keep themselves healthy. Some of us are simply more naturally adept.”

“You put your hands on a person,” D.D. said slowly, “then declare him healed?”

“Told you you weren’t the woo-woo type,” he said, smiling. Lightfoot tilted his head, regarding her thoughtfully for a minute. “Let me guess. You’re an accomplished detective. A work-hard, play-hard type of gal. You pride yourself on being tough, you always get your man. You would be the first to admit that you’re in touch with your inner bitch.”

D.D. blinked, didn’t say a word.

Lightfoot leaned forward, spoke in that same low, hypnotic tone. “Maybe it’s not about finding your inner bitch, Sergeant Warren. Maybe the key to happiness is finding your inner angel instead.”

He sat back and D.D. kept her eyes locked on his face, even as her hands clenched into fists. Nurse Danielle had been right. Arrogant son of a bitch. And yet… And yet.

“Would it surprise you to know that my father was in law enforcement?” Lightfoot offered abruptly. “Not a big-city detective like you. Small-town cop. I, of course, was the ambitious son who couldn’t wait to escape to the bright lights and big city. After my encounter with the fortune-teller, I called my father. He confirmed my shaman bloodlines, but was unwilling to give our heritage too much credit. So he had an instinctive ability to read people’s true nature. He knew when someone was lying. He knew which men hit their wives and which women abused their children. And he knew when something bad was going to happen. He could feel it, the negativity building in the air like an electrical charge. He’d round up the usual suspects, in case that would make a difference.

“I don’t think my father believed in his skills, as much as he puzzled over them. Because we lived in a peaceful community, did that mean he had few healing instincts? Or did we live in a peaceful community because he had such great healing instincts? Welcome to the nature of woo-woo.”

“Work much with kids?” D.D. asked abruptly.

“I work with all ages.”

“Let’s talk kids,” D.D. insisted.

He spread his hands expansively. “What would you like to know, Sergeant?”

“Does your healing extend beyond the physical to include mental illness? You know, troubled kids and all that?”

“I have worked with a number of kids others might classify as emotionally disturbed.”

“How would you classify them?”

“As old souls, as incredibly wise and sensitive beings who are being viciously attacked by other, more powerful negative forces. These negative energies are drawn to the light, particularly to old souls, and will stop at nothing to destroy them.”

D.D. had to think about this. “We’re back to the battle again? The war between light and dark? Kind of Star Warsy, don’t you think?”

“Maybe Lord of the Rings,” Lightfoot said, then grinned again. “You’re an old soul,” he said abruptly.

“It’s the humidity.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Not for a second. Though I find it interesting that when someone like me meets someone like you, we’re always someone important. An old soul. The former Queen of Sheba. The fortune-teller never says anyone was a peasant a thousand years ago, though most folks were. And apparently, a shaman never says you’re just a flicker in the cosmos of life, though again, most folks are.”

“You must find the truth inside yourself.”

“As the saying goes, no shit, Sherlock.”

Lightfoot laughed, appearing delighted. D.D. glanced down at her half-filled coffee cup, fidgeted with her napkin. She could feel Alex watching her, seeing more than she wanted.

“Young kids, old souls,” she snapped. “What are we talking about here?”

Lightfoot steepled his fingers again, back in lecture mode.

“Contrary to your statement, I don’t believe in past lives. I believe all things are happening now, but on a limitless number of planes. Your soul visits this plane to experience this set of experiences. Joy, hurt, love, hate, etc., etc. Sometimes old souls come to this plane, but inside a baby’s body. These old souls, which have so much power they emote across a multitude of planes, attract dark energies. All actions require a reaction. All positives call upon a negative.

“Unfortunately, young children don’t have the coping skills necessary to protect themselves against negative forces. Their oversensitivity means they’re picking up on everything, from their mother’s stress over not having enough money for groceries to the neighborhood kids’ fear of being targeted by a bully. They’re constantly battered by all of these conflicting energies, especially at night, when the negative forces gain power. These children appear fractured, impulsive, overstimulated. One day, Johnny is incredibly loving and charming, a personality ten times his or her size. The next day, Johnny is a monster, attacking everyone he sees, including his baby sister.

“Physically, these children run hot. They constantly shed clothing, coats, hats, mittens, shoes, and socks. Intellectually, they’re bright, brilliant minds trapped inside a chaotic corporal cage. Emotionally, they operate at the nth degree of everything. They do not just love, they love. They do not just hate, they hate. Everything is more for these kids and nothing soothes them. Not therapy, not drugs, not the other five dozen things their parents have desperately tried before coming to me. The issue is not just physical, intellectual, or emotional. It is spiritual, and that’s one plane today’s experts deliberately overlook.”

“Are you talking exorcisms?” D.D. asked incredulously.

“Sergeant, I don’t believe in God. Therefore, I can’t believe in the Devil.”

“But you believe in light and dark.”

“Absolutely. That’s where I begin with parents. I start each family with basic rituals and skills. We work on meditation, spiritual cleansing, and protection exercises.”

“Exercises?”

“Would you like a handout?”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“I will get you one before you leave. Or again, you can find the information at AndrewLightfoot.com…”

“You post the exercises? You give them away for free?”

“Remember, gifts are meant to be shared.”

“Right. But not negative energy.”

“Now you’re getting it. These exercises are basic chants. I’ve written sample words for each exercise, as I find most traditional-minded people need help to get started. So I meet with the family in person, preferably in their home so I can get a sense of the energies present-”

“In the whole house?”

“Yes. These homes feel like an icebox. The negativity is everywhere. No wonder an old soul feels as if it’s going insane.”

“So you’re in the house…”

“I’ll conduct a guided meditation, getting each family member to focus his or her light as much as possible. Once I have focused the group’s love, I might attempt a protection exercise. I might also attempt a cleansing of select individuals, starting with the mother. A child’s bonds with his or her mother are extremely powerful, so any negativity in the mother is being communicated to the child. As many physicians will tell you, mother the mother, mother the child.”

D.D. had heard that one before. “So, you’re doing chants, burning a feather, arranging crystals, what?”

He grinned. “No burning feathers. I like crystals, but mostly because other people like crystals. Having a talisman gets them started. Me, I talk. I try to educate the families about energies and help them understand how their child is experiencing the world. I teach them to let go of their rage toward their child, to find tolerance and love once more. I try to help them feel the positive and resist the negative inside of themselves. If they can find their inner truth, then they can be effective parents again.

“These families are fractured. Marriages are strained. Parenting bonds are twisted. Sibling bonds are corrupted. The whole family requires healing, not just the ‘problem child.’ Another weakness, of course, of the modern medical system that studies only the weak link, but never the entire chain.”

“What about their doctors?” Alex interjected. “Surely they have opinions about your work with their patients?”

Lightfoot shook his head. “Very few. In my mind, the spiritual, physical, and mental are not mutually exclusive. All should be tended. My expertise is spiritual. I leave the doctors and therapists to the rest.”

“You just told us you help people choose not to be sick,” D.D. countered. “That sounds like doctoring to me.”

“But these kiddos do not have a disease,” Lightfoot retorted. “They suffer from an onslaught of negativity that requires spiritual bolstering.”

“Or pharmaceuticals.”

“Most of the children I see have been prescribed plenty of those already.”

“Meaning you don’t think they work.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you tell the families that?”

“If they ask.”

“I’m gonna guess doctors don’t take that well.”

“I’m gonna guess you’re right.”

D.D. studied him. “What else do you recommend? Beyond ‘spiritual exercises’?”

“Detox. You’re a detective; it might interest you to know that a study of prison inmates found they had significantly higher levels of heavy metals in their blood than the national average. High levels of mercury, in particular, have been known to exacerbate moodiness and increase rage. So I recommend a seven-day healthy-eating program to lower heavy metals and reduce inflammation. Feed the body, feed the soul.”

“Feed the body, feed the soul,” D.D. repeated. “You’re good with the one-liners.”

“I teach workshops, as well,” he replied without blinking. “Again, AndrewLightfoot.com…”

D.D. glanced over at Alex. The dog was still asleep in his arms, but Alex had adopted the blank expression of a detective thinking many things at once.

“And the Harringtons,” D.D. asked finally, looking for a reaction on Lightfoot’s face. “What did you prescribe for them?”

“No,” Lightfoot said firmly. He didn’t appear distressed or anxious. Just firm.

“No what?” D.D. asked carefully.

“I may not be a traditional medical practitioner, but I still respect the privacy of my clients. Anything you want to know about a specific patient, you must ask them.”

D.D. decided to go fishing. “If I dialed Denise and Patrick Harrington right now, told them we were with you, and asked them to grant you permission, would you honor that?”

“I would need to call them myself,” Lightfoot said after a moment. “To ensure it was the same Harringtons. But yes, if they say it’s okay to speak with you, I’ll honor that.”

“Call them,” D.D. said softly.

Lightfoot got up, crossed to an antique Chinese chest on the other side of the room, picked up a cordless phone, punched in numbers. D.D. glanced at Alex, who was stroking Tibbie’s ears.

“He doesn’t know,” Alex murmured.

“Or is a good actor.”

“He’s very charming.”

“I’m sure it works for him.”

“Does it work for you?” Alex asked.

D.D. wouldn’t dignify that with a response. Lightfoot returned, holding out the phone apologetically. “Doesn’t appear they’re home,” he informed them.

“They’re not,” D.D. agreed.

“You knew that?”

“Yep.”

Lightfoot wasn’t smiling anymore. “Sergeant, I believe I have had enough of this conversation. What is it you want to know?”

D.D. went with the obvious. “Why you helped Ozzie Harrington kill his family.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Inner angel, my ass,” D.D. muttered twenty minutes later. They’d made it to the car, were pulling out of Lightfoot’s driveway. It was after noon. Her blood pressure was too high, her blood sugar too low. She threw the car into gear and went grinding out into the summer traffic, heading for Rockport.

“Where are we going?” Alex asked. He had the window down, hand cupped over the top of the window frame for better leverage as she took the first corner a fraction too fast.

“Fudge shop,” she replied, accelerating steadily as she passed the first gawking driver, then the next. If people wanted to gaze at the ocean, they should park their cars and walk, for God’s sake.

“Works for me,” Alex said.

It took her ten minutes to find the place she remembered vaguely from five years back, when she’d had a date in Rockport. Then she had to circle the crowded block half a dozen times before finding a parking spot almost exactly the same size as her car. Alex arched a brow. She considered it a matter of pride that she slid into the parking space parallel to the curb on the first try.

“Inner angel, my ass,” she gritted out again as she popped open her door, then stalked toward the fudge shop/deli. Inside, she ordered a grilled cheese, a Snapple iced tea, and four pounds of fudge. “For the unit,” she said primly when Alex shook his head at the growing pile. “Everyone’s working hard.”

He ordered half a pound of white chocolate and praline fudge for himself, but no sandwich. Apparently, he only ate lunch once a day. Lightweight.

They commandeered the last available table, which was just large enough for two people to sit with their heads nearly touching. Alex unwrapped his fudge, eating it slowly and with a great deal of appreciation. That mollified D.D. The moment her shoulders came down and half her sandwich disappeared, however, he started.

“Shaman boy got to you.”

“Please. This from the man who French-kissed the dog goodbye.”

“She started it,” Alex said, but touched his mouth self-consciously. “Besides, Tibbie isn’t a potential murder suspect.”

“According to Lightfoot, neither is he.”

“And according to you?”

“Hate this fucking case,” D.D. growled, giving up on the grilled cheese, and opening the fudge instead. Chocolate with a thick ribbon of peanut butter. Better. “Woo-woo, my ass.”

“Not into celestial planes?”

D.D. gave him a look. They’d shocked Lightfoot into discussing at least some details of the Harrington family. According to him, he’d started work with Ozzie nearly a year ago. After his initial visits with the family, he worked one-on-one with Ozzie to teach the boy basic meditation exercises, including how to focus on the light inside of himself, while constructing a shield against negative energies.

Lightfoot went on to explain, however, that his most effective work was done at night, in his own home, where he put himself into a meditative trance, and then, with the permission of Ozzie’s parents, visited the entire family on the “interplanes,” where he could work directly with their spirits. During the first of these trips, Lightfoot discovered that Ozzie was a product of rape. The boy carried much of his rage from his own inception, so Lightfoot arranged for spirit Ozzie to meet with his spirit rapist dad, in order for the “healing process to begin.” Ozzie also carried the wound of his mother’s death. Therefore, Lightfoot arranged for spirit Ozzie to meet his spirit mother, so he could hear directly from her that she’d never wanted to leave him and loved him very much.

Within four weeks, the nighttime work led to daytime progress, with Ozzie appearing calmer. Within two months, the boy had mastered the art of deep breathing, picturing seven angels giving him seven hugs. Within three months, he could produce his own protection barrier and his parents began weaning him off his medication, working with the consent of Ozzie’s doctor, Lightfoot had assured them.

“Powerful, powerful soul,” Lightfoot had said with apparent awe. “It is a beautiful thing to watch such a soul find itself again.”

D.D. had brought up the subject of Ozzie murdering neighborhood squirrels.

“A learning opportunity,” Lightfoot had informed her. “No one heals overnight. For every step forward, there are steps backwards.”

She decided the man loved his one-liners. And she decided that overwhelmed, stressed-out mothers must devour his words hook, line, and sinker. A televangelist for the alternative-medicine set.

“I think Lightfoot believes in what he does,” D.D. told Alex. “And… I think his kind of charisma combined with his kind of looks is a pretty dangerous combo. Strong man. Weak parents. My bullshit meter hit an all-time high.”

Alex cut off another piece of fudge. “Why?”

“Are you kidding me? Interplanes, spiritual healings, angel hugs. These kids have violent impulses. They bludgeon fathers, shoot mothers, stab siblings. I think they might need more than deep-breathing exercises.”

“What’s the more?” Alex asked with a shrug. “Remember nurse Danielle from the psych ward? Modern medicine doesn’t know what to do with these kids either. Not enough available medicines, too many side effects. I don’t know. I’ve never meditated a day in my life, but if I had a kid going crazy and the docs told me they were out of options… Sure, I’d give Lightfoot a call. Meditating isn’t gonna hurt a child. Nor is vegetable broth or organic fruits or nighttime visits to the interplanes. You can’t blame the parents for trying.”

“Exactly the danger,” D.D. said flatly.

Alex regarded her steadily. “You don’t buy any of it? What about his spiel on negative and positive personalities? I gotta say, my Aunt Jeanine could drive the president of the Optimist Club to suicide. That woman’s the walking, talking personification of a downer. I can believe she’s sending negative energy out into the universe.”

“Big leap from naturally happy or sad people to nighttime surfing of the spiritual superhighway.”

“I think cops know woo-woo,” Alex continued. “At least the good ones.”

“Instinct is instinct, not woo-woo,” D.D. said.

“Ah no. A lot of people would argue instinct is exactly woo-woo.”

“And they would be wrong. Instinct is evolutionary in nature. Darwinism one-oh-one. Those who can pick out the bad guys first live longer. And eventually produce generations of fine policing talent.”

Alex leaned forward, wiped a spot of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth with his fingertip. “Shaman boy got to you,” he repeated.

“Oh, shut up,” D.D. snapped. But shaman boy had gotten to her. Because if getting in touch with one’s inner love child was the secret to happiness, then she was well and truly screwed.

“Let’s pretend to be cops,” she declared three minutes later. “We have, oh”-she glanced at her watch, “about four hours before the evening news broadcasts that a second family was murdered last night, making it two households in forty-eight hours. If we’re lucky, given the differences in geography and socioeconomics, the reporters will assume it’s a tragic coincidence, and run sidebars on getting better social services for stressed families during these tough economic times. If we’re not lucky, some talking head will link the crimes, declare a serial killer loose in the greater Boston area, and there will be a run on handguns, possibly leading to a spike in accidental shootings of small children. Would you care to place your bet?”

“I think that’s negative energy,” Alex told her.

“What can I tell you? I’m playing to my strengths.”

Alex opened his mouth, looked like he might refute that, but then closed it again. The moment came and went. D.D. wished she understood the interlude better, but she didn’t.

“Opportunity,” Alex said tersely, and wrapped up his remaining fudge. “Lightfoot worked with the Harrington family over the past year and was obviously trusted by them. If he knocked on the front door during dinner, they would’ve let him in.”

“But his work with them was mostly done. Ozzie had ‘made great strides,’ the whole family was ‘making better choices,’ succeeding in their ‘learning opportunities,’ and… what was that last thing?”

“‘Listening to their inner truths.’”

“Exactly. Nothing says ‘happy family’ like listening to your inner truths.” D.D. paused, pushed away half a grilled cheese but didn’t touch the fudge. “We should download Lightfoot’s photo from the Internet and take it to the neighbors. See if they agree he hadn’t been around in a while. After all, can’t forget AndrewLightfoot.com.”

“Can’t forget,” Alex agreed. “So he has opportunity. What about motivation?”

“Hell if I know. Pick your poison. Had an affair with the wife…”

“Can’t picture him and Denise.”

“Had an affair with the daughter.”

“Interesting.”

“Parents found out. Seducing underaged girls definitely not good PR for an enlightened being. Lightfoot has to do something about it and, knowing Ozzie’s history, goes with family annihilation.”

“Except he didn’t frame Ozzie. He framed Patrick.”

“All right. Lightfoot’s obviously a master manipulator…”

“‘Obviously’?”

D.D. ignored him. “So he went to work on Patrick. Here’s a father who’s financially stressed and emotionally strained. Troubled kid is a lot of work. House is a lot of work. Now he finds out his ‘good daughter’ is dirty dancing with the local healer. Patrick confronts Andrew. Andrew twists it all around and convinces Patrick that all the ‘negative energies’ are winning, and Patrick should give up the fight.”

“Drives the man into killing his entire family?”

“Why not? We close the case, Lifetime makes the movie, I finally get sex.” D.D. stopped. Probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.

“Does the sex part involve Lightfoot or me?” Alex asked.

“In that scenario, Lightfoot’s gone to prison, so it doesn’t involve him.”

“Perfect. Let’s make the arrest.”

“Only after you solve the next problem: the Laraquette-Solis crime scene.”

Alex nodded, serious again. “Lightfoot claimed not to know them, and I gotta say, I don’t see them as the shaman type.”

“Though they do know their herbs.” D.D. shrugged, trying out different scenarios in her mind, not making much progress. She started to pack up her fudge. “Grilled cheese?” she asked Alex, gesturing to the remaining half a sandwich. He considered the matter, then helped himself to a few bites. The gesture struck D.D. as intimate. Look at them, sitting forearm to forearm at this tiny little table in this cute little fudge shop in this gorgeous little town, sharing a sandwich.

She felt discomfited again. Torn between the life she had and the life she wished she had. Or, more accurately, torn between the person she was and the person she wished she could be.

“All set?” Alex asked after finishing the grilled cheese. D.D. nodded, and he graciously carried her tray to the trash. She replaced her fudge in the plastic bag, adding Alex’s box on top. They waved goodbye to the proprietor, then stepped out onto the sun-drenched street, having to pick their way through the throng of summer tourists.

“Next stop?” Alex asked, angling automatically toward the ocean. At the end of the street, they could just make out a slice of blue water. It was tempting to walk toward it.

“Don’t know,” D.D. said, staring at the distant water, listening to the gulls.

“Dig deeper into Lightfoot?”

“Probably.” But her heart really wasn’t in it.

“It might just be two coincidental crimes,” Alex said, as if sensing her apathy.

“I don’t know that the crimes are linked,” she admitted. “I feel it, but I don’t know it.”

Beside her, Alex blinked. It took her another second to get it.

“Crap, I sound just like him!”

“Cops know woo-woo.”

“That’s it, I want to go home and shower.”

“Works for me,” he said.

She shook her head and headed for the car. “We’re going to HQ.”

“No shower?”

“Nope. I’m getting out a whiteboard, we’re poring through the reports, and we’re gonna overanalyze every single detail of this case until we goddamn well know something. Screw woo-woo. You know what makes the world a better place? Good, old-fashioned hard work.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“So how are things at the PECB?” Dr. Frank asked.

He sat in a dark green wingback chair flecked with tiny gold stars. I sat across from him, not on the proverbial couch, but in a second star-dusted deep-green wingback. Between us was a cherry table with a tape recorder and two china cups: tea for him, coffee for me. We could be a set piece at a theater: prominent shrink interviewing prominent patient.

I picked up the fine rose-patterned china cup and took a sip before answering. Work was Dr. Frank’s standard warm-up question. I only saw him a couple of times a year, so each occasion called for some sort of icebreaker, and he’d long ago realized I’d rather talk about other children’s problems than my own.

“I have a new charge,” I said now, setting down the coffee. It was decaf, really terrible. I didn’t know why I still accepted a cup, after all these years. You’d think I’d know better.

“Yes?” he said encouragingly, his gaze eternally patient.

“Her name’s Lucy. She’s a primal child. Fascinating, really. She soothes herself by taking on the persona of a house cat. Plays with her food, grooms herself, naps in sunbeams. As a cat, she’s fairly workable. Lose the persona, however, she’s aggressive, violent, wild…” I lifted my hair to reveal a giant scratch alongside my neck, as well as an assortment of dark purple bruises. “That was from an encounter last night.”

Dr. Frank didn’t say anything. Talking is my half of the relationship.

“We’d assumed she was completely nonverbal,” I continued. “But last night she spoke to me. Also, I’ve caught her listening a few times when the staff was speaking. The look in her eyes… I think there’s a lot going on in her head we don’t know about yet. In fact, I think she might be much more capable than we’ve assumed.”

“You said she’s your charge?”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve been on the unit a lot these days, and if I’m on duty, I generally work with the nonverbals. My specialty.”

“I see.” Another standard Dr. Frank line. Sometimes, I felt like I could script these sessions before I ever arrived, which was probably why I didn’t visit so much anymore. I’d quit altogether if not for Aunt Helen. She seemed to need for me to have a therapist, so Dr. Frank and I humored her.

Now Dr. Frank was eyeing me steadily. I knew what he was building toward, but I made him work for it. After all, asking was his half of the relationship.

“When did you get off work?” he questioned now.

“I got home around three in the morning.”

He glanced at his watch. It was ten a.m. Ten a.m. on a beautiful Saturday morning. I should be hanging out in the parks along the Charles River, not sitting here.

“What time did you get up this morning?”

“What?”

“What time did you rise?”

My knee was starting to bounce. I forced it to stop. “Don’t know. Didn’t pay attention.”

“Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“What did you eat?”

“I don’t know. Bagel. What does it matter?”

He eyed me, going in for the kill. “You tell me, Danielle. Why does it matter?”

Both of my knees were jiggling now. Traitors. “Fine,” I huffed out. “So I’m not sleeping much. No surprise there, right? And okay, I skipped breakfast, and oh yeah, now that you mention it, dinner last night.” Not that it’ll stop me from pounding a few drinks later on. No surprise there either.

I glared at him, daring him to tell me I don’t have the right to self-destruct.

“Dreams?” he asked steadily.

“Same fucking ones.”

“Do you get out of your parents’ house?”

“Nope. Nothing new there either.”

“Have you tried any sleep aids?”

“If you can believe such a thing, they make me crankier.”

“All right.” He picked up his own china cup, took a delicate sip of tea, then gently returned the cup to its saucer. “So you have how many days to go?”

I continued to glare at him. He knew the anniversary date as well as I did, the asshole.

He remained unflappable, blue eyes direct, white beard neatly trimmed, light gray suit dignified, so I finally bit out, “Two.”

“Two days,” he repeated. “And thus far, your coping strategy involves overworking, undersleeping, overdrinking, and undereating. Does that about cover it?”

“Don’t forget the annual pilgrimage to the graves with Aunt Helen. Can’t forget that.”

“Do you want to go, Danielle?”

I didn’t answer, so he pressed button number two: “Do you want to get better? Do you wonder about your own capabilities, or does it remain easier to focus on one of your charges, such as Lucy?”

I refused to answer, so he went for the trifecta, lever number three: “Let’s talk about your love life.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said.

So he did. It was my session after all. I called the shots. I could lie as much as I wanted. I could deny as much as I wanted. I could hide as much as I wanted. Both of my knees were bouncing again and I wondered why I came. I should’ve stayed home. I should never leave my apartment again.

Because as of Monday it would be exactly twenty-five years. Twenty-five years to the day since my mother died, my siblings died, my father died, and I lived to tell the tale.

Except I had nothing to say. A quarter of a century later, I was not magically wiser. I didn’t know why my mom and Natalie and Johnny had to die. I didn’t know why my first life had to end, and I didn’t know why this second life was still so hard for me.

“Did you read about that case in the paper?” I heard myself ask. “The family killed Thursday night in Dorchester?”

Dr. Frank nodded.

“Yesterday, two detectives came to our unit to ask questions about it. One of our kids was involved. His parents discharged him last year against our advice. Turns out we might have been right about that one.”

Dr. Frank was accustomed to my sarcasm.

I couldn’t sit anymore. I was too edgy, agitated. I’d dreamed again last night. My fucking father standing outside my fucking room with a fucking handgun pointed at his fucking head. Fucking coward.

“This morning, they were talking about another family, too. In Jamaica Plains. Though maybe that was a drug deal gone bad. Nobody seems to know. Four kids, baby through teenager. Gone, just like that. If it was a rival drug dealer, why the infant? A baby can’t be a witness, a baby can’t rat anyone out. You’d think the shooter could’ve left the baby alone.

“Then again,” I heard myself ramble, “maybe the baby didn’t want to be left alone. Maybe the baby heard the shots and started to cry. Maybe the baby knew already that her mother and siblings were dead. Maybe the baby wanted to go with them.”

“What about the baby’s father?”

“Fuck him.”

“The baby didn’t miss her father?”

“Nope,” I answered, though his attempt to turn the baby into me is so Psych 101 I should laugh at Dr. Frank instead.

“There are no survivors,” I said. “Do you think they’re happier that way? Maybe there’s a Heaven. Maybe the mother and her children get to be together there. And maybe, in Heaven, children don’t have to listen to voices in their heads and parents don’t have to scream to make themselves heard. Maybe, in Heaven, they can finally enjoy one another. I don’t think it was fair of my father to deny me that.”

“Do you want to join your family?” Dr. Frank asked me steadily.

I couldn’t look at him. “No. I don’t. And that sucks even more, because I hate my father for killing my family, then I have to turn around and be grateful to him for sparing me.”

“You don’t have to be grateful,” Dr. Frank said.

“Yes I do.”

“You have a right to live, Danielle. You have a right to be happy and to fall in love and to find enjoyment in life. Your father didn’t grant this to you and you don’t owe him anything for it.”

“But he did.”

“Maybe your mother did,” Dr. Frank offered.

I scowled at him. “My mother? What does she have to do with this?”

“Or maybe it was your brother,” Dr. Frank said.

I stared at him in confusion.

“Or maybe your sister, Natalie, or Sheriff Wayne, or your Aunt Helen.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying, there are many key people in your life, yet you hand all the power to your father. Why do you think you do that?”

“He took life. He granted life. He acted God-like, so I guess I make him God.”

“God doesn’t drink a fifth of whiskey, Danielle. Least I hope not.”

I didn’t have anything to add to that, so for a moment, we both fell silent. Dr. Frank sipped more tea. I prowled in front of his second-story window overlooking Beacon Street. It was busy outside. The streets swarmed with happy tourists buzzing about. Maybe they’d go for a walk through the gardens, indulge in a Swan Boat ride or a duck tour. So many things to do on a sunny August morning.

These families always seemed cheerful to me. I wondered if, twenty-five years ago, the neighbors thought the same about us.

“Do you think that if you’re joyful, your father wins?” Dr. Frank asked now. “You’ll be indebted toward him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Which meant, of course, that I did.

“You want to know why your father didn’t shoot you,” Dr. Frank said, steadily. “Twenty-five years later, it still comes down to that. Why didn’t your father kill you, too?”

“Yes.” I turned, less certain now, and stared at Dr. Frank. It wasn’t like him to cut so quickly to the heart of my mixed-up, fucked-up life. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Maybe your mother called to him,” Dr. Frank stated. “Maybe she called out his name and that distracted him. Maybe she begged for your life.”

“Couldn’t. She died instantly, single gunshot to the head.”

“Your sister, then; she was closer. Maybe she told him not to.”

“He shot her in the face, in the doorway of her bedroom. I don’t think she could say much after that.”

“Your brother lived long enough to be rushed to the hospital.”

“Yeah, Johnny lived a good twenty minutes. Johnny also made like Superman and tried to fly down the stairs. His spine was shattered by a bullet, his neck fractured from the fall. Only thing he probably begged for was a second shot, for my father to finally get it right.”

“I see you’ve been reading the police reports again.”

I had them laminated in a scrapbook. Something Dr. Frank and Aunt Helen discovered years ago.

“Did your family love you?” Dr. Frank continued to press. He was relentless today. I was less certain of this Dr. Frank, and I started pacing again.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to know?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Did you love them?”

“My mother and siblings,” I said instantly.

“Really?” He cocked his head to the side. The shrink’s quintessential pose. “Danielle, you have spent so much time and energy on their deaths. If you truly love them, why not invest a little time and energy on their lives? That’s what they’d want you to remember, don’t you think?”

“But I loved him, too,” I heard myself whisper.

“I know.”

“I tried so hard to make him happy.”

“I know.”

“I thought, that night, if I did what he wanted, if I just made him happy, it would be okay.”

“What did he want you to do, Danielle? You are a grown woman now, a nurse with professional expertise. Don’t you think you can finally say it out loud?”

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. There were things no child knew how to put in words. They didn’t have the vocabulary to match the experience. A dime if you’ll touch Daddy’s penis. A quarter if you’ll suck. What could a little girl say about that?

I worked now with two- and three-year olds who stuffed and regurgitated food in a desperate attempt to share. They didn’t know the term “oral sex”; they could only demonstrate the terrible violation, filling their cheeks with applesauce, then spitting it out while their mothers yelled at them for making such a mess. The children were honest in their desire to communicate. It was the adults who screwed everything up.

“She didn’t save me,” I said tonelessly. “But then, she didn’t even save herself.”

“Who, Danielle?”

“My mother. She told me to go to my room. She told me it would be okay. She told me she would take care of everything.”

“What would she take care of, Danielle?”

“They started fighting. I could hear them yelling from my bedroom. He was drunk. You could tell he was drunk. He was always drunk.”

“And then?”

“I don’t want to go to the cemetery this year. I don’t see the point.”

“What happened that night, Danielle? You went to your bedroom. What happened next? Tell me what happened next.”

“He killed them,” I said bluntly. “I tried to make him happy, but he killed them. Then he sang to me, so I would know it was all my fault.”

“You didn’t kill your family, Danielle. A nine-year-old girl cannot stop a grown man. Surely at this stage of your life you realize that.”

I simply nodded, because even all these years later, I didn’t feel like mentioning that at the start of that final evening, I was the one with my father’s handgun.

Dr. Frank asked me more questions. I stuck with basic answers and we continued our dance. It occurred to me that, given the timeline, he and I were approaching our silver anniversary. I wondered if I should get him something. An engraved plate, maybe an heirloom-quality picture frame. Dr. Frank was one of the longest relationships I’d ever had. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

At the end of the hour, he surprised me again, reverting to the direct probing from the beginning of our session. “Do you feel your life is a success?” he asked me.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you feel your life is a success? Come, now, Danielle. You’re a grown woman, well educated, with an admirable career. Do you feel your life is a success?”

I had to think about it. “I think I’ve made a difference in many children’s lives,” I said finally. “I’m happy about that.”

“And these sessions? Our relationship? Has that made a difference in your life?”

“I am not sure I would’ve made it otherwise,” I said, which is probably true. At least close enough.

He nodded his head, seemed content. He shuffled some paper. “You should know I’ll be retiring at the end of the year.”

“Really?”

He smiled now, gesturing to his silver hair. “I’ve long been driven by my profession. It’s time to be driven by my hobbies instead. At least according to my wife.”

I tried to picture some Mrs. Dr. Frank, ordering him to hang up his hat, and that made me smile back. “Well, congratulations.”

“You are always welcome to call,” he said gravely.

“Thank you.” We both knew I wouldn’t. This relationship needed an end. His retirement provided a graceful exit for both of us.

“Danielle,” he said as I start to rise, “I worry about you.”

The admission astonished me, and for an instant, I could tell it had shocked him. He recovered quickly. “I believe we can agree there are aspects of your history you have yet to adequately acknowledge.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I have a colleague I’d be happy to recommend. A woman. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with a female doctor-”

“No, thank you.”

“These next few days will be hard.”

“I’ll get through. I always do.”

“Have you considered staying with your aunt?”

“She has her own mourning to do.”

“You give each other strength.”

“Not this time of year.”

He sighed, appeared defeated. “Please watch the drinking.”

“I will.” Tomorrow afternoon, I’d watch my arm come up, I’d watch the drink go down.

“And, Danielle, as I’m sure you must have already considered, perhaps this week is not the time to be watching the news. These other cases of family tragedy will only exacerbate what is already a difficult period for you. The Dorchester case in particular, which involves a child you once knew, is needless salt on the wound. Their tragedy is not your tragedy. That case has nothing to do with you.”

I took my leave without bothering to correct him. For every word spoken, so many more were left unsaid.

The story of my life.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The drug taskforce was good. D.D. returned to her desk to find an entire case file on Hermes Laraquette, aka The Rastaman. She thought any white guy who referred to himself as The Rastaman was probably doing something, and Hermes didn’t disappoint. He had a long rap sheet of minor infractions, including burglary, theft, and possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell.

Fortunately for Hermes, the criminal justice system was overwhelmed, allowing his public defender to plead down half the charges, while getting the other half dismissed. Then Hermes made good on his vanishing act before Immigration caught up with him.

According to local intel, Hermes had hooked up with Audi Solis, a welfare mom already supporting three children by three different fathers. Nine months later, with Hermes’s help, she was able to make that four kids by four fathers. Hermes was listed on the birth certificate of ViVi Bellasara Laraquette, born March 19.

At which time Audi applied for state aid for her youngest, while Hermes went back to doing what he did best, dealing pot.

The BPD drug taskforce believed Hermes was tapping Boston’s growing immigrant population to help him import and export product. He moved bales at a time, but that still made him only a small fish in Boston’s raging drug ocean. Given that he appeared to be using as well as dealing, Hermes wasn’t likely to get ahead anytime soon.

So they had one petty drug dealer, shot on the sofa. One welfare mom stabbed in the kitchen. And four dead kids scattered across two bedrooms.

D.D. set down the drug taskforce’s files and moved on to the rest of the reports, including interviews with the children’s teachers and school administrators.

“Ishy or Rochelle?” she asked Alex, who’d taken the seat in the corner and was currently studying a sketch of the Laraquette crime scene as if reading tea leaves.

He set down the sketch. “Ishy.”

D.D. handed him the preliminary victim report on seventeen-year-old Ishy Rivers, the oldest son, shot twice in the hallway. She took the report on eleven-year-old Rochelle LeBryant, who D.D. already knew liked pink paint and paperback novels. That left two pages on four-year-old Tika, who’d been shot on a dog bed, and one paragraph on five-month-old ViVi, who’d been suffocated in her crib. A life so brief the victim report didn’t even fill a page.

They read in silence, sipping coffees, flipping pages. Alex finished first, then waited for D.D. to wrap up. When she set down the officer’s report and picked up her coffee, he started talking.

“Ishy Rivers. No warrants, no arrests,” Alex rattled off crisply. “Not in the juvy database and not in the DMV database, so a quiet life for a teenager. Two officers interviewed the neighbors, who ‘don’t know nothin’ ’bout no one.’”

“Funny, neighbors had the same thing to say about Ishy’s younger sister.”

“Fortunately, the guidance counselor at the high school was more helpful-though, for the record, Ishy didn’t spend much time at school.”

“Truant?”

“He attended a hundred and three days of his sophomore year, which is roughly half of the days he should’ve. They signed him up for summer school to make up the lost time, but he never showed.”

“They report him?” D.D. asked with a frown.

Alex shook his head. “Sounds like the system gave up on Ishy about the same time Ishy gave up on the system. According to the guidance counselor, Ishy was coded early on with multiple learning disabilities. She described him as sweet, though his obsessive-compulsive behaviors made it difficult for him to integrate with his peers. He was fixated on credit cards, asking everyone he met what cards they had, what were the numbers on the front and back, and would frequently launch into a recitation of every known credit card ever made, including black, platinum, gold, and silver editions.”

“Identity theft?” D.D. spoke up.

“She was guessing Asperger’s, which is often accompanied by OCD. Ishy was also deeply superstitious about stepping on cracks and could not enter the cafeteria or gym, as he was terrified the rafters would fall on him. A sweet kid, though.” Alex held up the report. “The woman states it about eight or nine times. Sweet kid, struggling with school, and not getting the support on the home front to pull it all together. Guidance counselor’s official opinion: She can’t imagine Ishy committing murder, but does admit his obsessive behaviors could drive someone else to violence.”

“Interesting,” D.D. said. She held up her report, adding to the mix: “Rochelle LeBryant. Eleven years old, due to start sixth grade next month. No arrests or warrants. Also not in the juvy or DMV database. If older brother, Ishy, couldn’t wait to leave school, apparently younger sister Rochelle couldn’t wait to get there. Her fifth-grade teacher reported that Rochelle had perfect attendance the previous year, and often arrived at school an hour before class started. The girl had sat quietly in the hall reading, until her teacher took pity on her and let her enter the classroom.

“Teacher describes Rochelle as quiet, serious, and very bright. The girl was anxious to help out, and couldn’t stand making mistakes. Fortunately, she was smart enough-easily reading at a high school level, the teacher raved-that mistakes didn’t happen often.

“Rochelle never spoke of her home life, but the girl’s limited wardrobe, gaunt appearance, and lack of hygiene spoke for itself. In a fit of inspiration, Mrs. Groves stocked the bathroom with shampoos and Rochelle started washing her hair in the sink each morning before school started. Sometimes, Mrs. Groves would leave behind a few clean items of clothing, but Rochelle wouldn’t take them. Rochelle seemed very prideful. Similar efforts to share food also failed, though the girl would accept books. She always returned them, but she couldn’t say no to borrowing a novel.”

D.D. set down the report. “Mrs. Groves can’t imagine Rochelle harming anyone, though she had nothing good to say about the parents. ‘Uninvolved,’ ‘uninterested,’ and ‘unloving’ were just a few of her choice adjectives. She viewed Rochelle as essentially raising herself, and doing a decent job of it, all things considered.”

“Shit,” Alex said.

“Agreed.”

“What about the two youngest?”

“Not in school yet,” D.D. reported. “Which leaves us with the statements from the neighbors-”

“Let me guess: They ‘don’t know nothin’ ’bout no one.’”

“How’d you know?”

“I think the neighborhood was Hermes’s customer base, and most of them are pissed off they didn’t get to that back shed before we did.”

“True. And now their bitterness makes it difficult for them to cooperate with the fine local cops who did get to the shed first. Jealousy, plain and simple.”

“The younger girl was covered in some pretty nasty cuts,” Alex said quietly. “I saw scarring, too. Arms, legs, and around her face.”

“I’m assuming Phil will have some info from child services.” D.D. didn’t like thinking of the four-year-old either. There was something too pitiful-that poor scarred body, curled up on a dog bed. It made her pinch the bridge of her nose, as if that would wipe the image away.

“Holding up?” Alex asked quietly.

“Always.”

“Not offending, just offering.”

D.D. looked at him. “I’m good at my job.” It was important to her that he know that.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Don’t need a man to fix me. Don’t need a man to save me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She grimaced. “I hate my fucking pager.”

He smiled. “I love working at the Academy.”

“Not gonna give it up for all this glamour?” She spread her hands over their piles of notes and reports.

“No. Visiting the field is good. Don’t need to live here. ’Course, it helps me to be more understanding of a fellow investigator’s crazy schedule.”

“Nothing regular about this job,” D.D. agreed.

“Plans get made and unmade. Dinners could be prepared that sadly grow cold.”

“Very sadly,” she assured him.

“I’m good at my job,” he said.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Don’t need a woman to wait on me. Don’t need a woman to stroke my ego.”

“I’ve noticed.” She paused, regarding him more seriously. “So what do you want?”

“Let’s start with dinner.”

“Really?” She didn’t mean to sound disappointed.

“But I’m open to all possibilities,” he added hastily.

“Because I saw this ad-” D.D. realized what she was about to say, and broke off, mortified.

Alex grinned. “‘Cool chills, warm thrills’?”

She leaned closer. “I’m dying to know,” she admitted.

He leaned closer. “I’m dying to be of service.”

They both sighed. Heavily. Then leaned back, and returned to work.

“So,” D.D. said after a minute, clearing her throat, forcing herself to sound brisk. “Where are we at? We got a drug dealer, a welfare mom, a truant teen, a brainy preteen, and two unknowns. High-risk lifestyle. Isolated mother and kids. What are the odds that Hermes smoked too much dope, tried a new product, and went postal on his own family?”

“Don’t like the knife,” Alex remarked. “If he starts with the knife, he should end with the knife.”

“Maybe stabbing Audi was the impulse part. They got into a fight in the kitchen, he took it too far. Ishy saw him, started to run, and Hermes realized he’d better do damage control real quick. Hermes gets out his handgun and goes to town.”

“Then, once he realizes what he’s done…”

“Decides to finish it all. Suffocates his own baby, then lies down on the sofa and blows out his brains.”

“You’re wrong.”

D.D. and Alex looked up sharply. Neil had appeared in the doorway, his pale face so lit up his freckles glowed. “I got news, straight from the ME,” he burst out. “Hermes wasn’t shot. I mean, well, okay, he was shot. But it doesn’t matter, because at the time he was shot, he was already dead. Whole sofa scene-totally staged.”

There were moments D.D. didn’t like her job. The stress of working too many hours without a break. The tedium of poring over investigative reports. Her damn pager going off at precisely the wrong moment…

This moment, however, was not one of those moments. She, Alex, and Neil had taken over the conference room so they could spread out, and Neil was currently pacing up and down the length of the table, talking a mile a minute.

“Hermes Laraquette was hit with a Taser in the chest. Two jolts would be the ME’s guess, to judge by the twin set of burns. Most men would’ve gone down, but recovered. Laraquette’s lifestyle wasn’t exactly heart-healthy, however, so he never got up again.”

“Taser killed him?” D.D. reiterated.

“Taser caused a massive coronary event, which dropped him deader than a stone.”

D.D. was standing at the whiteboard, dry-erase marker in hand. With Neil’s affirmation of cause of death, she jotted down a fresh note. “Hang on. If a Taser was used in the attack, where’s the confetti?”

Tasers, which were illegal in Massachusetts, were supposed to discharge coded confetti with each stunning jolt. The code on the confetti could then be used to trace which Taser had been used in an attack-compensating for the fact that there was no bullet left behind for the police to trace. The confetti was a huge, fluttery mess, nearly impossible to clean up, especially given conditions at the Laraquette household.

“Don’t know,” Neil said. “But the ME is convinced it was a Taser. Has no doubts about the marks.”

D.D. frowned, decided to come back to the confetti. “Okay. So that gives us four instruments for attack: Taser, handgun, knife, pillow. What else did the ME have?”

“Definitely stabbing as COD for the woman. Single fatal blow. No hesitation marks,” Neil reported, still pacing.

“Like the Harringtons,” D.D. said.

“Same size blade,” Neil reported. “Meaning both households contained knife sets, and in both attacks perpetrator selected the same size blade.”

“The largest blade,” Alex said, his tone cautious. “Which, if you think about it, is the most logical choice for murder.”

“True, true,” Neil mused, stopping his pacing long enough to stick his hands in his front pockets and jiggle the loose change.

“Can the ME check Patrick Harrington’s body?” D.D. asked. “See if he was tasered, too?”

“Already made the request.”

“Well?”

“Give him a couple of days. Between the two scenes, plus the rest of the city’s normal mayhem, bodies are stacking up.”

“August,” D.D. muttered. “Always a busy time of year. So what about the kids? The son was shot.”

“Yep. Same with the four-year-old and eleven-year-old girls,” Neil reported. “Infant’s gonna be tougher. Harder to rule on asphyxiation. More like nothing else seems to be physically wrong with the child, ergo it was probably suffocation. ME’s sent the pillow out to be tested for DNA. Might be able to trace saliva on the pillow back to the infant, then it’s a bit more conclusive.”

“How long?” D.D. was already bracing herself.

“Three to six months,” Neil said.

“Fuck.”

“Not right now, I’m already too excited.”

D.D. rolled her eyes at Neil. Sure, the lanky redhead talked a good game, but it wouldn’t help her any. Alex, on the other hand, should look out.

“So what does this tell us?” she mused, riding the same adrenaline wave as Neil. She studied her whiteboard, then got busy with the marker: “One, this takes Hermes out of the perpetrator column and moves him squarely into the victim category. After all, the man couldn’t very well taser himself to death, then shoot himself to death.”

“Ambush,” Alex said.

She looked at him, nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Stun Hermes, incapacitating him, then go after the rest of his family,” Alex continued.

“Why does Hermes have to be first?” Neil asked. “Couldn’t it be someone had attacked the family, then Hermes walked in on it?”

“If Hermes walks in, why taser him?” Alex pointed out. “Someone walks in on a shooting, the perpetrator fires off an extra round. The perpetrator doesn’t set down the gun and dig through his pockets for a new weapon.”

“True, true.”

“I think Hermes went first,” D.D. agreed. “Perpetrator incapacitates the most obvious threat-the father-by stunning him multiple times.”

“Not exactly foolproof,” Alex commented. “Especially a hard-core drug addict. I’ve seen guys stunned half a dozen times and they’re still screaming bloody murder.”

D.D. chewed her lower lip. Considered it. “Given that Tasers are illegal in Mass., maybe our perpetrator has a truly illegal, illegal Taser. Meaning, as long as he was acquiring a black market Taser, he got one with super-sized voltage. For the military, commercial grade, etc. Maybe custom cartridges, which would explain why no confetti was left behind. For a buck fifty, you can buy just about anything on the black market. Why not a super-volt Taser, guaranteed to silently incapacitate your problem, while leaving no evidence behind?”

The more D.D. thought about it, the more she liked it. “Higher voltage might also explain Hermes’s massive coronary event,” she continued. “He wasn’t just hit by a Taser, he was hit by a Taser.” She glanced at Neil. “Any way the ME can study the burn patterns on Hermes’s chest to estimate size of the hit?”

“I have no idea,” Neil said, “but I can ask.”

“All right. Back to where we were. We know a Taser is being used, and it was strong enough to kill at least one man. So we’ll assume that’s part of the perpetrator’s plan. Incapacitate the father figure with a Taser. Next up is the second adult-the mother. She’s ambushed in the kitchen with a knife. Another silent weapon, maybe an attempt on the perpetrator’s part to remain undetected for as long as possible. Once someone notices, however-”

“Ishy, in the hallway,” Alex said.

“Yeah. Now the subject has to move fast. Ishy’s raising the alarm, there are two other kids capable of bolting for the neighbors’. The subject’s gotta tamp down, or the whole scene will spiral out of control.”

“So the subject grabs a gun-”

“One he’s taken off Hermes?” D.D. questioned.

“Unregistered, so no way to determine,” Alex said. “But subject has a gun and now it’s quick and dirty business. Fumbles the first shot with Ishy, but makes it right with the second. Then hits the girls’ room. Boom. Boom. Kids are done. It’s down the hall to the last member of the family.”

D.D. nodded. “All right. But the last member of the Laraquette family is a five-month-old baby. Infants can’t talk or bear witness. Why kill the baby?”

Neil and Alex were both silent for a minute, contemplating the matter.

“He has to kill the baby,” Alex said at last. “Because it has to be the whole family. It’s a script, remember? The family must be dead and the father must appear to have done it. So the baby must die. Then Hermes must be moved to the sofa and posed accordingly. It’s what the killer does. What he needs.”

“Not a gangland hit,” D.D. said slowly. “Because in a gangland hit, the shooter would want to take credit. He’d want it known that he’d eliminated his rival’s entire family, to strike fear into the hearts of other up-and-coming drug dealers. Plus, he wouldn’t mess around with four different weapons. Too much fuss. This isn’t about revenge. This is something deeper, something more personal to the killer.”

“A reenactment,” Alex murmured.

D.D. frowned, uncomfortable, not sure why. “Hermes’s death screwed it up. He was supposed to be stunned unconscious. Then, when the rest of the family had been eliminated, the killer could return, move Hermes to the sofa, wrap Hermes’s fingers around the gun, and complete the final act in the story. But Hermes had a heart attack, breaking with the script, and giving us our first clue.”

Alex said suddenly, “Hermes had the gun on him.”

D.D. and Neil turned to him. “How do you figure?”

“Because the gun has to come from inside the home. It’s part of the pattern, and if you think about it, it works. At the Harrington residence, the subject eliminates Patrick first. Stuns him, we’ll assume for the sake of argument. Then the subject slips into the kitchen, grabs a knife, and goes to town. Finally, the staging takes place. Patrick gets moved, the subject locates the gun, performs the final act.”

“Patrick lived,” D.D. pointed out.

“The risk you take with a twenty-two,” Alex countered. “But the gun was registered to Patrick, remember? That’s all he owned, and I bet if we ask his neighbor Dexter, he’ll agree that Patrick was conscientious about handgun safety in a household with three kids. I bet he kept the twenty-two in a lockbox. So the killer had to wait to access it and use it. Hermes, on the other hand-”

“Probably had it stuffed in the waistband of his jeans,” D.D. finished for him. “Lucky he didn’t blow off his nuts.”

“Lucky he ate so much fast food, and suffered a heart attack.”

“So now all we have to do is find some kind of link between the Harringtons and the Laraquette-Solis family,” D.D. said. “And figure out why someone’s idea of fun is murdering entire families. Then we catch him. Preferably in time for the five o’clock news. Ideas?”

She looked at Alex, he looked at Neil. Neil looked back at her.

“Trace evidence,” Neil said finally, with a small shrug. “Hair, fiber, prints, some link between the two crime scenes.”

“Look for parking tickets,” Alex offered. “Subject had to come and go, and let’s face it, parking in the city is a bitch, especially during the summer months.”

“Footprints outside the windows.” Neil again, getting into the spirit of things. “Subject probably scoped out the place first.”

Alex’s turn: “Reinterview the neighbors. To pull off something this sophisticated, the perpetrator had to have reconned. Did any of them notice the same car driving around the block several times? Or a new face suddenly taking walks in the morning, only to disappear again? Guy had to get his intel somehow.”

D.D. wrote down the list, added two of her own: ballistics, in case the slugs bore any similar markings between the two scenes, and also the ME’s report on Patrick Harrington. If he had Taser burns on his chest, the scenes were linked. No doubt in her mind.

“Neil,” she said, tapping that last item, “get back to the ME for us, will you? Couple of days is too long to wait for Ben to reexamine Patrick. We need the ME’s report tomorrow morning at the latest, even if it’s only his preliminary opinion. But this matters. Matters a lot.”

Neil nodded, then there was a rap on the door. Phil stuck his head in.

“Miss me?” the third member of their squad asked. “I’ve been looking all over the damn place for you. What’s with the conference room?”

“More space,” D.D. said. “Neil caught a break from the ME. Turns out Hermes Laraquette actually died from a Taser, and the whole suicide-on-the-sofa thing was staged. Now we just gotta link the Harrington scene to the Laraquette-Solis scene and we’ll be able to prove we’re looking for a single predator who likes to reenact family annihilations. Why? What’d you do with your afternoon?”

“Tell me you love me.”

“Is this more or less than I love a medium rare cheeseburger?”

“Definitely more. I’ve linked the Harringtons to the Laraquette-Solis family. Remember the Laraquettes’ four-year-old girl with the cuts all over her limbs?”

D.D. nodded her head; not an easy thing to forget.

“Child services was called, and the girl was taken into temporary state care, and guess what? Mommy and Daddy aren’t the ones who hurt her. She does it to herself. A form of self-mutilation that has something to do with compulsion, depression, anxiety, yada yada yada. To make a long story short, the girl can’t stop slicing her own skin. Uses everything from sharpened twigs to paper clips to the tabs from Coke cans. Well, nine months ago, Tika got her hands on a disposable razor and starting working on her neck. By the time Mommy noticed, girl was covered in blood. Mom rushed her to the emergency room, where she was diagnosed as an immediate threat to herself and…” Phil paused a beat, waited for the drum roll.

D.D. connected the dots, just as Phil spoke the words out loud.

“And four-year-old Tika was admitted to the Pediatric Evaluation Clinic of Boston. Otherwise known as Ozzie Harrington’s former home-away-from-home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Am I a good mother?

In the months prior to our marriage unraveling, Michael claimed that my personal failings were holding Evan back. I refused to view my son and his issues objectively. I refused to consider that someone else-or perhaps, more specifically, somewhere else-would be in my son’s best interest.

By believing I was the only person who could help Evan, I was, in fact, guilty of the worst sort of hubris. I was arrogant, self-centered, and putting my needs as a mother above the needs of my son. I was also ignoring my husband and my daughter, fracturing the family I was supposed to nurture and protect.

To hear Michael describe it, Evan’s temper tantrums, violent acts, and chronic insomnia were all my fault. If I could just be a better mom, Evan would be a better child. Preferably one who was locked up somewhere, where parents could visit at their convenience and a younger sibling could forget he ever existed.

Stop being such a martyr, Michael kept saying. This isn’t about you. It’s about what’s best for him. Dammit, we have resources, he’d add, as if Evan were some sort of remodeling project that if we just threw enough money at would be done to our satisfaction.

For the record, it’s not easy to institutionalize a child. There are very few long-term-care facilities. The good ones have waiting lists. The bad ones are a rung below the maximum security prison where many of the kids like Evan will eventually wind up. Evan’s third doctor, after the crowbar episode, said he could work some magic on our behalf. That’s pretty much what it takes for immediate placement. It’s like a letter of recommendation from a wealthy alumnus to get your kid into the right prep school. Except it’s a request from a prominent child psychiatrist to institutionalize your child.

The place he recommended had once served as a monastery. It was known for its stripped-down simplicity and structured approach to life. Unbeknownst to Michael, I toured it one afternoon. The rooms were small and guaranteed not to overstimulate. The walls were carved out of stone so thick, no amount of lighting would ever diminish the gloom.

The facility promoted self-discipline, hard work, and independence. I thought it smelled like an old folks’ home, someplace you went to die. I couldn’t picture a seven-year-old boy here. I couldn’t imagine Evan, with his brilliant smile and infectious giggle, ever wandering these dreary halls.

So I kept him home with me. And my husband and daughter left instead.

I don’t know if I am a good mom. Evan isn’t the child I planned on having. This isn’t the life I dreamed of living. I get up each morning and do the best I can. Some days, I give too much. Some days, I don’t give nearly enough.

But I’m not a martyr.

I know, because at 2 p.m. I’m going to do something that’s absolutely, positively not in Evan’s best interest.

And I don’t give a damn.

I start my preparations at noon. First, I make Evan a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a crushed Valium tablet sprinkled in the middle. Don’t ask me how I learned to do this. Don’t ask me what kind of pressure drives a mother to spend her afternoons crushing up various medications and mixing them into various lunch options. For the record, you need something sweet, like jelly or honey, to hide the bitterness. Grilled cheese… it took hours to effectively clean the grease spot off my glass sliders.

I serve the sandwich with apple slices and a cup of milk on the coffee table. Evan perks up. Lunch in the family room means he gets to eat while watching TV. This is a rare treat, and he’s already shaking off the residues of our morning playground drama.

Next, I turn on Evan’s favorite channel-the History Channel. Evan can watch tales of historical events for hours, from stories of Pompeii, to the life-sized clay soldiers recovered from the Chinese emperor’s tomb, to images of the Titanic. His favorite books are the Magic Tree House series, where Jack and Annie travel to various places in time. He loves nonfiction, as well. Biographies, coffee-table books, old lithographs-all of it fascinates him.

He gets this from his father, yet one more thing Michael will never know.

Currently, the History Channel is airing a show on digging the tunnel between Britain and France. There are images of heavy machinery and men in hard hats covered in mud. Evan picks up the first half of his sandwich and is transfixed.

I walk to the entryway, where I check the front door. Evan learned to work the bolt lock by age three, escaping at whim. He also mastered chain locks and the heavy glass sliders. As a result, my front door now features a key-in, key-out bolt lock. I also converted the glass sliders, meaning that every entry/exit in the house can only be accessed using the key I wear on a chain around my neck. If there’s ever a fire, and I lose said key, Evan and I will burn alive.

But at least he can’t escape while I’m showering.

Upstairs I strip in the master bath. I take a moment to look at my reflection in the mirror, though I know I shouldn’t. I was a beautiful girl once. The kind of lithe, silvery-blonde beauty that turns heads. I understood my power early on, and used it wisely. I lived in a mobile home with newspaper stuffed in the cracks for insulation. I wanted out, and my looks were just the ticket.

I started on the pageant circle, winning modest amounts of money, which my jealous mother stole from my bank account. I kept going, eventually securing a scholarship to college. That’s where I met Michael. I recognized him immediately as someone just like me. Attractive, driven, desperate. We’d been stomped on enough in life and we weren’t going to take it anymore.

I lost my virginity to him when I was twenty years old, though my mother had been calling me a slut for at least the past six years.

I cried that night. Michael held me, and I felt genuinely special. The pageants were just titles. It was Michael who made me feel like a princess.

I don’t look like a beauty queen anymore. My face is gaunt, my skin nearly translucent, stretched too thin across my bony ribs and jutting pelvis. There’s a giant green-and-yellow stain on my left side-I think Evan had pushed me down the stairs. Fresher purple bruises run up my right leg. Red welts mark my forearm. I look old and beaten, and for a moment, I want to cry.

For the beauty that faded too fast. For the youth that disappeared too quickly. For the dreams I thought I would fulfill.

There are pieces of yourself that once you give away…

But I want them back. Dear God, there are moments when I just want them back.

Two o’clock. Everything will be better at two o’clock. I turn on the shower, step in the spray, and begin to shave my legs.

I return downstairs nearly an hour later, an eternity in my world. I’ve taken the time to smooth my favorite rose-scented lotion into my skin. I’ve buffed my nails, loofahed my feet, used a special conditioner on my hair. If not prettier, at least I’m shinier than I used to be. It’s the best I can do.

Evan’s slouched into the sofa. The History Channel is blaring, the station having segued from the English tunnel to Boston’s Big Dig. The sandwich’s gone. Evan appears glassy-eyed. First the morning’s dose of Ativan, now this.

I sit next to Evan, feather back his blonde hair. He stirs enough to look at me.

“Pretty,” he says thickly, and it amazes me how I can smile and feel my heart break at the same time.

“I love you.”

“Tired,” he says.

“Would you like to rest?”

“TV!” he yells, not totally under the influence yet.

“After TV, then.”

He shifts away, his gaze riveted once more to the magic box. We sit side by side, my son sinking deeper into drugged oblivion, me fidgeting with my push-up bra.

The show breaks for a commercial. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to go. Now or never. I pick up the remote, turn off the TV. I wait for Evan’s squawk, but it never comes. He’s slack-jawed, already two beats from unconsciousness.

He doesn’t protest as I slip an arm around his shoulders, guide him off the sofa and up the stairs. For an eight-year-old boy, he feels nearly weightless against me. The ADHD, we’re told, his constant agitation. He could follow Michael Phelps’s diet, and still lose weight.

In his room, I tuck him in bed fully clothed. It’s his second nap of the day and I will pay for it later. A long, sleepless night where my son will work off the edgy aftereffects by trashing the house.

But it will be worth it, I think. As long as I can have two o’clock.

I glance at my watch. Three minutes and counting.

“Mommy,” my son mumbles.

“Yes, Evan?”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s that, honey?”

“This morning. Didn’t hurt him. Wouldn’t hurt him. Just wanted… a friend. Nobody likes me. Not even Daddy.”

I don’t say anything, just brush his cheek and watch his thick lashes flutter close. I want to tell him it’ll be okay. I want to tell him we’ll go to the park another day. I want to tell him he’ll make new friends and that his father still loves him.

Instead, I slip into the hallway, and lock my son in his room.

Doorbell rings.

A last nervous sweep of my hand through my hair, then I head downstairs.

My lover waits on the doorstep. He’s dressed casually, white T-shirt stretched over his toned chest. His hair curls damply against the back of his neck. He smells of soap and sunshine, and I want to take a moment to breathe him in. Youth, freedom, carefree days.

He smells of what I’ve lost, and some days I want him for that as much as anything.

“I have only an hour,” he announces. I’m not surprised. In the beginning, he lingered. We shared foreplay, pillow talk, post-coital glow. Then something shifted. He became less charming, more demanding, while our interludes became less romantic, more transactional.

I can feel the edginess in him now. He’ll be rough again, even abusive. The woman I used to be would’ve sent him home.

Now I open my door wider and let him into my home.

“Evan?” he checks. Have to give him credit for that. We met because of Evan. One good thing to come from this mess, I used to think. I’m not as sure anymore.

“Asleep,” I say.

“Locked in?”

“We won’t be interrupted.”

He gets a smile that I already feel between my legs. He leads me to the family room, his callused fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist.

At the last second, I balk. Looking for, wanting…

“What about my surprise?” I hear myself ask.

“It’s not Monday,” he says, leading me toward the sofa.

“Two days. Close enough.”

“Impatient?” He slants me a look. It is both flirtatious and dangerous. There are shadows in his eyes. Why have I never noticed that before? His blue eyes, once so clear, are now as dark as midnight. The phantom, I think. The phantom just won’t leave me the fuck alone.

Then I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to know.

He pulls me to the sofa, where minutes before my son slumped in a semi-catatonic state. Except now I’m the one bending over the arm of the sofa, while male hands raise my skirt, palm my ass, and lower a zipper behind me.

I smell the August sun radiating from his skin. It takes me to another place, where I’m still young and my husband still loves me and we’re walking hand in hand in Mexico, watching the sun set and thinking this is only the beginning of the best days of our lives.

Another man’s fingers working against me, stretching me, preparing me. My own back arching instinctively against him.

Then he’s inside me. The first hard thrust. His grunt of satisfaction.

“You will do exactly as I say,” he orders.

I close my eyes and give myself away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“What are you doing here?”

“Working. What does it look like?” I shoved my bag in the locker.

“You’re not on the schedule,” Karen, my boss, persisted.

“Last-second change,” I said neutrally. “Genn wanted to attend some cookout with her kids, so I agreed to take her shift.”

Karen adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. She crossed her arms over her chest, letting me know I was in for a fight.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” she demanded. “Because if you have, I think we can both agree why you won’t be working tonight.”

I returned her stare, chin up, shoulders square. I could be stubborn, too. Especially tonight.

I fell asleep on the sofa after my visit with Dr. Frank. I dreamed of my father again, except this time he wasn’t standing in the doorway. This time, he was in my room. Dr. Frank was right: There were things I’d never dealt with, events I’d never disclosed. I held them at bay, stuffed into a small closet in the back of my mind, where I kept the door locked tight. Except once a year, they managed to escape. They crept under the door, wiggled through the lock, then stalked through the dark corridors of my memory.

“Danny girl. It’s happy time…”

As a professional, I understood that the unconscious mind had a will of its own. As a person, however, I wondered if this is how it felt to go insane. My heart raced even when I was sitting still. My hands fought a tremor even in the August heat.

I couldn’t go home tonight. I just couldn’t, and this place was as close to family as I had left.

“I’ll be okay,” I tried now, but Karen wasn’t buying it.

“First off,” she stated crisply, “you were involved in not one but two major incidents with the same patient.”

I looked at her blankly. Maybe I had gone crazy, because I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Lucy,” she supplied, reading my face. “She escaped yesterday. In fifteen years I’ve never had a child disappear. The hospital is demanding a formal investigation, as well they should. It’s unconscionable that a child can slip through two sets of locked doors and have not a single nurse or milieu counselor notice. For heaven’s sake, we’re lucky nothing worse happened.”

“But I found her!” I protested. “I’m the one who figured out where she went and got her back.”

“You were the one who should’ve been watching her in the first place.”

I hung my head, suitably shamed.

“Then, last night, I understand you and Lucy went a few rounds in the ring. To look at your face, you didn’t win.”

“I dealt with the situation-”

“You weren’t even on the clock, Danielle. You were supposed to be on your way home, not rushing down the hall to tend a child!”

“Lucy started screaming hysterically. What was I supposed to do, sit around and watch? We needed to calm her and I had the best chance of getting it done.”

“Danielle, a child physically attacked you! Your face is covered with scratches; you have bruises on your neck. I’m not worried about Lucy-you did calm her. But it was at a huge price to yourself. We need to debrief as a unit. You need physical and emotional support as an individual. Instead, you’re pretending it’s business as usual. That’s not healthy.”

“I’m fine-”

“You look like hell.”

“It’s been twenty-five fucking years. Of course I look like hell!” Too late I caught the slip, tried to rein myself in. But I was breathing hard and my heart was racing. I wanted to run.

“Have you been drinking?” Karen asked me.

“No.” Not yet.

“Good. For your sake, I’m happy to hear it. But you still can’t work tonight.”

“I have to work tonight. I can contain it. I can be professional. We both know I’m good at my job.”

“Danielle,” she said kindly, “you’re great at your job-when you’re a hundred percent. You aren’t a hundred percent right now, and these kids deserve nothing less.”

She was going to send me home. I couldn’t believe it. Karen was going to let the unit operate short-staffed rather than accept me.

“I want you to go downstairs,” she said now, voice brisk. “You need a medical evaluation, if not for your own sake, then for our insurance company. I’m giving you a five-day leave of absence. Rest. Talk to one of our counselors. Deal with yourself. Then you can return to dealing with these kids.”

I can’t go home, I can’t go home, I can’t go home.

“I’ll go downstairs,” I heard myself say. “I’ll get a physical exam. Then can I come back? If the doctor says so…”

“Danielle…”

“I’ll help her.”

I looked up. Karen turned around. Greg was standing behind her. We hadn’t heard him enter, but it was obvious from his expression that he’d been listening for a bit.

He looked good. Dark hair still slightly damp from a recent shower. Broad shoulders filling the narrow space, a black gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“She can work with me,” he said, looking at Karen. “It’ll be the buddy system. That way, we’ll have someone on the floor to supervise meds, but you won’t have to worry about Danielle going solo.”

I felt pathetically grateful. How many times had I rejected this man? And he was still the best friend I had.

Karen looked like she wanted to protest, but at the last second, she hesitated. A soft heart beat beneath her stern exterior. God knows, once a year she cut me more slack than I deserved.

“Downstairs first,” Karen stated abruptly, staring at me. “If an intern will clear you physically, and Greg still feels like babysitting…”

I winced at the dig. She was testing me, seeing how in control of my emotions I was. “Exam first,” I agreed meekly. “Then I’d love to work with Greg. We’re a good team.”

I had shamelessly tossed him the bone. He smiled, briefly, but it didn’t reflect in his eyes. Maybe he knew me better than I thought.

The matter resolved, Karen squeezed past Greg back to the main office. It was nearly midnight, and she still had her own paperwork to close out before heading home; a head nurse didn’t get much sleep.

Alone with Greg, I felt awkward again. He opened a locker, stuffed in his bag. I stood there, watching him. He looked tired, I thought. A little worn around the edges. Or maybe that was me.

“Thank you,” I said at last.

He didn’t look at me. “Night’s young,” he said finally. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The police arrived at the PECB shortly after 1:30 a.m. They buzzed at the front doors-one, two, three times. They could see us. We could see them. And they got to wait.

The unit was in bedlam. Jorge, who normally shared a room with Benny, had woken up agitated shortly after twelve-thirty. Ed pulled Jorge aside to read a book. Jorge made it halfway through the story, then yanked the book out of Ed’s hand and hurtled it across the hall, where it hit Aimee in the head. She woke up screaming, and the rest of the kids were off and running from there.

Now Aimee was curled up under a table in the fetal position, Jimmy and Benny were running laps around the chairs, and nine-year-old Sampson was standing in front of the closed kitchenette, yelling shrilly for a snack.

I’d been cleared by an intern just in time to chase five-year-old Becca down the hall. Somehow, she’d gotten her hands on a folded game board and she was beating it against any person unfortunate enough to cross her path. Greg was trying to untangle Jorge from Ed, while Cecille was working containment in front of Lucy’s room, because we absolutely, positively couldn’t have Lucy adding to the mix.

Third time by the receptionist’s desk, I managed to hit the buzzer for the cops. I got Candy Land away from Becca about the same time the police entered the unit. The curly blonde took the lead, three dark-suited officers fanning out behind her in the main hall.

“I have a warrant,” the lead detective started.

A book flew down the hall. To give the Boston police some credit, the detectives jumped pretty fast.

“What the hell…” the sergeant muttered, the scene finally registering.

“Whatever you want, it gets to wait,” I informed them crisply. “Keep your back to the wall. Don’t touch anything. Oh, and look out. I think Jorge just got away.”

Sure enough, the wiry six-year-old was bolting down the hall straight toward us, thin arms pumping, blue eyes bulging. He looked like he was racing away from every bad thing that had ever happened to him. I knew the feeling.

I got one arm around Jorge’s waist as he went flying by, and converted his momentum into a graceful little twirl I practiced at least once a week. “Hey, buddy, where’s the fire?” I asked, as if we did this kind of thing every night at one a.m.

“Bad man, bad man, bad man, bad man, bad man!” Jorge yelled.

“Did you have a nightmare, chiquito? Sounds like a doozy. Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll see what I can do to make all those bad men disappear.”

“¡Maldito, maldito, maldito!” Jorge added, as I led him down the hall. Ed and Greg shot me grateful looks. Then they were in the common area, where Aimee needed rescuing, and Jimmy and Benny had to be unwound like clocks, and then there was the care and feeding of Sampson…

In Jorge’s room, I turned on every light, then went through the motions of checking each nook and cranny. I even shook out his covers to prove no monsters were hiding in his bed. When he remained unconvinced, I went with plan B, moving a mat into the hall and preparing an emergency nest. We lay down, side by side, and I pointed at the silver half globes dotting the ceiling, explaining how their reflective surfaces would allow him to see any bad men coming. “They’re like a personal protection system,” I told him. “They’ll keep you safe.”

Jorge’s shoulders finally relaxed. He snuggled closer to me and I picked up a Dora book. By the halfway mark, his eyes were drooping. The hallway had quieted, the milieu restored.

Just the detectives remained, conspicuous in their dark suits. Greg paused in front of them. They were speaking too low for me to hear. Greg frowned, shook his head, then frowned again. Finally, he pointed toward me and the blonde turned expectantly.

In full view of her gaze, I finished the first book. Then I set it down, picked up a second, and opened the cover.

Whatever she had to say could wait, mostly because I didn’t want to hear it.

“Danny girl,” my father sang inside my head.

I know, I know, I know.

“We have a warrant for all records pertaining to Oswald James Harrington,” Sergeant D.D. Warren explained ten minutes later, stony-faced. “We also have a warrant for all information pertaining to Tika Rain Solis. Detective Phil LeBlanc will oversee the transfer of all information. The rest of us have questions for the staff.”

I stared at Sergeant Warren blankly. She was still holding out several official-looking documents. For lack of anything better to do, I took them from her. They definitely read like warrants.

“I’ll… I’ll have to call Karen Rober, the nurse manager,” I said at last.

“You do that.”

“Are you sure this isn’t something that can wait till morning? We run a lean crew at night, and can’t spare any staff.”

“I’m sure.” She didn’t blink and it occurred to me that the sergeant had planned this one-thirty ambush. Nine-to-five hours would’ve meant dealing with management, not to mention the hospital’s cadre of lawyers. Middle-of-the-night raids, on the other hand…

“You’re going to have to be patient,” I said, feeling frazzled. I’d never been served with a warrant before. How much did one give a detective? The warrant said everything, but what did that mean? The staff wasn’t equipped for this. I wasn’t equipped for this.

I needed to visit Lucy. She’d made it through Jorge’s meltdown. I wondered if that meant she was now curled up and sleeping in a moonbeam.

“We’ll move into the conference room,” Sergeant Warren declared briskly.

“Conference room?”

“You know, the room we used last time.”

“You mean the classroom?”

“Whatever. Don’t worry. We know our way there.” She started striding down the hall, two of the detectives peeling off to follow her. The fourth cop remained standing in front of me. Mid-forties, a little doughy around the middle, he wore a sheepish smile. Good cop, I decided. Anyone who worked with Sergeant Warren would have to be.

“Detective Phil LeBlanc,” he introduced himself. “If you show me where you keep your records, I can take it from there.”

Not that big a dope, I unlocked the door leading to the Admin area and dug through the filing cabinet for the two patients in question: Oswald James Harrington and Tika Rain Solis. I pulled the files, showed Detective LeBlanc the photocopier, then called Karen.

She was half-asleep, but woke up fast enough once she heard the news. “I’ll be right there,” she assured me, which, given where she lived, meant at least an hour.

“Do we need a lawyer? How does this work?”

“Don’t answer any questions you don’t want to answer, and advise the rest of the staff to do the same. Showing up at one-thirty in the morning. Assholes.”

“I think Sergeant Warren considers that a compliment,” I said. As if summoning the Devil, Warren appeared at the end of the hall.

“We’d like to start with you,” she said: a command, not a request.

“No shit,” I muttered.

I hung up the phone. As the most senior person on the floor, I would have to shoulder this load and play nice with the detectives. Lucky me.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good,” Warren returned.

“Just gotta grab a glass of water.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Make yourself comfortable.”

I turned away from the detective and headed for the kitchenette. At the last minute, however, I continued down the hallway to Lucy’s room. I peered in, expecting to see Lucy sleeping in a corner.

Instead, she was dancing.

She moved around the room in graceful circles, swooshing from one moonbeam to the next. The oversized surgical scrub shirt ballooned around her as she twirled, leaping across her mattress, then pirouetting in front of the windows.

She was a cat again, moving in the languid style of a feline. Maybe she was trying to catch moonbeams in her paws. Maybe she simply liked the way it felt to sway to and fro. She hit the windows, placed her hands open-palmed against the glass. Then she stilled, and I knew she saw my reflection.

Was she angry after our last confrontation? Fearful, defiant?

Lucy turned away from the glass. Slowly, she meandered and twirled her way toward me. At the last minute, as I felt myself tense, she held out her hand, pale fingers extended. She dangled a tiny ball of string, something she’d fashioned from rolling together loose carpet fibers. A homemade cat toy.

I hesitated. She jiggled it again.

I accepted her gift, closing my fist around it as she swooped away, long pale limbs flashing silver in the moonbeams.

I tucked her peace offering into my pocket and returned to Sergeant Warren.

I’d just entered the classroom when I realized I had forgotten my water. I returned to the kitchenette to fetch a glass, and Greg found me. Benny and Jimmy still couldn’t settle. I poured out doses of Benadryl for the two kids. Greg took the Benadryl, then I headed back to the classroom, where the look on Sergeant Warren’s face told me I still didn’t have water.

I returned to the kitchenette again, this time finding a glass and banging on the tap. The other detective, LeBlanc, poked his head out of the Admin area. Copier had run out of paper.

I reloaded the copier, glancing at the records he’d already duplicated. I offered to carry the copies to the classroom, but he refused. I shrugged, and since he appeared done with Tika’s original file, I took that for myself to use as a reference.

I made it all the way to the classroom; then, right outside the door, I realized I’d left my water glass sitting next to the copier. Back to Admin I went, grabbing my water, and making it to the classroom with everything in hand.

Sergeant Warren glanced at her watch as I took a seat. She was flanked on either side by a detective.

“Always take you fifteen minutes to grab a drink?” she asked me.

“Oh, sometimes it takes twenty. Tonight I was lucky; I only got interrupted four or five times. Don’t worry, someone will need something shortly.”

“Crazy night,” the detective on her left commented. I recognized him from the first visit. George Clooney playing the role of a Boston cop.

“Birthday party,” I said. “Does it every time.”

“Birthday party?” he asked.

“Priscilla turned ten. We had a celebration for her after dinner. The kids made cupcakes; we hung streamers, handed out party hats. The kids got very excited, which, for our crowd, has consequences.”

“Then why have the party?” Sergeant Warren asked, with a frown. I could see this woman running the Gestapo. She’d be good at it.

“Because most of these kids have never been to a birthday party,” I explained. “They’re either too poor or too emotionally disturbed or too unloved to ever be so lucky. They’re still kids, though, and kids should get to have a party.”

“Now they’ll be up all night, torturing you and one another?”

I regarded the cops steadily. “Priscilla has brain damage from being shaken as a baby; it impairs her ability to process numbers. Tonight, however, she counted out ten candles and jammed them all onto one cupcake. Speaking for the staff, we don’t care if the kids spend the rest of the night tearing this place apart. It’s worth it for that moment.”

Sergeant Warren studied me. I couldn’t tell if my words had affected her or not. Then again, this was a woman who spent her time rolling over dead bodies so she could note their faces. She probably could take me at poker.

“And Tika Solis? She have a party?”

“I don’t know.” I started to open the file. Sergeant Warren reached across the table and slapped it shut.

“No. Off the top of your head. What do you remember about her?”

“I don’t.”

“What do you mean you don’t?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t. Name’s not ringing any bells.”

“You remembered Ozzie Harrington,” she said crossly.

“I worked with Ozzie one-on-one over the course of many months. Of course I remember him.”

“But not Tika?”

“Can’t even bring her face to mind.”

The sergeant continued to stare at me, as if I were holding something back. “Girl liked to cut herself. That jog your memory?”

I shook my head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Please, a little girl who self-mutilates? That doesn’t stand out in your mind?”

“We have two of those cases right now, so no, it doesn’t.”

“Two?”

I pulled the file out of her grasp. “Children are direct, Sergeant. Sometimes, they can’t verbalize their emotions, but that doesn’t mean they’re not attempting to communicate. A child who hates the world will act hateful. And a child who hurts inside will externalize that pain, cutting her arms, legs, wrists, in order to show you her ache.”

“Tika was three when she was admitted here. That’s not exactly a teenager brooding over the poems of Sylvia Plath,” the sergeant countered skeptically.

“Three?” Three was young for slicing and dicing. Not unheard-of, but young. My turn to frown. “When was she admitted?”

Sergeant stared at me. “Around the same time as Ozzie Harrington.”

I searched my memory banks, trying to bring a whole cluster of kids into focus. The dynamics of the kids impacted the milieu as much as anything. Who were the kids we’d had with Ozzie? What was the dynamic? We’d been so busy for the past year. More and more kids, each with a case file more horrific than the last… “Wait a second. Tiny little thing? From Mattapan?”

Sergeant Warren flicked a glance at the redhead sitting on her other side. “They moved to Jamaica Plains from Mattapan,” he murmured. The sergeant nodded at me.

“Okay, I remember her,” I admitted. “But I didn’t work with her much. I was busy with Ozzie; besides, Tika didn’t care for women. She responded better to the male MCs.”

“What do you mean, ‘responded’?”

“Wanted a father figure, most likely.” I shrugged. “Tika didn’t have one at home, so she was anxious to find one elsewhere. If Greg or Ed asked her to do something, she did it. If Cecille or I spoke to her, it was all la, la, la, la, la, wind blowing through the trees. We’re acute care-not our job to change that, just our job to work with it. So male counselors it was.”

“You’re saying she worked most closely with the gym coach out there?”

“Gym coach… Greg? Yes. Here, may I?” I gestured to the file. The sergeant finally let me open it. I skimmed through the reports. Sure enough, most of them were written up by Greg, Ed, and Chester. Male MCs indeed. “Greg and Ed are both here tonight,” I commented. “They might be able to help you.”

“Did Tika and Ozzie interact?” the sergeant wanted to know.

“Probably. In the common area, during group, that sort of thing.” There was something obvious I should be understanding. Ozzie and Tika. Tika and Ozzie. Then it came to me. My hands stilled on the file. I stared at the three detectives, horrified.

“Are you saying… Tika’s dead?” Then, a second later, “Oh my God, Jamaica Plains. The family that was murdered last night in Jamaica Plains. That was Tika’s family? Two kids from here, two families…”

I didn’t want to compute the implications of such a connection. Then it came to me, the way the detectives were regarding me. Not as a nurse, supplying background on two patients, but as a suspect. The common denominator between two families that met equal tragedy.

My background. Did they know my background, because if they knew my background…

I couldn’t breathe. White spots appeared in front of my eyes, and I heard my father’s damn voice again: “Danny girl. Oooooh, Danny girl.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

A knock on the closed door. I forced myself to turn, stand up, function as a professional. Breathe in. Breathe out. Compartmentalize. Nurses were good at this sort of thing, and psych nurses were the best. I opened the door.

Greg stood on the other side, looking wild-eyed.

“Have you seen her?” he blurted out.

“Seen who?”

“Lucy. Dammit, we’ve been searching everywhere. Lucy’s vanished.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

Shadows. Shadows breathe. Shadows move.

And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat.

Shadows. Shadow says, Follow me. I do.

And if that billy goat won’t pull, Mama’s gonna buy you a cart and bull. And if that cart and bull turn over, Mama’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover.

Shadows. Floating down the hall, slipping through the door. Follow me, follow me. I do.

And if that dog named Rover won’t bark, Mama’s gonna buy you a horse and cart. And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

Shadows. Pulling, tugging, yanking, wanting. I do, I do.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Hush, hush, hush…

D.D. watched Danielle with growing suspicion.

“Did you check the solarium?” the nurse was asking the gym-coach MC. “Behind the palm trees?”

“First stop we made.”

“And you’ve done the entire floor? Inside cabinets, behind wardrobes, beneath bathroom sinks?”

“Yes.”

“And how long has Lucy been missing?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes? You kept this to yourself for twenty minutes?”

“Hey, you’re sequestered with a bunch of detectives, and it’s not like we haven’t searched for a kid before. The staff’s been on it. We’ve done this floor, the solarium, and a quick tour through the hospital halls. No dice. It’s time to alert the medical center’s security, so here I am, telling you what you need to know.”

“We’ll help,” D.D. said.

Danielle and the gym coach turned to stare at her. If anything, they both grew more irritated.

“We can handle this,” Danielle said tightly.

“Really? Then where’s the kid?”

Danielle thinned her lips and looked like she wanted to hit something. Preferably, D.D.D.D. spread her hands. “Sounds like you need to launch a search-right?-while also managing the unit. You need bodies. Here’s a news flash: We’re four bodies who all have experience looking for missing people. Don’t be an idiot. Let us help.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Danielle muttered.

D.D. smiled. “All right,” she announced briskly, taking control of the situation. Phil was walking down the hall, holding a stack of paperwork. She waved him over, and her squad clustered around the nurse and MC. “Who are we looking for? Description?”

“Nine-year-old female,” Danielle supplied. “Thin, with long dark hair matted around her face. Last seen wearing an oversized green surgical scrub top. She might be naked, however. She’s clothing-challenged.”

D.D. arched a brow. “You said the solarium. That mean she’s gone AWOL before?”

The nurse nodded. “Yesterday. Which is very unusual,” she added. “We have two sets of locked doors. We can’t remember a child ever getting off the floor of the PECB once, let alone twice in two days.”

“So she has some skill.”

“Apparently.” But Danielle was frowning again. She and the MC exchanged troubled looks, and D.D.’s cop radar flared. Something was definitely up with the unit. Given that the pediatric psych ward was now the common denominator between two heinous crimes, D.D. and her detectives planned on turning this place inside out, and searching for a missing kid was a great place to start. Gave them extenuating circumstances to poke their noses in every nook and cranny, and see what was to be seen. Save a kid, expose a psych ward. Night was looking up.

“We’ll need to see your security video,” D.D. announced.

“We don’t have cameras.”

“You don’t have surveillance? A place like this, with these types of kids and God knows what type of parents? Please, surveillance cameras are for your own protection in this day and age of lunatic lawsuits.”

“We don’t have cameras,” Danielle repeated. “We have a checks system: a staff member assigned to write down the location and activity of every child every five minutes. One, that enables us to keep tabs on all the kids so, in theory, this kind of thing doesn’t happen. Two, it provides a written record so that six months from now, when a child or parent suddenly alleges inappropriate behavior, we can verify that the child was indeed safe and accounted for during the alleged time. The system has worked well for us.”

“Until tonight.”

“Until Lucy,” the nurse murmured. She hesitated, then added, “Lucy’s a primal child. She has no social awareness, no sense of her own humanity. Since coming here, she’s adopted the persona of a house cat. That seems to keep her calm. If that illusion gets shattered, however, she becomes violent and unpredictable.” The nurse raised her dark curtain of hair, revealing a string of fresh purple bruises on her neck. “I would consider her a threat to herself and/or others.”

“Damn,” D.D. breathed. She felt some of her earlier euphoria dim.

“If you find her,” Danielle continued, letting her hair fall back down, “don’t approach her. Dealing with her is our job, and trust me, you’re not qualified. Do you understand?”

“We’re not total idiots,” D.D. said, which was neither an affirmation nor a denial about approaching the child. “All right, we’ll split into pairs. We’ll work each floor of the medical center, top to bottom, and ask hospital security to work bottom to top.”

“I’ll be assisting,” Danielle said tightly.

“Me, too,” the gym coach chimed in. He glanced at Danielle, face grim. “Buddies, remember?”

Another look exchanged between them. Personal relationship: D.D. would stake her job on it.

“Our nurse manager, Karen, will help, too. She should be here in”-Danielle glanced at her watch-“another twenty minutes or so.”

D.D. nodded. “Tell you what. You’re the pros. So, Danielle, how about you partner with me. Gym Coach… er-”

“Greg,” he supplied.

“Greg, you’re with Neil. Phil and Alex can be team number three. We can alert one another the second we find the girl. Any other advice?”

“Think like a cat,” Danielle said. “Lucy’s drawn to quiet places with natural light. Sunbeams, moonbeams, that sort of thing. Or she may curl up someplace cozy instead: inside a cabinet, under a desk. Like a cat.”

D.D. and Danielle would start with the psych ward, the top floor of the hospital. Greg and Neil would cover the seventh floor, while Alex and Phil would take level six.

D.D. secured in a locker the records Phil had photocopied. Then she and Danielle hit the unit.

The nurse led D.D. down the hallway, where a huge window overlooked a dazzling city nightscape. They passed half a dozen kids tossing and turning restlessly on mats, with a lone staff member keeping watch. Danielle greeted the MC by name. Ed informed her that another MC, Cecille, was tending Aimee, while Tyrone had Jorge in the TV room.

D.D. got the impression that the unit remained a busy place, even though it was now nearly three in the morning.

At the end of the hallway, Danielle paused, gesturing to the first pair of dorm rooms. Danielle took the one to the right, D.D. the one to the left, and they blitzed their way down the corridor. From what D.D. could tell, each room was identical to the last, with the exception of one that contained only a bare mattress. Apparently, that room belonged to the missing child, who had a tendency to turn furniture into weapons.

They finished checking the sleeping quarters, then the bathrooms, the locked kitchenette, and the locked Admin area. D.D. looked under every desk, even found herself pulling out the paper tray for the copier.

“Think like a cat,” she muttered to herself. “Think like a cat.”

D.D.’d never had a cat. Hell, she didn’t trust herself with a goldfish. They made it through the Admin area, the common room, the classrooms, and the waiting room. From there, she and Danielle discussed more creative possibilities-accessing ductwork, climbing up into ceiling tiles, exiting through a window.

The windows didn’t open, the nine-foot ceiling was too high for a child to reach, and the vents weren’t big enough for crawling.

D.D. contacted Neil. He and Greg had finished the seventh floor and moved to the fifth. Phil confirmed he and Alex were still searching the sixth level, so D.D. and Danielle took the elevators to the fourth floor and resumed their hunt.

The nurse’s movements were jerkier now, her face paler. The woman was definitely worried about the missing girl, and doing her best to hide it.

“So what happens to a kid like Lucy?” D.D. asked presently as they made their way to the nurses’ station. Only two nurses were on duty this time of night, and neither had seen a stray child. They promised to keep an eye out, tending to their own duties as D.D. and Danielle started searching each patient room.

“You said she’s primal,” D.D. continued. “What does that mean? You give her enough meds, stick her in enough therapy, she transforms from wild cougar to tame pussycat?”

“Not exactly.” Danielle stuck her head into the medical supplies room. No nine-year-old child magically hiding here. They moved on, footsteps faster now, seeking the next target.

“Lucy’s missed most of the key developmental stages,” Danielle explained. “It’s improbable for a nine-year-old to make up that kind of ground. We once worked with a primal child who was three. If he was hungry, he trashed the refrigerator. If he was thirsty, he drank out of the toilet. If he had to go potty, he found a corner. It took a year of intensive training to get him to recognize his own name, and another year for him to come when he was called. That was at three. Lucy’s nine. These developmental stages aren’t hurdles anymore, they’re mountains, and there are dozens of them she needs to climb.”

“So she’ll stay with you guys until she figures them out?” D.D. asked. They ventured into a darkened room where a heavyset man sprouting half a dozen wires and tubes snored in the middle of the bed. They worked by the glow of the monitor lights, peering under the bed, behind the chair, inside the shower.

Danielle shook her head. “We’re acute care, remember? Lucy will require lifelong assistance. Only place that can handle her is a hospital run by the Shriners. They do unbelievable work and have the waiting list to prove it.”

D.D. felt uncomfortable. She was better with felonious adults than broken children, though she supposed one became the other. They exited the snoring man’s room, hit the next one. Danielle took the chair, while D.D. peered under the bed.

“Do all primal kids escape?” D.D. asked. “Is it like… the call of the wild?”

“Oh, they’re wilder, touch of Tarzan, yada yada. Still, never had a kid escape once, let alone twice.”

“What set Lucy off?”

“Don’t know. We haven’t had time yet to get a sense of how she experiences the world.”

They exited the patient room, hit a unisex bath.

“‘A sense of how she experiences the world’?” D.D. repeated.

“That’s what it’s about,” Danielle replied. She paused in the middle of the hallway, finally looking D.D. in the eye. “Our jobs are the same. You think like a criminal in order to capture the criminal. I think like a nine-year-old primal child in order to reach the primal child. It’s why the parents break. They’re not trained to think like an autistic child or schizophrenic child, or an ADHD child. They don’t realize Timmy is refusing to put on his coat, not because he’s a little shit, but because the sound of the zipper makes his ears bleed. Loving a child isn’t the same as understanding a child. And take it from a pediatric psych nurse, love is not all you really need.”

“Grim,” D.D. said.

“If I heal them now, you won’t have to arrest them later.”

“Not so grim,” D.D. concurred. “Now, where the fuck is Lucy?”

“Agreed,” Danielle said tiredly. “Where the fuck is Lucy?”

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

“You will do as I say.”

And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat.

“Take the rope.”

And if that billy goat won’t pull, Mama’s gonna buy you a cart and bull. And if that cart and bull turn over, Mama’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover.

“Climb onto the chair.”

And if that dog named Rover won’t bark, Mama’s gonna buy you a horse and cart. And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

“Now show me how you can fly.”

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Hush, hush, hush…

D.D.’s cell rang. She checked the number, flipped it open. “What’s up?”

“We got a sighting,” Phil said tersely. “Girl was heading toward radiology. Apparently with a rope.”

“With a rope?”

“A rope.”

D.D. didn’t like the sound of that. To judge by the stricken look on Danielle’s face, neither did she. “Radiology,” D.D. confirmed. “We’re on our way.”

She flipped the phone shut, then she and Danielle rushed down the hall. “Elevators are too slow,” Danielle said. “Stairwell. This way.”

The nurse shouldered through the door and they clattered down the steps, rat-a-tat-tat-tat. D.D. stayed on Danielle’s heels as the nurse rounded the landings. She muscled through the exit door once again, then they bolted down a dimly lit hall.

This part of Kirkland Medical Center appeared quiet. Empty chairs, vacant receptionist desks. Three in the morning. Appointments done, just the odd job here and there for the ER docs. Lots of long, empty corridors for a child to wander at will.

They broke into what appeared to be a waiting area. D.D. glanced around, seeing half a dozen closed doors and little else. She heard running footsteps, then Alex and Phil burst in the area.

“Which way? Where?” D.D. asked. She was on the balls of her feet, ready for action.

“Think like a cat, think like a cat,” Danielle was muttering. “The imaging rooms! They’re small and dark, and sometimes still warm from the machines.” She pointed to a handful of doors, each bearing a number. “Go.”

D.D. grabbed the doorknob closest to herself as the others did the same. The first was locked; she went to the second. It opened and she dashed inside, to discover a dark cocoon. She flashed on the light, saw it was really two rooms. One with a table, and a smaller, glass-windowed chamber where no doubt a technician stood to man the imaging equipment. She checked both spaces. Nothing. She reappeared in the waiting area. Phil was exiting a room. Alex, too, then Danielle. Each was shaking his or her head.

More footsteps. Greg and Neil pounding down the corridor toward them.

“Other rooms?” D.D. asked Danielle.

“Sure,” the nurse said blankly. “It’s a whole level of rooms. I mean, janitorial closets, receptionist areas, offices. There are rooms and rooms and rooms.”

“All right. This is central station.” D.D. pointed where they stood. “We work from this area out, likes spokes on a wheel. Everyone, grab a room.”

They moved urgently now. The rooms were small, easily cleared. It took twelve minutes, then they returned to central station, eyeing one another nervously. The floor was quiet, just the distant twitches and hums of a large building that grumbled in its sleep.

Phil spoke up first. “Now what? I swear, we spoke to a janitor who saw her walking down this corridor. She had to be going somewhere.”

D.D. puzzled over that, chewing her bottom lip. This floor felt right. Dark, secluded, lots of little spaces. If you were going to hide in a hospital, this was the place to be.

And then…

She turned slowly, regarding the first room she had tried. The only locked door on an entire floor of unlocked rooms. And suddenly, just like that, she knew.

“Danielle,” she said quietly. “We’re going to need that key.”

The janitor supplied the master key. D.D. did the honors, already gloved, careful not to touch anything more than she had to.

The heavy wooden door swung open. She stepped in slowly, snapped on the light.

The girl’s body hung from the middle of the ceiling, rope secured to a hook, wheeled desk chair cast aside. The green surgical scrub shirt shrouded her skinny frame, and her body swayed lightly, as if teased in the wind.

“Get her down, get her down” came Danielle’s voice, urgent behind her. “Code, code, code! Dammit, Greg, call it in!”

But Greg wasn’t moving. It was obvious to him, as to D.D., that the time for medical attention had come and gone. To be certain, D.D. took one step forward, wrapped her hand around the girl’s ankle. Lucy’s skin was cool to the touch, no pulse beating feebly at the base of the foot.

D.D. stepped back, turned to Neil. “When you notify the ME, remind Ben we’ll want the knot on the rope left intact.” She turned to Danielle and Greg. “You two can return upstairs if you’d like. We’ll take it from here.”

But neither of them took the hint. Greg’s arm went around Danielle. She turned, ever so slightly, into him.

“We’ll stay,” the nurse said, her voice flat. “It’s the duty of the lone survivor. We must bear witness. We must live to tell the tale.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Six months after the funeral, Aunt Helen took me to pick out tombstones for my siblings’ graves. She’d already selected a rose-colored marble for my mother, inscribed with the standard name and timeline. But when the moment came to select a stone for Natalie and Johnny, Aunt Helen wasn’t able to bear it. She walked away.

So my sister and brother lay in unmarked graves for the first six months, until Aunt Helen decided it was time to get the job done. I went with her. It was something to do.

The monument store was a funny place. You could pick out lawn ornaments, decorative fountains, or, of course, tombstones. The man in charge wore denim overalls and looked like he’d be more comfortable gardening than helping a black-suited woman and her hollow-eyed niece pick out grave markers for two kids.

“Boy like baseball?” he asked finally. “I could engrave a bat and ball. Maybe something from the Red Sox. We do a lot of business with the Red Sox.”

Aunt Helen laughed a little. It wasn’t a good sound.

She finally selected two small angels. I hated them. Angels? For my goofy siblings, who liked to stick out their tongues at me, and were always one whack ahead at punch buggy? I hated them.

But I wasn’t talking in those days, so I let my aunt do as she wanted. My mother was marked in rose marble. My siblings became angels. Maybe there were trees in Heaven. Maybe Natalie was saving bunnies.

I didn’t know. My parents never took me to church, and my corporate-lawyer aunt continued their agnostic ways.

We didn’t bury my father. My aunt didn’t want him anywhere near her sister. Since she was the one in charge of the arrangements, she had him cremated and stuck in a cardboard box. The box went in the storage unit in her condo building, where it stayed for the next twelve years.

I used to sneak the key from my aunt’s purse and visit him from time to time. I liked the look of the box. Plain. Small. Manageable. Surprisingly heavy, so after the first visit, I didn’t try to lift it anymore. I wanted to keep my father this way, remember him this way. No bigger than a stack of tissues, easy to tuck away.

I could loom over this box. I could hit it. Kick it. Scream at the top of my lungs at it.

A box could never, ever hurt me.

My twenty-first birthday, I got drunk, raided my aunt’s storage unit, and, in a fit of rage, emptied the box into a sewer grate. I flushed my father down into the bowels of Boston, having to keep my mouth closed, but still inhaling bits of him up my nose.

Immediately afterward, I was sorry I’d done such a thing.

The cardboard box had contained my father, kept him small.

Now I knew he was somewhere out there, floating down various pipes and channels and water systems. Maybe the ash was soaking up the water, steadily expanding, enabling my father to grow again, to loom once more in the dark undergrowth of the city. Until one day, a white hand would shoot up, drag back a sewer grate, and my father would be free.

The cardboard box had contained him.

Now, for all the evil in the world, I had only myself to blame.

“I thought we’d agreed on the buddy system,” Karen was snapping at Greg. It was after four. We were all tired, pale-faced, shocked. Karen had arrived just in time to hear the news of Lucy’s death. She’d stood with us while the ME gently lowered Lucy’s green-shrouded frame onto the waiting gurney. Then the man took Lucy away.

A child is like a snowflake. First thing you learn in pediatric nursing. A child is like a snowflake. Each one unique and original from the one before. Lose one and you have lost too much, because there will never be another quite like her again.

I had my left hand in my pocket, my fingers wrapped around Lucy’s final gift, rolling the little string ball between my fingers again and again.

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl…”

“She was with the police,” Greg answered tightly. “I thought that was buddy enough. ’Sides, unit was busy. We had a lot going on.”

“Apparently!”

“Dammit, Karen, you can’t possibly think-”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. In a situation like this, appearance matters as much as reality. Fact is, we had a staff member and a child off radar for at least fifteen minutes. You were in charge of checks, Greg. What the hell were you doing?”

“I checked! Cecille vouched for Lucy; we agreed on twenty-minute intervals for her, so I waited another twenty to check again. As for Danielle, she was with the police. Or so I thought.”

Now all eyes were on me. I didn’t say anything, just rolled the string ball between my fingers.

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl…”

“You said you went to fetch a glass of water,” Karen repeated directly to me. “Did you see Lucy tonight? Visit her at all?”

“I saw Lucy. She was dancing in moonbeams. She was happy.”

“When?”

“Before I got water.”

“Danielle, start talking. The hospital will be launching an investigation. The state will be launching an investigation. You need to tell us what happened.”

“I saw Lucy. I got a glass of water. I met with Greg about Jimmy and Benny. Reloaded the copy machine. Met with the detectives. That’s everything I did. All that I did.”

“That doesn’t take twenty minutes,” Sergeant Warren stated.

“But it did.” I finally looked at her. “You were right before. It’d be better if we had security cameras.”

Sergeant Warren asked me to come with her for questioning. I refused. Karen informed me I was on paid leave, effective immediately, and I was not to come to work until the hospital granted permission. I refused.

Not that it mattered. Everyone was asking me questions, but no one was listening to my answers.

“She didn’t kill herself.” I spoke up, my voice louder, edgier. “Lucy wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.”

Greg and Karen shut up. Sergeant Warren regarded me with fresh interest. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I saw her. She was happy. She was a cat. As long as she was a cat, she was okay.”

“Maybe someone burst her bubble. Or the delusion slipped away. You said she was volatile, dangerously unpredictable.”

“She’d never shown any signs of suicide before.”

“That’s not true,” Karen protested. “She’d already demonstrated a need for self-mutilation, as well as debasement.” She turned to Sergeant Warren. “First day she was here, Lucy cut her arm and used the blood to draw patterns on the wall. The child did terrible things, because terrible things had been done to her. I don’t think we can say with any degree of certainty what she was, or was not, capable of.”

“She didn’t kill herself!” I insisted again, angry now and realizing how much I needed that rage. “She wouldn’t do that. Someone helped her get out. That’s the only way you can explain her getting through two sets of locked doors. Someone helped her. First time was yesterday, maybe as a trial run, then again tonight. Face it, the unit was hopping, we were short-staffed, and then the police suddenly appeared. Plenty of distractions, providing the perfect opportunity for someone to harm her. That’s what happened.”

“Someone,” Sergeant Warren drawled, looking right at me.

“I was only gone five to ten minutes-”

“Eighteen. I timed you.”

“I was with your own detective for part of that-”

“About two minutes, he says.”

“That’s not enough time to smuggle a child out of the unit and get down to radiology and back.”

“But someone did. You just said so.”

“Not me-someone,” I snapped. “Someone else, someone.”

“Really? Because I thought Lucy didn’t trust anyone else but you. So who could that someone-else someone be?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Gave up. Fuck if I knew.

Lucy, dancing in the moonlight. Lucy, swinging from the ceiling.

Then, out of the blue: my mother, with a single bullet hole in the center of her forehead.

“I’ll take care of this, Danny. Go to bed. I will take care of everything.”

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl…”

“Do you need to sit down?” Karen asked me gently.

I shook my head.

“How about a glass of water? Greg, fetch Danielle a glass of water.” Karen found my right hand, cradling my fingers between her palms. But I snatched my hand back, held it against my chest. I didn’t want to be touched right now. I wanted to feel the rage, let it flood me like a river.

“Tika and Ozzie,” I stated, looking at Karen. “Ask Sergeant Warren about Tika and Ozzie.”

D.D. explained. Karen went chalky white.

“But… but… that doesn’t make any sense,” she protested feebly. “We can’t be the common denominator between two murdered families. We don’t make home visits. We work with the child, but hardly know anything about the family. Where they live, what they do… that’s not us…”

“But you have that information,” Sergeant Warren said. A statement, not a question.

“In the files, yes.”

“And didn’t I see some poster in the lobby about an open-door policy? Parents can visit the floor anytime they want?”

“Parents are invited to visit their child whenever they want. That still doesn’t mean we know them. Their time on the floor is a small slice of their overall universe, assuming they visit at all. Most of them don’t.”

“The Harringtons?” Sergeant Warren pressed.

Karen fidgeted with her glasses, adjusting and readjusting them on her face. “Ozzie’s parents, right? The mother, she came several times. Stayed over in the beginning, then came once or twice a week after that.”

“What about the rest of the family?”

“I have no memory of them. A shame, too. Parents seem to feel they’ll traumatize their other children by bringing them to an acute-care unit, when really, it’s good for all the children to see one another and reaffirm that each is doing okay.”

D.D.’s eyes narrowed. “And Tika’s family?”

Karen shook her head, bewildered. “Greg?” she asked.

He’d just returned with a tray bearing four cups of water. He handed me one, then Karen, then offered one to Sergeant Warren, who passed.

“Tika?” he repeated. “Little girl, ’bout a year ago? Cutter?”

“That’s the one,” Warren assured him. “I understand you worked with her.”

He nodded. “Cute little thing. Had a wicked sense of humor if you could get her to open up. But yeah, she had some self-esteem issues, depression, anxiety. Maybe even suffered sexual abuse, though she never disclosed.”

“What was her family like?” Sergeant Warren wanted to know.

“Never visited.”

“Never?”

“Never. Tika’s file described the mother as ‘disengaged.’ We never experienced anything different.”

“And our records show them living in Mattapan,” I spoke up, remembering the exchange between Sergeant Warren and the George Clooney detective. “We wouldn’t know they’d moved; our involvement was over and done.”

“Not so hard to look up,” Sergeant Warren said with a shrug.

“But why? We’re caretakers. We don’t hurt children. We help them.”

“Tell that to Lucy.”

“Fuck you!” I exploded.

“Eighteen minutes,” the sergeant shot back. “Gym Coach here just fetched four cups of water in a fraction of that time. Explain eighteen minutes.”

“Easy,” Karen interjected, ever the manager. “Let’s just take a deep breath here.”

“Lucy wouldn’t just wander into a radiology room,” I insisted hotly. “And where would she find the rope?”

“Like you said, someone must have helped her.”

“Lucy didn’t trust anyone. Had limited social skills, limited speech skills. Hell, we don’t even know that she had the dexterity required to tie knots. Whatever happened, it was done to her, not by her.”

“By someone she trusted,” the sergeant reiterated, staring at me, then the little string ball I held in my left hand.

“I wasn’t gone that long!”

“Maybe hanging a troubled kid is quick work.”

“Sergeant!” Karen protested.

As I heard myself say: “Dammit, I loved Lucy.”

“She attacked you.”

“It was nothing personal-”

“Looks like she tried to wring your neck.”

“It’s part of the job!”

“Does the rest of the staff have any bruises?”

“You don’t know what it’s like here. We’re the last line of defense these kids have. If we can’t help them, nobody can.”

“Really?” The sergeant’s voice turned thoughtful. “I remember now. In your own words, not much hope for a child like Lucy. Missed too many development stages. Doomed to be institutionalized the rest of her life. Some might say she was better off dead.”

Karen gasped.

I heard myself scream: “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up!”

Lucy, dancing in the moonlight. Lucy, swinging from the ceiling.

My mother with the single hole in the middle of her forehead.

“I’ll take care of this, Danny. Go to bed. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl…”

My knees gave way. The rage wasn’t enough to stave off the pain after all. Lucy, who never got a chance. My mother, who I loved so much and who still didn’t save me. Natalie and Johnny, stuck forever as stone angels.

Blood and cordite. Singing and screaming. Love and hate.

Vaguely, I was aware of Karen bending over me, ordering me to place my head between my knees. Then Karen’s voice louder, directed at the sergeant.

“You shouldn’t be pressuring her like this. Not so close to the anniversary of what happened to her family.”

“Her family?”

Greg’s voice, angry, protective. “Are you arresting her?”

“Do you think I should?”

“You need to leave now,” Karen was saying. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“Two families connected to this unit are dead and one of your patients was just found hanging from the ceiling. Frankly, I think the damage is just beginning.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Greg snapped.

Greg and Karen closed in around me, a protective shield. My second family, the unit I’d probably fail just as badly as the first. I squeezed my eyes shut, wished it would all go away.

As if reading my mind, the sergeant announced crisply, “This time tomorrow, I’ll know everything there is to know about every single one of you. So you might as well get used to my charm, people. From here on out, you belong to me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Despite D.D.’s big words, she and her team departed shortly after five a.m. The four of them had been up for thirty-six hours. Given the location of the crime scene and the sheer number of people to now question, they faced a grueling stretch of days. Might as well grab four or five hours of sleep before returning to the trenches.

As the crime-scene guru, Alex had spent the evening working in radiology. Unfortunately, the room had yielded scant physical evidence-no blood, no signs of struggle, no unexplained scuffs, dents, debris. They had the hangman’s knot from the rope, and that was about it.

Neil, who’d taken a break from flirting with the ME in order to interview every janitor in the joint, reported similar results. Yes, a janitor had caught sight of a small figure in green surgical scrubs rounding a corner. Yes, the janitor happened to notice she was trailing a rope behind her. Yes, he happened to think that was odd. No, he didn’t pursue the matter; he had other work to do.

Cameras would’ve been great, except, as Phil learned from security, the hospital used them mostly for the main-level entrances and exits, plus maternity. Radiology didn’t make the cut.

Which left them with a crime scene that, four hours later, might or might not be a crime scene.

D.D. arranged for a fresh homicide squad to take over canvassing for witnesses. She also got the hospital to agree to a twenty-four-hour security guard for the psych ward. Then she made it down to the hospital lobby before her shoulders sagged and her steps faltered from fatigue.

She took a minute in the parking lot stairwell, pinching the bridge of her nose and waiting for the worst of it to pass. She didn’t care what anyone said-the death of a kid never got any easier, and the second it did, she was quitting her job. Apparently, she didn’t have to retire just yet.

The night had sucked. She wanted to go home, take a long hot shower, then pass out on top of her bed.

Instead, her pager went off. She checked the number. Couldn’t place it. Then, given the early-morning hour and sheer curiosity, she entered the number on her cell phone and pressed Send.

“I’m worried about you.” A man’s voice immediately filled her ear.

“Who is this?”

“Andrew Lightfoot.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“You gave it to me, on your card.”

D.D. paused, searched her mental banks, and remembered that at the end of the interview, she’d handed Andrew Lightfoot her business card. Routine protocol-she’d already forgotten all about it.

“Little early to be calling, don’t you think?” She leaned against the stairwell wall, giving the conversation her full attention.

“I knew you were up. I dreamed of you.”

Lotta things D.D. could say to that. Given her shitty night, and her instinctive distrust of anyone who called himself a spiritual guru, she didn’t. “Why’re you calling, Lightfoot?”

“Please call me Andrew.”

“Please tell me why you’re calling.”

Hesitation. She found that interesting.

“There’s something wrong,” he said at last. “I don’t know how to explain it. At least not in terms you would understand.”

“A disturbance in the fabric of the cosmos?” she asked dryly.

“Exactly.”

I’ll be damned. “You talk,” D.D. decided. “I’ll listen.”

“The negative energies are building. When I visited the interplanes earlier tonight, I found entire pockets of dark, roiling rage. I could feel a hum, like a vibration of great evil. The light had fled. I’ve never seen so many shadows.”

“The negative forces are winning the war?”

“Tonight, I would say yes.”

“Has that happened before?”

“I’ve never encountered such a thing. Sometimes, when I’m leading group meditation, I’ll stumble across a particularly malevolent force. But the collective strength of the group, the exponential power of the light, enables me to confront such negativity and force it back into its small and insignificant space. Tonight… it’s as if the inverse has happened. Dark calling to dark. Feeding, growing, exploding. Alone and unprepared, there was nothing I could do.”

“You got your ass kicked on the spiritual superhighway?”

“I wouldn’t laugh about this, D.D.”

“And I don’t have jurisdiction over evil energies. What the hell do you want from me?”

Andrew’s voice changed. “You’re tired. You’ve suffered tonight. I apologize.”

Instantly, she was on edge. “What do you know of my suffering?”

“I’m a healer. I can feel it. Your aura, bright white when we first met, has turned to blue. You’re not comfortable with blue. You do better with red, though I prefer white.”

D.D. pinched the bridge of her nose again. “Why are you calling, Andrew?”

“Something is coming.”

“Evil wants to take over the universe.”

“Evil always wants to take over the universe. I’m telling you that this time, it’s winning.”

“How?”

“It has a purpose, I think. The purpose has given it power.”

“What’s its purpose?”

“It wants something.”

“All right,” she said wearily. “What does it want?”

No immediate answer. Maybe Andrew had gone back to the interplanes. In the silence, it occurred to her to ask: “How’s Tika doing?”

“Tika?” Andrew echoed back. Good answer.

“Danielle Burton thought you knew her,” D.D. fished again. “You know, from the Boston psych ward.”

“She’s angry with me.”

“Tika?”

“Danielle. I want her to heal more than she wants to heal. Forgiving is hard work. It’s easier for her to hate me.”

“So you two know each other. Spend much time on the psych ward, Andrew?”

“Don’t be angry with Danielle,” he continued. “Without the children, she would be lost. Without their love, the darkness would consume her completely.”

“Why do you say that, Andrew?”

“Her story to tell.”

“But you want her to heal. Tell me, and I’ll help.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he said abruptly, and there was an edge to his voice she hadn’t heard before. “I lived in your world, Sergeant Warren, playing hardball with the best of them. I know a skeptic when I meet her. And I recognize bullshit when it’s shoveled at me. You’re a cop. You have no interest in healing. Your job is to judge. And you are extremely good at your job.”

In spite of herself, D.D. felt her hackles rising. “Hey, now-”

“She hurts,” he continued. “I feel Danielle’s pain and it calls to me, only because it’s so unnecessary. But not everyone wants to heal. I accept her choice, just as I accept that you will never truly believe what I say until it’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“Something’s coming. It’s powerful. It has purpose.”

“Tell me what you want, Andrew.”

“I want you to be careful, Sergeant Warren. Spirits don’t want something. They always want someone.”

Andrew clicked off the phone. Apparently, she’d pissed him off enough. Which was just as well, given that he’d confused her enough.

Negative energies, forces of evil, dark tidings.

D.D. thought of tonight’s scene, a nine-year-old girl’s forlorn body, swaying from a noose. D.D. didn’t need to be policing the spiritual interplanes. She had her hands full enough on this one.

She finally made it down the stairwell. She pushed open the heavy door, worked her away across the nearly empty space. She decided there was no sound quite as lonely as a single set of footsteps echoing through a vacant parking garage.

She was tired. She did hurt. Lightfoot had been right about some things.

She rounded a broad support pillar and discovered Alex Wilson waiting beside her vehicle. She stopped walking. They eyed each other. He had shadows under his eyes. Stubble across his cheeks. Wrinkles in his once crisp white dress shirt.

“Before… I was wrong,” D.D. said.

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes, I do need a man to take care of me.”

He nodded. “That’s okay; sometimes, I do need a woman to stroke my ego.”

“You look like hell,” she told him.

“Compliment enough for me. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

She followed him to his car, leaving her vehicle to be retrieved later.

He drove the first five minutes in silence. It gave her a chance to lean her head against the warm window glass and close her eyes. Morning would be coming. Maybe it was already here. She could open her eyes and look for the sun, but she wasn’t ready yet. She needed this moment, dark and contained, inside herself.

“Andrew Lightfoot called,” she said presently, eyes still shut.

“What did he want?”

“To warn me that something wicked this way comes.”

“Can it fashion a noose and does it have an address?”

D.D. opened her eyes, sat up. “Excellent questions, if only I’d thought to ask them.” She sighed, rearranged herself in the seat. “I dropped Tika Solis’s name, but he didn’t bite. He definitely knows nurse Danielle, however. He requested that we not be too hard on her. Healing’s not for everyone.”

“Easy for a healer to say. Means he can charge twice his going rate.”

“Ah, but it’s a gift…”

Alex finally smiled. He drove toward the North End. “Homicide or suicide?” he asked at last.

“You’re the expert; you tell me.”

“Lack of physical evidence,” he said.

“Yeah, I got that message. Crime scene has nothing, janitor saw nothing. Sucky all the way around.”

“No, I mean lack of physical evidence. As in no latent prints. As in door handle, office chair, light switch-none of them bore prints small enough to be a nine-year-old’s. Tricky, if you think about it-a girl opening a door, turning on the light, setting up a chair, yet never leaving behind a single fingerprint.”

“Fuck,” D.D. said, a world of exhaustion behind that one word.

Alex reached over, squeezed her shoulder. “Not what you were expecting this evening-from executing routine search warrants to processing a dead body.”

“Not what I was expecting,” D.D. agreed. Alex’s hand returned to the steering wheel; she felt its loss. “I don’t… I mean… Hell. One moment I’m on a date, next I’m at a house with five dead bodies. And that leads to another house with six dead, which leads us to a psych ward where a nine-year-old child escapes and hangs herself while we’re on the property. What are the odds of that?”

“A date?” Alex asked.

“Nothing serious. Never even made it through the entrée,” she assured him.

“You gonna try again?”

“Nah. Bachelor number one’s kind of faded by the wayside.”

“Good to know. Please continue.”

“So we got five dead, plus six dead, plus one hanged. They’re connected somehow. Gotta be connected. Only thing that makes sense, except, of course, none of it makes sense. How do you go from two family annihilations to one hanged child?”

Alex didn’t say anything, just touched her shoulder again.

“Fuck,” D.D. muttered, and turned to stare out the window, where the morning sun was staining the sky.

She’d have to start monitoring her squad for burnout, she thought. Especially Phil. She couldn’t imagine going from scenes like the ones they had to tucking your kids into bed. Phil would stop talking, the first sign he was starting to fail.

And her? She wasn’t sure of her signs. Seems like she never slept when she was working a hot case and she was cranky during the best of times. Maybe she’d secretly burned out years ago, and now it didn’t matter anymore. God knows she went long periods of time without ever connecting with another human being. No hugs, no morning cuddles, no kisses on the cheek. She didn’t own a dog to walk or have a cat to pet. She didn’t even have a plant to soothe her with its pretty green leaves.

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.