Live to Tell

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting cat.”

“Interrupting cat-”

“MEOW!”

I dutifully laugh as Evan cuts me off. Interrupting cat is his favorite knock knock joke. He’s been telling it for three years now, and it never grows old for him. I don’t mind. I’d expected a long night with Evan, one where he worked out his agitation and frustration from being overmedicated the day before. Instead, he slept all the way till six this morning, one of his longest stretches ever.

He woke up surprisingly happy. We went for a bike ride around the neighborhood, then broke out the sidewalk chalk and drew an elaborate race car shooting flames on the driveway.

After a midmorning snack of raspberry fruit smoothies, we’re now relaxing in the shade of the backyard, birds chirping, squirrels scampering, and a neighborhood cat stalking both.

This is charming Evan, silly Evan, let’s-goof-off-and-hang-out Evan. This is the son I can’t let go.

“Your turn,” he says now.

I think about it for a second. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Iguana.”

“Iguana who?”

“Iguana give you a hug.” I lean across the grass and capture Evan in a giant bear hug. He bursts into a fit of giggles, squirming his way out my arms.

“Mommy germs!” he shrieks.

“Iguana kiss you, too!” I growl, crawling after him. The backyard is more dirt than grass these days, but I bravely stalk my eight-year-old across the patchy lawn. Evan scampers away just enough to pretend to resist.

We’re no different from any other abusive relationship, I think as I chase my laughing son around the yard. After every episode of explosive violence comes the temporary euphoria of reconciliation. Evan’s contrite for yesterday’s incident in the park. I’m contrite for drugging my child so I could have sex with a man who wants me only for my body. Now Evan and I are both on our best behavior. We need these moments, or neither one of us would make it.

The phantom would win.

We run around for a bit. I declare defeat first, flushed and panting from the oppressive humidity. Evan appears equally overheated, so we retreat inside for a blast of AC. I set up Evan on the couch with water and SpongeBob, then I return to the deck, filling the kiddy pool. Today would be perfect for going to the beach. I’m not that brave, or maybe I just don’t want to risk ruining the moment, so I work on the kiddy pool. Evan will add a fleet of fire engines and two Super Soaker guns. He’ll splash and spray. I’ll sit on a deck chair with my feet in the cool water, grateful for the relief.

I’ve just finished filling the pool when the doorbell rings. I pause, rooted to the spot in surprise. We don’t exactly get a lot of visitors. And there aren’t deliveries on Sundays.

Evan is still engrossed with whatever SpongeBob and Patrick are up to. Warily, I make my way to the front door and peer through the peephole.

Michael is standing there.

I have to concentrate to fit the key into the lock. I focus on my hands, willing them not to tremble as I crack open the front door, facing my ex-husband, but holding him at bay.

“Morning, Victoria,” he says stiffly. He’s dressed in summer business casual. Brooks Brothers khaki shorts, a sharply pressed button-up shirt with little yellow and green stripes. He’s like a picture from a men’s magazine: fit high-finance at play.

“Is Chelsea all right?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

He nods, then clears his throat, shifting from one brown leather boat shoe to the next. He’s nervous. I remember my ex-husband well enough to recognize the signs. But why?

“I thought about what you said,” he states abruptly. “About Evan and the wedding.”

“What did I say?” I ask stupidly.

“Chelsea misses Evan. She thinks it’s unfair for her to be in the wedding but not him. In fact, she says she won’t serve as flower girl if Evan’s not included.”

Michael flushes charmingly, admitting with his expression that he knows he’s being outmaneuvered by a six-year-old, and is already declaring defeat. I’m used to angry Michael. Cold Michael. Frustrated Michael. I don’t know what to make of this man.

He spreads his hands. “Can I come in, Victoria? See Evan? Maybe discuss?”

I still have my body in the doorway, blocking Michael’s presence from our former home. Despite my pleas for him to see his son, now that he’s here, I wish he weren’t. His sudden appearance will agitate Evan, wreck our happy morning. I’ve enjoyed the past few hours. I don’t want them to end.

Too late. I hear footsteps behind me, Evan’s natural curiosity driving him toward the entryway. I know the moment he’s spotted his father because Evan’s footsteps still. I turn around, and will myself to handle whatever Evan does next.

“Daddy? Daddy. Daddy!”

Evan rockets across the foyer. He’s through the door and hurtling into his father’s arms with the speed of eight-year-old lightning. Michael staggers under the unexpected onslaught, but manages to keep his footing. Then Evan is holding his father’s hands and dancing all around him, touching him, poking him, plucking at him, while saying over and over again: “DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy.”

Michael shoots me a look. I shrug. You don’t surprise a kid like Evan. Michael knows that as well as anyone. At least he should.

To give Michael some credit, he doesn’t say or do anything right away. He lets Evan bounce around on his tiptoes, circling, prodding, jumping, shrieking, blowing off steam. Then, when it appears the initial euphoria is subsiding, Michael pats Evan lightly on the shoulder, and says: “Hey, you got tall.”

“I’m very tall. I’m HUGE.”

“Strong, too.”

“LOOK AT MY MUSCLES!” Evan screams, dropping into a bodybuilder’s pose.

I wince. “Evan,” I say, as calmly as I can, “I just filled your pool. Why don’t you show your father your new pool?”

Evan loves this idea. He bounds back into the house on his tippy toes-a sure sign of agitation-and goes running straight for the sliders. In his heightened state, however, he forgets to open the doors. Instead, he smashes into the glass, ricocheting onto the floor, nose exploding, blood spraying. Evan scrambles up, covers his bleeding nose with his right hand, and attempts to leap through solid glass a second time. This time, he stuns himself enough to stay down for the count.

“Jesus Christ,” Michael says. But he doesn’t retreat down the drive. Instead, he enters the fray.

We fall into old patterns, rituals so deeply entrenched they come back naturally, without either of us ever saying a word. Me, the nurturer, crossing to Evan, taking his hand and murmuring words of comfort as I inspect the damage. Michael, the fixer, already in the kitchen, filling a washcloth with fresh ice, then returning to place it high on Evan’s nose. I have a flashback, to the days when Michael stood shoulder to shoulder with me to handle Evan, to raise Chelsea, to fight the war. He simply grew tired. Who could blame him?

Evan’s not crying. He’s so revved up by his beloved father’s unexpected return that he’s beyond tears. His emotions are running about three planets beyond the moon, and there are no tears in outer space. Just black holes everywhere.

We need to get him to his pool, where he can splash and jump and scream out the tension wiring his bony frame. He’ll come down from orbit without anyone getting hurt.

Michael seems to remember about water, too. After brushing back Evan’s hair-another old pattern, a natural gesture of fatherly tenderness-he opens the unlocked sliders and gestures toward the pool.

“Doing okay, buddy?”

“Yeah,” Evan replies in a thick voice. He probably still has blood in his throat. Sure enough, he takes two steps out onto the deck, then turns and spits out a huge wad of gory red.

It doesn’t faze me anymore. I’ve seen worse.

Michael leads him into the pool. Evan climbs into the shallow water. Michael takes back the ice-filled washcloth. He dabs under Evan’s nose, doing a little cleanup. Evan will have a giant, swollen honker. But again, we’ve seen worse.

“Super Soaker!” Evan shouts. He picks up the first gun, fills it with pool water, and lines up his father in his sights. I wait for Michael to protest, to make some motion to protect his sharply pressed shirt. Instead, he grabs the second Super Soaker, and for the next ten minutes, father and son go at it while I retreat back inside the house to watch from behind the safety of the glass slider.

Maybe this is therapeutic. Maybe this is exactly what they need. Because Evan’s coming down off his toes. And his shrieking slowly transitions from glass-shattering to little-boy fun. Maybe this will turn out okay after all. Maybe this will be my lucky day.

Michael’s soaked. He’s laughing, declaring defeat. “You have gotten strong,” he tells Evan. “Here, I’m gonna stand in a sunbeam and dry off.”

Evan hesitates, unsure if his father is leaving now, disappearing forever. But when Michael remains standing at the edge of the deck, eight feet away, Evan finally relaxes. He gets busy with his fire engines and I join Michael outside.

“He’s calming down,” Michael says softly. “Managing his emotions better than I thought.”

“Some days are like that,” I say.

“And other days?”

“I administered Ativan five times last week.”

Michael looks at me. For once, he doesn’t seem distant or angry. He seems tired. Maybe he looks as tired as I feel. Or maybe that’s only my wishful thinking. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he begins, so naturally, I brace myself. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do. I’ve come to accept that, Victoria. Whether we’re married or not, you’re Evan’s mother and you’re going to do what you think is best for him, regardless of my opinions on the subject.”

“What’s best for him,” I repeat stubbornly.

“Sure. But, Victoria…” He spreads his hands. “For your own sake… how can you go on like this? For every good moment, there’s gotta be half a dozen more when you’re pulling out your hair. Every day is about trying to hold off the inevitable explosion, then picking up the pieces afterward. You don’t get time for yourself. You don’t get time with your daughter. Chelsea misses you, you know. One night a week isn’t what a six-year-old needs from her mom.”

“You said you didn’t come here to fight.”

Michael sighs, drops his hands. “I’m trying to find some middle ground. For Chelsea’s sake. For Evan’s sake. For all of our sakes.”

“Such as?”

“Chelsea’s therapist thinks-”

“Chelsea has a therapist?”

Michael appears bewildered. “Of course she has a therapist. It was part of the terms of the divorce.”

“I didn’t realize… I thought you had a different opinion on that subject.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Victoria, I’m not a total asshole.” His voice has grown hard. Evan immediately stares at us from the pool, body tensing, as if ready to join the battle. Which side would he take? His father’s; no doubt in my mind.

Michael, however, waves him off. “Sorry, buddy. Just telling some story from work. Hey, I see another fire engine over there on the deck. Maybe that one can help the others with the rescue operation.”

Evan obediently trots out of the pool to fetch his smaller fire truck. Michael and I resume our conversation.

“The therapist, Dr. Curtin, would like you to bring in Evan a few times, just to get to know each other. Once Evan is comfortable with her and the surroundings, then Chelsea can show up, too. She and Evan can visit each other, in a controlled environment where both of them will hopefully feel safe.”

I don’t know what to say. “When? How… how often?”

Michael shrugs. “It’d have to be weekends, given that Chelsea’s school’s about to start. I figured a couple of times a month? Say, every other weekend, an hour at a time, see how it goes.”

“And if it doesn’t go well? If Evan has a bad episode?”

Michael shrugs, as if to say, what’s he supposed to do?

“It would be unfair to string them along,” I say. “To reintroduce Chelsea and Evan, only to halt the relationship again.”

“I agree. Hopefully, having a professional such as Dr. Curtin involved will help manage the downside. Then again, given Evan’s volatility… We try it or we don’t try it, Victoria. Those are the options.”

I have to think about it. He’s right, of course. There are no guarantees with a child like Evan. We’re supposed to set him up for success, but some days I don’t know what that is.

“He misses his sister,” I say at last. “He asks for Chelsea nearly every day.” I look at him. “He misses you, too.”

Michael looks down now. He studies his leather shoes. “I’ll be there every other weekend, as well.”

“The History Channel is his favorite channel,” I hear myself say. “He knows almost everything there is to know about the Romans. Dates, famous leaders, major battles. He’s smart, Michael. He’s unbelievably smart. And he’s incredibly lonely.”

“I know.”

“How… how could you leave us? How could you give up on him like that?”

“Because Chelsea’s lonely, too. And troubled and traumatized and scared to death that, one day, she’s going to wake up as violent and angry as her brother. That’s a lot for a little girl to deal with, Victoria, and as long as she lived here, it wasn’t going to get dealt with. Every day would be about Evan. But Chelsea needs us, too.”

His words are matter-of-fact. Somehow, this makes them harder to take.

“What does Melinda think of this?” I ask pointedly.

At the mention of his fiancée, Michael stiffens, but doesn’t retreat. “My kids are her kids. She gets that.”

“So you’ll start over. A new little family. Is she young? Does she want children? Does that scare the crap out of you?”

He regards me evenly. “Yes, she wants kids. And yeah, it scares the crap out of me.”

“It’s not fair,” I whisper.

“No, Victoria, it’s not.” He hesitates. For a second, I think he might say more, he might touch my cheek. Then the moment passes.

I can’t look at him anymore. I stare down at the deck and will myself not to cry. This is not about me. This is about Evan. Getting to see his sister again. Getting to see his father again. Evan and his sister reclaiming part of their family.

“I’ll bring him to the doctor’s office,” I say. “I’ll work with Dr. Curtin. If this means Evan can see you and Chelsea, I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I say, on behalf of Evan. Then I don’t speak anymore because my throat is thick with tears and I don’t want to say something stupid, such as I’m lonely, too. Or even worse, I still love you.

Michael crosses to Evan. He starts to say his goodbye. Evan doesn’t take it well. Michael negotiates a compromise. One last round of Super Soaker warfare, then Evan can watch a show on the History Channel after Michael departs.

They return to their battle. I retreat inside the house to the upstairs master bath, where I splash water on my face and realize for the first time that my hair is snarled, my shirt is spattered with Evan’s blood, and I have dirt on both my knees. Doesn’t matter. Michael and Melinda, Melinda and Michael, two little lovebirds sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Downstairs, Michael and Evan are entering the family room, both pink-cheeked and water-soaked.

“What do you think?” Michael asks Evan. “Can I visit you again?”

Evan regards Michael thoughtfully. “You left me.”

“I was away longer than I thought I would be,” Michael says.

“You left.”

“I’m here now.”

“But you left.”

Michael finally concedes. “Yeah, buddy, I left. And I missed you every day, and I hurt every day, and I don’t want to hurt like that again. So here I am-”

“Leav-ing,” Evan singsongs.

“Returning,” Michael corrects. “I don’t live here anymore, Evan. I can’t stay, but I can come back.” He looks at me for support.

I add, “He can come back, Evan. You’ll see.”

Evan doesn’t look like he believes us, but he’s also tired from the morning’s events. He’s prepared to be mollified with TV, so I turn on cable, then escort my ex-husband to the door.

Michael doesn’t say goodbye, just turns and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

I stand there long after he’s departed, my fingers touching the spot on my skin as if that will keep him with me.

I always thought when the moment came it would be in the middle of the night. Evan would be screaming and shrieking. I would be bolting down a hallway or up a flight of stairs. Maybe I’d trip, or maybe I’d just be one step too slow. I’d go down, and my frothing son would be upon me.

Instead, I sit next to Evan on the sofa. He keeps his eyes on the TV, slightly slack-jawed, deep in TV coma. I relax, feeling sleepy from so much time outdoors. Maybe I’ll take us for ice cream after this. Maybe we can attempt a public outing.

I feel a prick. A pain in my side. I reach down to rub it away, and notice a knife handle sticking out from between my ribs. My son’s hand is holding it. And my son, my beautiful son, is glaring at me.

“Et tu, Brute?” he snarls.

At that moment, staring into the black pools of his eyes, I get it. Why my son appears so calm: because there’s no more turmoil inside him. Evan’s surrendered to the phantom. He’s let the phantom win.

I stare at the paring knife. I stare at my blood, dripping down the handle, across his pale thin fingers, into the tan sofa cushion. And I feel pain now, white-hot, dizzying. I feel other drippings, inside my body, from whatever vital organs have just been pierced.

I watch the day dim before my eyes, grow shadowy around the edges.

Such a pretty day, I think. Such a happy day to end like this.

I look at my son. And I do what any mom would do.

I wrap my fingers around his bloody hand, and I say, before the darkness takes me, “It’s okay, Evan. It’s all going to be okay. I love you. I will always love you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I was on paid administrative leave. No point to staying on the ward. I should return home, shower, eat, and sleep for the next forty-eight hours. Naturally, I lingered on the unit instead.

I hung out in the Admin area, tackling general paperwork, then, reluctantly, writing up the last few hours of Lucy’s life. I made a minute-by-minute account of everything that happened during my shift, from my medical evaluation downstairs to Jorge’s meltdown upstairs. The detectives’ arrival. The execution of the warrant, the handing over of files, my solo outing for the infamous glass of water, as well as my brief visit to Lucy’s room. I recorded Lucy’s state of mind, her feline waltz through the moonbeams. Finally, I mentioned refilling the stupid copier, answering the detectives’ questions, and then, after Greg’s announcement, launching our desperate hunt through various hospital corridors. I went over it, again and again and again.

The repetition didn’t make it any easier to take. I couldn’t find the state of numbness that’s supposed to follow such tragedies. We’d never lost a child before. We’d had some attempt suicide. We’d heard of others who met tragedy after leaving here. But we’d never had a kid die on our watch. I didn’t know what to do to ease the tightness in my chest. I hadn’t cried since that one week with my Aunt Helen, when I’d realized that tears were both too much and too little for mourning an entire family.

So I wrote my report. When I was done, I took the string ball Lucy made for me, and stapled it to the upper right-hand corner.

Eight a.m. The kids were up, the sun was shining through the windows, and the newly appointed security guard was standing outside the doors.

I headed for the hospital cafeteria and waited for Karen to find me there.

It was past nine when Karen finally showed. She entered the cafeteria and headed straight for me. Her wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her ash-colored hair pinned back messily, an administrator who’d been roused from her bed and still hadn’t had the chance to return there. Her footsteps were brisk. Her gaze level. She was all business, my boss. She’d been heading the unit for at least a dozen years now, and I couldn’t think of anyone better for the job.

She pulled out the chair across from me, setting down her ubiquitous pile of papers, and pushing her glasses into place with one finger. She eyed my uneaten bagel, cup of coffee. “Do you need a refill?” she asked, gesturing to my mug.

I shook my head. My stomach couldn’t take any more caffeine, let alone my nerves.

She headed for the food, loading up a tray, then returning to me. She had a banana, a muffin, and steaming mug of Lipton tea. This was kindness on her part. We had a kitchenette in the unit where she could eat the exact same meal for free. But there’s something about meeting someone in a cafeteria. You must break bread together; it’s part of the tradition.

She peeled her banana. I managed a bite of bagel. Then, because I just couldn’t take it, I spoke first.

“You know I didn’t hurt her, right?” I burst out. “You know I would never do anything to harm Lucy, or any other child.”

“I don’t know that,” Karen said, and I felt my stomach lurch. She continued, “I believe that, however. If asked an opinion, I would say you would never intentionally harm a child.”

I nodded, pathetically grateful for her show of faith. “I don’t know what happened,” I whispered.

“I don’t know either. In this matter, we’re going to have to defer to the police.”

“Who will take care of her?” I asked, meaning Lucy’s body.

“I don’t know,” Karen said again. “Abuse charges are pending against her foster parents; she went straight from their custody to ours. Does the state claim her body, make arrangements for her? This is my first time in a situation like this.”

“We should do it,” I said immediately. “It’ll give our kids a chance to say goodbye.”

“Danielle, Lucy only stayed with us a matter of days. And she never mingled with the other kids. They still haven’t figured out she’s gone.”

“What will you tell them?”

“Given her limited impact on their lives, very little. We’ll answer any questions they ask, of course, but I’m not convinced they’ll ask many.”

The comment depressed me more. I sank lower in my chair. “Doesn’t seem right,” I murmured. “She was a child, a nine-year-old girl, and now she’s dead and no one misses her. That doesn’t seem right.”

“I miss her,” Karen said steadily. “You miss her, too.”

My eyes burned. I looked away, staring hard at the blue linoleum floor.

“Go home,” Karen said. “Run or rest, scream or meditate, do whatever it is you need to do to heal. You’re an exceptional nurse, Danielle. And a good person. This is going to pass. You’re going to feel okay again.”

“I want to work.”

“Not an option.”

“I need the kids. Taking care of them is how I take care of myself.”

“Not an option.”

“I’ll observe. Catch up on paperwork. Stay out of everyone’s way. I promise.”

“Danielle, the police will be returning at any moment. You don’t need to be on the unit. You need to be at home, phoning a good lawyer.”

“But I didn’t-”

Karen held up a hand: “Preaching to the choir. Take care of you, Danielle. You matter to the kids. You matter to all of us.”

I wished she wouldn’t say stuff like that. I swiped at my eyes, stared harder at the cafeteria floor.

“There will be two staff debriefings,” Karen added finally. “Two p.m. for the day shift; eleven p.m. for the night shift. If you want to attend, off the clock, you’re welcome. We need to establish new procedures so this kind of thing never happens again. I’m also arranging for counseling for any who need it. Something else for you to consider.”

I nodded. She’d tossed me a bone. I accepted it.

Across the way, I noticed Greg now walking into the cafeteria, scanning each table. He headed toward me, then spotted Karen and hesitated. Karen, however, saw him, too. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for him.

She grabbed her paperwork, topped it with her uneaten muffin.

“You need to take care of you,” she repeated firmly, then she departed as Greg approached. He walked straight toward me. Made no move to grab breakfast, made no motion to pull out a chair. He halted before me.

“Come home,” he said.

“Can’t stand the thought,” I told him honestly.

“Not your home, Danielle. Mine.”

So I did.

Turned out Greg shared a three-bedroom apartment with two other guys. Like many local apartments, it was carved out of a once grand home, with hardwood floors, nine-foot ceilings, and bull’s-eye molding around the expansive bay windows. The place felt worn around the edges, an aging matriarch with good bones but tired skin. I commented on the crown molding. Greg shrugged. Apparently, he wasn’t into architecture.

His roommates were gone. Probably down by the river, he mumbled. Perfect day for hanging out on the Charles. Hot, humid, hazy. Greg turned on the window AC units as he gave me the nickel tour. Still, we were both sweating by the time we reached the end of the hall.

He opened the last door, gestured inside. “My pad,” he said simply.

It was neater than I expected. No towels or stray clothing strewn across the floor. The furniture was College Dorm 101. A double mattress, sans frame and headboard. An old maple dresser, slightly lopsided, missing one knob. An equally old maple desk, small for a guy Greg’s size, and dwarfed by a black office chair.

No posters hanging up. No pictures adorning the dresser. The room featured cream-colored paint on the walls, dark green sheets on the bed, and tan blinds on the sunny windows. That was it. The room was a way station. A place for someone to crash, not for someone to live.

I looked at Greg, realizing for the first time how little I knew about him.

“No photo of the girlfriend on the nightstand?” I commented.

“No nightstand,” he said. “No girlfriend.”

“Family?”

“Got a sister in Pennsylvania.”

“You never talk about her.”

“You never ask.”

He had me there. I rarely questioned him or anyone else. It was ironic, if you thought about it. My entire personal history entered the room way before I did; I could see it on people’s faces when we were finally introduced. Oh, so she’s the one whose father shot everyone… Therefore, I didn’t inquire about others. That would invite them to ask about me, and then I’d have to verify the rumors in their heads.

“Ever see her?” I asked now. “Your sister?”

“Not lately.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Busy working, I guess.” He set his duffel bag down next to the wall. We both stared awkwardly at each other, too aware of the mattress in the corner.

“Not much artwork,” I commented at last.

“No.”

“Don’t plan on staying for long?”

“Don’t spend much time here,” he answered. “I work two jobs, and save my pennies to buy a home someday. I want a fenced-in yard, a puppy, a wife, and two-point-two kids. That’s where I’m going. This is just where I am now.”

I didn’t say anything. It was a nice dream. Fit him. He wasn’t screwing around. That kind of baggage… all mine, not his.

Greg cleared his throat. “Thirsty?”

“Okay.”

We returned to the kitchen. Dishes crowded the sink, the countertop could use a scrubbing. Greg made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat, so I was guessing the roommates made the mess. He left it, however, opening the vintage fridge to retrieve one Gatorade and one Diet Coke. He handed me the Diet Coke, opened the Gatorade for himself.

“Got any rum?” I joked, taking the first cold sip.

He regarded me for a second, then reached above the fridge and pulled down a bottle of Captain Morgan. He handed it to me, like a dare. How badly did I want to self-destruct?

After a minute, I handed the bottle back, untouched. He replaced it on top of the fridge. I finished my Coke. He finished his Gatorade. Then we were back to our staring contest.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said. “You can have the bedroom. AC should’ve cooled it by now. I’ll get you some clean sheets.”

“Brought me all the way here to sleep alone?” I asked.

He replied calmly, “I’m not your father, Danielle. I won’t fuck you.”

I hit him. Hard, before either of us expected it. He took the blow squarely in the jaw. I heard my knuckles crack. His head, on the other hand, barely wavered. So I hit him again, this time in the hard plank of his stomach. Not so much as an oomph, the fit bastard.

I went to town, slapping at him, pummeling desperately. I whacked his sides, his chest, his shoulders. I hit and hit and hit. And he stood there, as if he were a marble statue and I were a feral pigeon flapping around his feet.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I heard myself scream.

I brought up my knee, going for the money shot. At the last second, he blocked the jab. Then his hands captured my wrists, and suddenly he had me backed up against the far wall. Now I was the one on the defensive, my small frame pinned by his larger build.

He leaned down, face so close I could count the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. His eyes were a deep dark brown. Chocolate, with a ring of gold in the middle.

He was going to kiss me. In my agitated state, I couldn’t decide if I would kiss him back, or bite him.

“I won’t fuck you,” he said again.

“Bastard!”

“When I let you go, you’ll stop hitting me. You’ll go down the hall, get into bed, and get some goddamn sleep. Do you understand?”

“Asshole!”

“Feel better yet?”

I growled at him. He still didn’t release my wrists. Then, abruptly, our bodies so close together, I felt the hard length of him against my hip. He wanted me. It gave me a sense of power I hadn’t had in days. I moved against him, slightly dipped and swayed.

The gold ring around his pupils contracted. Another bead of sweat appeared on his upper lip.

I raised my right leg, hooking it around his hips and jerking his pelvis deeper into mine. I decided that fucking Gym Coach Greg might be the best way ever of escaping from my own mind.

His head lowered, his lips hovering just above mine. I worked my hips again, until I could feel his erection right where I wanted it. I started rubbing, slowly, lightly, picking up speed and pressure as I went along.

He was panting. So was I. Maybe we wouldn’t move. Maybe we’d dry hump right here in the kitchen. After that, I’d take some rum. I’d chug it before walking out of this goddamn apartment and going home alone.

Then, God help me, I saw Lucy again, her small body hanging from the ceiling, and I broke. Tears welled up. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But it wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. My mother, Natalie, Johnny. Lucy.

I hit Greg again. Weak, this time. Weary. Then I collapsed into the support pillar of his body, my face buried in the salty curve of his neck.

Greg scooped me up. He carried me down the hall. He tucked me into bed.

“Sleep.”

He closed the door. I was pitched into darkness, where I could once again smell cordite and blood. Except this time, I was the one holding the gun, standing beside my mother’s bed.

“You said you’d help me. You said you’d make him stop.”

“Danielle…”

“You said you believed me.”

“Danielle-”

The front door slamming shut. My father’s drunken voice booming up the stairs, “Honey, I’m home!”

Me raising the gun.

“Danielle!”

Cordite and blood. Singing and screaming. Love and hate.

The story of my life.

My eyes snapped open.

I lay on Greg’s mattress, curled up in the cool darkness, and didn’t sleep again.

Phone was ringing. The sound came from the living room and it finally roused me from my post-weeping lethargy. I rolled off the mattress, tested out my legs, and decided they’d hold.

I opened the bedroom door, hearing Greg’s deep baritone in the living room.

“Yeah, I can come in. What time does the kid arrive? What are the protocols?”

There was silence as he listened to the answers. He was talking to Karen. A new child was arriving at the unit and, for some reason, Karen wanted Greg there for the show.

I walked into the living room, waited for him to see me. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower; he was wearing a navy blue towel around his waist and nothing else. I stared at his deeply tanned torso, ridged with muscle, and my mouth went dry.

I retreated to the single bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and tried to regain my bearings. Greg was Greg. Greg had always been Greg.

But I’d never realized before what Greg looked like naked.

I took another minute, then opened the bathroom door to find Greg in the hallway. He’d changed into gym shorts and a white polo shirt. It made it easier for both of us.

“That was Karen,” he announced. “Listen, I gotta go to work. You can stay if you’d like. My roommates probably won’t return until late.”

“What time is it?”

“Four p.m.”

I frowned, surprised by the time. Perhaps I’d dozed off after all.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“New arrival,” he said, already walking down the hall to retrieve his gym bag. I trailed after him.

“Why you?”

“Kid has a history of violence. Karen would feel better with me there.”

“What’d he do?”

“Stabbed his mother.”

“When?”

“Sounds like this morning.”

“Mother okay?”

“Don’t know.”

“How old’s the kid?”

“Eight. Currently catatonic, according to the ER docs. Most likely shock.”

“And once that wears off…” I agreed. The panic would set in, and the explosive child would explode.

“Looks like it’ll be a night.” Greg slipped on a pair of nylon workout pants over his shorts. He slung his bag over his shoulder and, that quickly, he was good to go.

I stared at him. He stared at me. A faint bruise marred the line of his jaw. I took a step forward without thinking. I traced the bruise lightly with my fingertips, then, standing on my tiptoes, I gently kissed the mark I’d left on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.

“Danielle…” he said thickly.

“What?”

“It’s not always about you. Just remember that, okay? It’s not always about you.”

“Okay.”

I kissed his jaw again. I inhaled the fragrance of his freshly showered skin, then I stepped back. He went to work.

I had other business to tend to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

D.D. got her taskforce. The linking of the Harringtons to the Laraquette-Solis family via the pediatric psych ward, plus the subsequent death of another child in the same unit, all served to catch the superintendent’s attention. D.D. made a step up from being viewed as an extremely paranoid investigator to being one smart cookie. The fact that the media had latched on to the salacious news potential of two heinous mass murders in two days didn’t hurt either. The press hadn’t linked the family murders yet, but were granting enough coverage of the two tragedies that the superintendent saw the wisdom of quickly closing out both the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis cases. D.D. got ten detectives to throw at the hospital scene.

She also got to wake up in the arms of a handsome man.

Her damn pager was going off at the time, meaning they shared half a dozen glazed donuts instead of half a dozen bouts of steamy sex, but still, best morning she’d had in years.

She was smiling when Alex drove her back to the psych ward, perhaps even whistling as they walked through the lobby and rode the elevators to the eighth floor. They exited the elevators outside the secured glass doors of the pediatric unit, and discovered Andrew Lightfoot chatting up the security guard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” D.D. demanded.

“Working,” he said. “Can’t you feel it?” He held out his forearm, which was covered in goose bumps. “Bad juju,” he murmured as they entered the unit. “Better find your inner angel, Sergeant. Because, take it from me, your inner bitch’s got nothing on whatever’s going on in here.”

D.D. and her team set up in their favorite classroom. They were armed with search warrants and they knew how to use them. In the next twenty-four hours, D.D. planned on obtaining preliminary statements from every staff member working the unit. Back in HQ, Phil was running background reports on each employee, while Neil was formulating a list of other hospital workers-doctors, therapists, janitors, food service employees, local shamans, etc.-who routinely visited the floor. Two more detectives would be sent out to work the list, tracking down each person, securing an initial interview, and doing the background checks.

It was the classic machine-gun approach: fast and furious. D.D. didn’t mind. She was on the hunt for big game, and jazzed about it.

The hospital, of course, had sent its lawyer to supervise the activities. Being that it was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and most of the high-powered partners were out on their yachts, some young chick in a navy blue Ann Taylor pantsuit had drawn the short straw. The lawyer made a big show of inspecting each search warrant, slowly scrutinizing every word, before returning the documents with a crisp “Fine.”

D.D. liked her already. The kind of looks-good-but-has-no-experience legal eagle a BPD sergeant could eat for lunch.

D.D.’s team got to it, setting up for interviews and preparing to copy more files. Satisfied with their progress, D.D. went in search of her first target of choice: Andrew Lightfoot.

She found him in the dead girl’s room. The lone mattress remained in the middle of the floor. Andrew sat in front of it, cross-legged, feet bare, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees, palms up. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.

D.D. walked around until she stood in front of him. The minute her shadow touched his face, Lightfoot opened his eyes and stared at her. He didn’t seem surprised by her sudden presence, and that pissed her off enough to attack first.

“Why didn’t you tell us you worked here?” she demanded.

“I don’t.”

D.D. arched a brow, waving her hand around the room. “And yet, here you are.”

Lightfoot rose fluidly to standing. “Karen asked me to come. The unit is acute, the energies imbalanced. She asked me to perform a cleansing exercise, and assist with her staff. So here I am.”

“Karen, the nurse manager? She hired you?”

“Not everyone is a skeptic.” He smiled patiently.

D.D. felt pissed off all over again. “How long have you and Karen known each other?”

“Two years.”

“Personal or professional?”

“Professional.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Through a family. They asked that I assist with their child, who was admitted here. Karen became impressed by the child’s progress. She asked me to work with her staff on basic meditation and energy-boosting exercises. From time to time, she also recommends my services to other families.”

“She likes you?”

“She believes in my work.”

“You’re rich and good-looking. Bet that doesn’t hurt.”

“You think I’m rich and good-looking?” Lightfoot smiled again.

“I think you’re cocky and arrogant,” D.D. countered.

Lightfoot’s smile grew broader. “Leopard can’t change all of his spots,” he agreed.

“You and Karen ever go out?”

“It is strictly a professional relationship, Sergeant. I assist her and her staff. She recommends my services.”

“Did she recommend you to the Harringtons?”

“That referral came from a different source.”

“When was the last time you saw Ozzie?”

“Three months ago.”

“And Tika?”

“I don’t know that child.”

“Yet you know she’s a child,” D.D. pounced.

Lightfoot regarded her evenly. “We are talking about kids, thus it stands to reason that Tika is a kid. Sergeant, you seem angry. We should leave this room; it’s not good for you.”

He didn’t give her a chance to reply, but turned toward the doorway. It forced her to follow him, which, come to think of it, made her angrier.

“We’ll go to the classroom-” she started tightly.

“This is perfect,” Lightfoot said, as if she’d never spoken. He’d stopped in front of the huge window at the end of the hall. “Here, in the sunbeam. You’ve been spending too much time under fluorescent bulbs, Sergeant. You need more vitamin D.”

D.D. stared at him wide-eyed.

“I’m a healer,” Lightfoot said quietly. “Just because you don’t believe doesn’t mean I’m going to change who I am.”

“Have you ever worked with a child who was a cutter?” D.D. asked.

“Who self-mutilates, you mean? Not lately.”

“Karen refer you to such a family?”

“No.”

“What was the last family she referred you to?”

“I don’t really remember, or keep track,” Lightfoot said vaguely. D.D. narrowed her eyes, studied him for a bit.

Up close and personal, she could make out deep shadows beneath Lightfoot’s eyes, a pallor beneath his tanned skin. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one not getting enough vitamin D.

“Up late last night?” she asked him.

He hesitated. “I have been up late ever since you visited my home. I had planned to take a few more days off, but it is not to be.”

“Why?”

He turned toward the window, seemed to be studying the sun. D.D. was startled to realize that the healer was shivering slightly, his bare arms still covered with goose bumps.

“I have spent the past two evenings on the spiritual interplanes,” he said at last. “As I tried to explain to you by phone, something is coming. I can feel it. Have you ever heard the expression ‘a darkness deeper than night’?”

D.D. nodded, still studying him.

“I never knew what that meant, but now I do. There’s something terrible out there. Or maybe, now it’s in here.” Suddenly, Lightfoot reached out, touched her cheek.

In spite of herself, D.D. gasped. Lightfoot’s fingers felt like dry ice against her skin. So cold they nearly burned. She took an instinctive step back.

The healer nodded. “Negative energy feels like a deep chill. However, I’m an advanced and powerful healer. Meaning I should be able to fight that cold. I should be able to warm my hands. But since entering the unit, I can’t do it. Something terrible holds sway here. It’s rooted in Lucy’s room, but is already expanding to the entire floor. A cold, malevolent force. A darkness deeper than night. Lucy couldn’t survive it. And neither, I think, can we. It’s why I asked you to leave that room and join me here in the sun.”

“Because some celestial Big Bad hurt Lucy?” asked D.D.

“I’m tired,” Lightfoot said, as if it were important for her to understand that. “I’ve been expending vast amounts of energy on the interplanes each night. Then I’ve had healing exercises to tend to during the day. And now I’m trying to cleanse the taint that has corrupted this ward. I’m drained. Not at my best today. I’m sorry I can’t do more to protect you.”

“What?” D.D. said, looking around.

“You’re angry,” Lightfoot continued. “You’re hurt. Under better circumstances, I would help you center more, bolster your own defenses. But not this afternoon.”

“Okay.” D.D hesitated, trying to get the healer back on track. “Tell me about Danielle Burton. You said her pain calls to you.”

“There’s an old saying that doctors make the worst patients. Same with psych nurses. I have known Danielle since starting to work at the unit. I would like to help her. Unfortunately, her skepticism mirrors your own.”

“She won’t work with you?”

He shrugged. “It’s why I am willing to speak with you. She’s not a client and, in her own mind, not even a friend. But I worry about her.”

“Why?”

“She’s an old soul,” Lightfoot said immediately, his expression more distant now, seeing something only he could see. “For centuries she has returned to this plane, always seeking, never finding. She has honed her hatred, when only love can set her free.”

“Sounds like a song I once heard,” D.D. said. She couldn’t help herself. “Are you talking reincarnation?”

“I’m talking experiential lessons. Her soul is drawn to this plane to learn what it needs to learn. But she hasn’t mastered the lesson. Until she does, she’s doomed to repeat. Unfortunately, there are other souls also involved. Their experiences are intertwined with her own, her inability to move forward sentencing them all to a spin cycle of ever-repeating violence. I’ve tried to explain this to her, but…”

“Her father?” D.D. filled in.

“That would make sense,” Lightfoot said.

D.D. narrowed her eyes. Interesting answer, she thought, and she was beginning to realize that for all his woo-woo, Lightfoot was very careful with his replies.

She got it, suddenly: “You mean Gym Coach Greg. You’re worried about his and Danielle’s relationship.”

“He asks. She refuses. He needs. She rejects. He still searches for love. She still chooses hate. And they spin and they spin and they spin.”

“Greg seems like a nice guy,” D.D. countered mildly.

“They spin and they spin and they spin,” Lightfoot repeated, sounding both tired and sorrowful.

D.D. regarded him for a bit. The healer made no attempt to break the silence, and after several minutes, she declared defeat.

“You ever miss it?” she asked finally.

“What?”

“The money, the fast car, the trappings of your former life?”

“Never.”

“Had to have been an adrenaline rush, picking up pretty women, making fistfuls of cash, screwing over your rivals. From all that, to this?”

“Wall Street is nothing but a playground. There are no meaningful rewards, there are no significant consequences. Whereas in there…” Lightfoot pointed toward Lucy’s open doorway. “In there is where I fight to win.”

As if to prove his point, the healer marched back down the hall.

He paused outside Lucy’s room. D.D. saw the man shiver before he headed in.

With Lightfoot back to the business of spiritual cleansing, D.D. wandered the unit until she found the nurse manager, Karen Rober, sitting in the common area with a little boy who was resiliently mashing fruit in a bowl. The boy looked up when D.D. approached and she recognized him from the first day. One of the three amigos into Matchbox cars and running laps. D.D. searched her mental files for a name but came up blank; she’d never been great with kids.

“Do you want a fruit smoothie?” the boy asked her, feet swinging, shoulders rocking. He stated in one breathless rush: “I can do banana strawberry raspberry blueberry maybe grape but not oranges they’re too hard to mash.”

He went back to pounding fruit with his plastic spoon, rocking, rocking, rocking. D.D. started to cue in on a few things. First, while the boy remained seated at the table, he was agitated. Very agitated. A hand grenade, just waiting for someone to pull the pin.

Second, he wasn’t the only one. Two kids were rollerblading down the hallway, pushing and shoving at each other as they went, while another kid sat under a table, banging his head against the wall.

What was it they called the environment of the unit-the “milieu”? D.D. was no expert, but even to her, the milieu was wiggy today.

Karen had spotted the head-banger. “Jamal,” she said sharply. “Enough of that. Why don’t you join Benny and me? Come on, Jamal. Benny will make you a fruit smoothie. What flavor would you like?”

“Eat eat eat eat eat,” Benny singsonged, holding out his first concoction for Karen.

The head nurse took it from him, smiling her thanks.

“Eat eat eat eat eat.”

D.D. watched in fascination as Karen swallowed an honest-to-God spoonful, smile never slipping from the nurse manager’s face. Benny clapped his hands in glee. Jamal finally crawled out from beneath the other table to join the party.

In no time, Karen had him set up with his own fruit-smashing project. Then the nurse manager summoned another staff member to take over the table, freeing herself to join D.D. in the hallway.

“Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not enough,” D.D. told Karen.

The nurse smiled faintly. “Trust me, I’ve been fed worse.”

“But you ate it. Can’t you fake your way out of something like that?”

“Do you have kids, Sergeant?”

“No.”

“Well, someday, if you do, you’ll understand.”

Dismissive and curt. D.D. warmed to the challenge. “Your place or mine?” D.D. asked, gesturing to either the Admin area or down the hall, where D.D.’s team had set up shop. Karen arched a brow, no doubt tempted to remind D.D. that, technically, it was all Karen’s. But finally, the administrator sighed, and pointed to her own office area. She located the key on the lanyard around her neck and opened the door. D.D. followed.

“How long have you known Lightfoot?” D.D. asked as they entered the cramped warren of rooms. Karen led her back to a tiny staff room, where they could both have a seat at a table.

“Two years.”

Consistent. “How’d you meet him?”

“Parents of a child who came to stay. Their son liked to capture bullfrogs, stick firecrackers in their mouths, and light the fuses. He also enjoyed covering the walls of their home with pictures of his mother being killed in various manners. It was amazing the level of detail he could capture using only red crayons.”

Also consistent. “How old was the child?” D.D. asked, curious.

“Ten.”

“Scary.”

Karen shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. The boy, however, was not responding to medication and the parents were frantic. So they brought in Andrew. I was initially skeptical, but Andrew was calm and courteous, respectful of our staff and the other kids. And I have to say, within three weeks we noticed a marked improvement in the boy’s behavior. Incidents that previously would’ve thrown him into a rage were greeted with more tolerance. We’d see the child tense up, but then he’d mumble, ‘Find the light, seven hugs from seven angels.’ He’d relax, a remarkable feat for a child with his level of psychosis. Naturally, I started to ask Andrew about his work. As did many of our doctors.”

“What do they think?” D.D. asked.

“Most of them have no issues with it. Medicine is already starting to note the role of love and laughter in the recovery process. It’s not so much of a stretch to acknowledge that faith and spirituality can also make a difference.”

“Angels healed a troubled kid?”

Karen smiled. “Do you know everything there is to know about the cosmos? Because if you do, you’re a smarter woman than I, Sergeant.”

D.D. scowled at her. “How many of your kids has Andrew worked with?”

“You’d have to ask him. I rarely refer his services; mostly, other parents do.”

“Sounds like he worked with the Harringtons.”

Karen didn’t say anything.

“Danielle implied that he interfered with your care of their son, recommending that Ozzie be discharged before the docs thought he was ready.”

Karen shrugged. “It was a gray area. Ozzie was definitely improved. I would’ve liked more time to ensure his recent changes in behavior stuck, but they felt it was more important to get him back to a home environment. There was logic to both sides of the argument. Now, for the record, Ozzie never bounced back here. So I have to believe that the Harringtons’ approach worked for their son. Andrew worked for their son.”

“The Harringtons were murdered.”

“By the father, I thought.”

“We’re not sure of that.”

Karen faltered for the first time, hands dropping to the table, blinking behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you saying… Ozzie?”

“It’s possible.”

The head nurse didn’t defend Ozzie. She sighed instead. “It’s hard to know with these kids. They’re not out of control because they’re weak or lazy. They suffer from physiological differences, issues with brain chemistry, hormones, DNA. And there’s so little we can do for them. So few tools available to us.”

“Hence Lightfoot, a handsome white knight, promising to save lost children while reducing your pharmaceutical bill. Gotta like that.”

The nurse manager didn’t say anything, so D.D. took it one step further. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“My husband would object.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know.”

“My conscience would object.” Karen shook her head. “I understand you’re skeptical of Andrew. In many ways, I also held his looks and background against him. But if you watch him with the kids… He is genuinely tender, exceedingly patient. He doesn’t just soothe them, he teaches them to soothe themselves. I never thought I’d be advocating energy cleansings in a clinical environment. And yet I’m respectful of the results.”

D.D. scowled, refusing to be convinced. “What about other members of your staff. Say, Danielle? Andrew’s good-looking. She’s young and pretty.”

“You would have to ask Danielle.”

“She’s a bit of a mess,” D.D. commented.

Karen didn’t take the bait.

“I mean,” D.D. continued conversationally, “her father slaughters her whole family except her. There’s some baggage to carry. And now she works with a whole ward of violent kids. It’s like she needs the drama.”

For a moment, Karen was silent. Then: “In policing, don’t you see officers who come from a long tradition of policing? Sons, daughters, nieces, nephews of other cops?”

“True.”

“Our line of work is like that, too. You want to dig, most of our staff has stories that will break your heart. They didn’t grow up happy, driving them to preserve for others the childhood they never had. By that logic, Danielle isn’t the exception in our unit. More like the norm.”

“Really? What’s Greg’s story?”

“Greg?” The nurse manager seemed surprised by that name, of all names. “I’m not sure Greg has a story. He’s not one to talk about his personal life.”

“How long has he worked here?”

“Five years.”

“Any complaints? Issues?”

“Not one,” Karen answered firmly. “He’s quiet, conscientious, brilliant with the children. Both adults and kids like him, which is not something I can say for all of our staff.”

“Adults?” D.D. asked.

“The parents. Some of our people…” Karen hesitated. “Some of our staff are in this line of work because they have an immediate rapport with children. Unfortunately, that rapport doesn’t always extend to adults.”

D.D. thought about it. Gym Coach Greg was a good-looking guy. Strong, fit. She’d bet some female adults did have an immediate rapport with him.

“What are the requirements for an MC?” she asked now, pulling out her spiral pad to make a note. “Does he have a special license, or have to pass board certification?” What could D.D. have Phil look up as part of Greg’s background report?

But the nurse manager was shaking her head. “Our nurses have degrees and board certification, of course. The MCs are only required to have a high school education, and a lot of energy and creativity with kids.”

“You’re kidding me. The majority of your staff are MCs, and you’re telling me they have no special training?”

Karen looked at her. “Sergeant, what classroom module could ever prepare someone for the kids we see here?”

Good point. “Greg have a family?” D.D. asked with a frown.

“He doesn’t talk about one.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I don’t know.”

“So he has eyes only for Danielle,” D.D. supplied.

“I don’t get involved in my staff’s personal lives,” Karen answered coolly.

“Really? Because everyone’s talking about it. Greg says yes. Danielle says no. Around and around they go. Sounds like a lot of flirtation on company time. You can’t be happy about that.”

“I’ve never seen either one act anything other than professional.”

“Maybe you ought to get out of Admin more.”

The head nurse glared at her.

D.D. waited a moment, then decided she’d had enough of all the tap dancing. She cut to the heart of the matter: “Don’t you think it’s odd that two families affiliated with this unit have been murdered, right around the anniversary date of one of your staff member’s own family being killed?”

“It’s odd-” Karen started.

“Then,” D.D. cut in, “a girl was hanged last night, who also happens to be working with the same staff member whose family was murdered almost exactly twenty-five years ago. Another coincidence?”

“These things happen.”

“Really? How many kids have you found hanging in the hospital? How many patients have you discharged who’ve wound up murdered?”

Karen didn’t reply anymore. She looked as tired as Lightfoot. The head nurse sighed, then reached for a stack of paperwork on her desk. She pulled out a report, then looked back up at D.D.

“When were the Harringtons killed?” Karen asked. “Wednesday? Thursday?”

“Thursday evening.”

The nurse glanced at the report. “Danielle worked that night. In fact, she pulled a double, working night shift on Thursday and day shift on Friday.”

“What time is night shift?”

“Seven to seven.”

D.D. considered the matter. The Harringtons had presumably died around dinnertime. Considering how long it would take to subdue an entire family, clean up, make it from Dorchester to Cambridge… “What time did she clock in?” D.D. asked.

“Danielle arrived at six-thirty and prepared for her shift.”

“And Friday night?”

Karen thinned her lips. “Technically speaking, Danielle concluded her day shift at seven p.m. She remained on the unit, however, debriefing with me, then catching up on paperwork until after eleven. At which time she was involved in an altercation with Lucy, who had a violent episode.”

“The bruises on Danielle’s neck,” D.D. said, remembering.

“Exactly. So while Danielle was not on the clock, she was here, and I have it documented, per hospital policy.”

D.D.’s turn to thin her lips. Meaning Danielle had alibis for both the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis murders.

“She was working last night when Lucy disappeared,” D.D. said.

“Correct.”

“Now, call me crazy, but you’re saying she worked Thursday night, Friday day-lingering until after eleven p.m.-then was back for Saturday night shift. That’s a lot of hours in a short span of time.”

“Our staff tends to lump their shifts, pulling doubles in order to maximize their days off. Work-three-days, play-five kind of thing.”

D.D. stared at the nurse administrator.

“Danielle is also a workaholic,” Karen conceded. “Particularly this time of year.”

“Who else knows her history?” D.D. asked.

“Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“She’s infamous, even by our drama-rich standards. Most of the parents hear about her past sooner or later, as well. Gossip, rumors. People are people.”

“What about Gym Coach Greg? Was he working Thursday night? Or Friday?”

A fresh perusal of the time sheet. “Not Thursday night. On Friday, he had the day shift. Seven a.m. to seven p.m. Of course, he was also working last night, when Lucy…” The nurse’s voice trailed off.

D.D. digested that. So Danielle had an alibi for the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis murders, but not Greg. Good to know. She adopted her conversational tone again. “So who do you think’ll be next?”

“Excuse me?”

D.D. shrugged. “The Harringtons were murdered Thursday night. The Laraquette-Solis family was murdered Friday night. Lucy was hanged Saturday night.” D.D. glanced at her watch. “It’s now nearly five o’clock. I figure we got, what, one hour, two, three, then it’s time for Sunday-night action. Another child here? Another family out there? Clock’s ticking. Place your bets.”

Karen stared at her, wide-eyed.

“You think I’m messing around?” D.D. asked. “You think I have nothing better to do than terrorize a bunch of hardworking professionals on a pediatric psych ward? Families are dying. Children are being murdered. Now, start telling me what the fuck is going on, so my squad can shut it down. Five o’clock, Karen. Don’t ask me who’ll be dead by six.”

Then, almost as if someone had heard her words, the first scream sounded from outside the Admin area. It was followed by a second, a third. High-pitched, frantic wails that swiftly disintegrated into a whole chorus of terrified shrieks.

“Common area,” Karen said immediately. She was already out of her chair, grabbing the keys around her neck, running for the door.

D.D. was right on her heels. She could just make out words now. “Devil!” the children were screaming. “Diablo. Está aquí. Está aquí. The Devil is here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I dream of distant beaches. Of silky white sand that sinks beneath my feet. Of turquoise waves rocking against the shoreline. Of a deep-orange sun warming my upturned face.

I dream of walking with my husband, hand in hand.

Our children are running ahead, laughing together happily. Evan’s golden curls stand out in the bright sunlight, Chelsea’s darker-topped head bent near his. They dig a hole with a stick, just out of reach of the lapping ocean.

Then Evan reaches over and casually pushes his sister into the hole. The sand collapses, swallowing her in one greedy gulp. Laughing, Evan runs back toward us. Now I realize he doesn’t hold a stick, but a long pointed blade. He aims it at his father, and picks up speed, the phantom dancing in his eyes as he races across the opalescent beach.

“You’re mine,” he says to me as he runs his father through. “You will always be mine.”

Then he advances with the bloody sword…

I wake up to a strange beeping sound. The high-pitched tone hurts my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will dull the sound. It doesn’t, so I open them again, becoming aware of many things at once.

I’m in a hospital room. My side aches with a nearly impossible pain. Monitors surround me, with wires and lines sprouting from my left hand. I’m hot. I’m confused. I have no idea what has happened to me.

Then I discover belatedly that Michael’s asleep in a chair next to my bed.

While I stare at him in bewilderment, he slowly rouses, glancing at me, then performing a double-take when he realizes I’m awake.

“Victoria?” he says in a raspy voice.

“Evan?” I ask in panic.

Immediately, Michael’s face shudders. He climbs out of the chair, wearing the same khaki shorts and Brooks Brothers shirt he wore to my house. This confuses me more. What day is it? What’s happened to me?

“How do you feel?” he asks, crossing to the bed, glancing at the monitors, as if they mean something to him.

I swallow once, twice, three times. “Th-thirsty.”

“I’ll ring for a nurse.”

I nod. He pushes a button. “Evan?” I try again.

“He’s okay.”

“Chelsea?”

“She’s at home. With Melinda. What do you remember?”

I shake my head. I don’t remember. But then it comes back to me. Sitting down on the couch next to my sun-drunk child. Feeling a little sleepy. The sudden pain in my side…

My hand drops down to my ribs. Sure enough, my left side is covered in a swathe of gauze. I don’t have to touch it to feel the pain, the red, swollen mess of it. My son stabbed me.

“The knife penetrated your liver,” Michael tells me, as if reading my thoughts. “If the EMTs hadn’t gotten you here in time for emergency surgery, you would’ve died.”

“Evan?” I ask for the third time.

“Do you understand me, Victoria? You would’ve died.”

A nurse appears. She bustles in, picking up my wrist, checking my pulse even though some cumbersome plastic object attached to my fingertip must be telling her the same thing. “How do you feel?” she asks, studying the monitors.

“Thirsty.”

“I can bring you ice chips. If you hold those down, next we can attempt water. Sound like a plan?”

I nod. She exits, returning quickly with half a cup of ice chips. I take them sparingly, realizing the increasing discomfort in my abdomen. I’ve never been good with anesthesia. Ice chips probably are the best I can do.

“Doctor will be in to talk to you shortly,” she says. Then the nurse is gone and Michael and I are staring at each other again.

“Thank you for coming,” I manage. I don’t know what else to say.

He shrugs. “Someone had to come. It was either me or your mother.”

We both know what he means. My mother would’ve pulled the plug. I’m not a daughter to her. More like the competition. At least I used to be. It’s been so long since she’s visited me or her grandkids, she has no idea how far I’ve fallen.

“Evan?” I try yet again.

“Evan’s okay.”

“He didn’t mean to-” I start.

Michael holds up a hand. His face is the angriest I’ve ever seen. “You know why I left?” he said abruptly. “You know why I took Chelsea and got the hell out of our home?”

I shake my head. His anger frightens me.

“Because I figured it was only a matter of time before I had to kill my son in order to protect my wife and daughter. And call me crazy, but I didn’t want to kill Evan. Dammit, I love him, too, Victoria. I’ve always loved him, too.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Do you know what you’ve done to him?” he continues, the force of his emotions causing his voice to tremble. “He’s eight, and he now has to deal with the knowledge that he stabbed his own mother. That he nearly killed you. He’s just a kid, for Christ’s sake. How’s he supposed to handle that? With everything else going on in his fucked-up head, how the hell is he ever supposed to deal with that?”

I don’t know what to say.

“I thought you’d died. I got the call, and the way the emergency room nurse was talking… I raced all the way here thinking you were dead. That Evan had murdered you. Then I run into the emergency room, and the police have a million questions and the doctors have a million questions. I can’t even see you; you’ve already been whisked away to the operating room. And Evan’s shackled to a hospital bed. They’ve got him cuffed and everything. My son. My little boy…”

Michael’s voice breaks. He turns away from me, walks toward the wall, and stares at it for a bit.

“I had to call Darren,” he says at last, referring to an old college friend who’d become an attorney. “I had to get legal advice for Evan. That’s where we are with things, Victoria.”

“He didn’t mean-” I try again.

Michael whirls around. “Shut up. Just shut up. I don’t care that you’re hurt. I don’t care that you almost died. I want to hurt you worse, Victoria. I want to slap you until you realize once and for all that your denial is destroying our son. Evan did mean to hurt you. He intentionally stole that goddamn knife out of the drying rack. He cleverly slipped it inside the fabric on the underside of the sofa, where you wouldn’t find it. And he carefully retrieved it during an opportune moment, just so he could drive it through your ribs.”

“How do you know all that? How can you possibly know?”

“Because he told me.”

I stare at him, slack-jawed, disbelieving.

“He’s broken. He answered my questions by rote. There’s no light in his eyes. He stabbed you, but he broke himself. And I don’t know if we’ll get him back. Sure this was better than an institution, Vic?”

The bitterness of his words hurts, just as he intends. I feel the full force of his helplessness. The buried rage from all the times I overrode him, shut him out of the parenting process because I didn’t agree with his solutions, couldn’t let go of my own notions of what was best for my child. I’m the nurturer. Michael, the fixer. We were doomed from the start.

“Did… did they arrest Evan?” I ask, shifting a little in the bed, trying to get comfortable. I feel queasy, but that might be from the conversation as much as the aftereffects of the anesthesia.

“I’m sure an arrest warrant is only a matter of time. At the moment, however, given his fragile mental state, he’s been hospitalized.”

I stare at him in confusion. “Where?”

“Upstairs. Turns out this medical center has a locked-down pediatric psych ward on the eighth floor. Evan’s now a patient.”

My eyes widen. Once again Michael holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I had Darren pull our divorce decree. I still have custodial rights to Evan and, given your current physical and emotional state, I’ll take you to court and demand full custody if I have to. Our son’s experienced a psychotic break. He’s upstairs and he’s gonna stay there.”

“He’s just a child-”

“Which is why it’s a pediatric ward. And, since you asked so nicely, it’s an excellent acute-care program. Highly recommended, considered very progressive in its approach to mentally ill kids. You can visit anytime you want, assuming you get yourself healed enough to get out of bed.”

“Bastard.”

“I wish I’d become one sooner,” he says flatly. “Maybe then we could’ve avoided this.”

“I’m not a bad mom,” I whisper after a moment. It seems a stupid thing to say, given that I’ve just been stabbed by my own child.

But Michael seems to understand. His face smooths, some of the tension seeps from his shoulders. He sighs, rubs his forehead. Sighs again. “No, you’re not a bad mom, Vic. And I’m not a bad dad, and Evan, when he’s Evan, is not a bad kid. And yet, here we are.”

“What will happen next?”

“I don’t know.”

“I won’t press charges,” I state defiantly. “They can’t arrest him without me, right?” My stomach rolls. I am going to vomit.

Michael, however, shakes his head. “Not that simple, Vic. He stabbed you, then confessed to the police. Those officers will prepare affidavits. Those affidavits can be used by the prosecutor to demand an arrest warrant. According to Darren, the court will probably be willing to accept Evan being held in a mental institution versus a juvenile center for the time being. So that’s step one. Next, we let the legal process grind along while focusing on improving Evan’s state of mind. If we can show he’s more stable, the court may be more forgiving. Maybe. But it’s going to take time, Vic. Time for him, time for you, time for the legal system. We’re in it for a bit.”

I cringe at what that means. Evan staying in a locked-down ward. My son, eight years old and institutionalized indefinitely.

My turn to look away, to study the white walls.

So many things I want to tell my son. That I love him. That I still believe in him. I’m not in denial. I’ve seen the darkness in his eyes. But I’ve seen the light, too. I’ve seen all the moments that Evan got to be Evan, and I wouldn’t have missed those moments for anything.

Something occurs to me. I turn my head to peer at my husband. “You said I was lucky the EMTs got me to the hospital in time. But how did they know? Who called them?”

Michael sticks his hands in his pockets. “Evan,” he says at last. “He dialed nine-one-one, told the operator he’d stabbed his mother. He said you were bleeding and needed help.”

“He tried to save me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The operator asked him what happened. You know what he said?”

I shook my head, bewildered.

“He said the Devil made him do it. And he said the ambulance had better come quick, because the Devil wasn’t finished yet.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When Aunt Helen opened the door, first thing I noticed was her red-rimmed eyes. She tried to hide her tears. Brushed at her cheeks, ran her fingers through her short brown hair. Her cheeks remained wet, her face blotchy. She noticed that I noticed and, for both our sakes, gave up on pretense. She gestured for me to come in.

She’d moved out of her downtown condo years ago. Now she had a newer townhouse just outside the city limits. Lower maintenance as she approached the downsizing phase of life. She’d retired from her corporate-lawyer gig years ago. Instead, she worked thirty hours a week for a nonprofit that specialized in promoting better rights, funding, and legislation for abused and at-risk kids. She liked the work, she said, precisely because it was a one-eighty from her previous career. She’d gone from protecting the fat cats to fighting for children’s rights.

You’d think this would give us more in common, easy conversation for the few nights a month we shared dinner. Instead, neither of us ever talked about work. Maybe we had those kinds of jobs; you had to leave them at the office, or you’d go nuts.

“Coffee?” she asked, leading me into the small but expensively appointed kitchen.

“Whiskey,” I replied.

Sadly, she thought I was joking. She poured us both glasses of water. I didn’t think that was strong enough for what I needed to do next.

She carried the glasses to another small but beautifully decorated room. The sitting area featured gleaming hardwood floors, a white-painted fireplace mantel, and a vaulted ceiling. Off the family room was a screened-in porch that overlooked a stretch of wetlands. Earlier in the summer, we’d sat on that porch and watched for herons. This late in August, however, it was too hot and sticky.

We perched on the L-shaped sofa. I sipped my water and felt the ceiling fan brush freshly chilled air across my cheeks. Aunt Helen didn’t speak right away. Her hands were trembling on her glass. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, but gazed at the floor.

This time of year always hit her harder than it did me. Maybe because she gave herself the permission to grieve, to release the floodgates one week out of every year. She cried, raged, blew off steam. Then she picked up the pieces and returned to the business of living.

I couldn’t do it. Never could. I didn’t want to release the floodgates; I was afraid I’d never get them closed again. Plus, all these years later, I remained mostly angry. Deeply, deeply enraged. Which was why I rarely visited my aunt around the anniversary. It was too hard for me to watch her weep, when I wanted to shatter everything in her house.

My visit today had probably surprised her. She twisted her water glass between her fingers, waiting for me to speak.

“Doing okay?” I asked at last. Stupid question.

“You know,” she replied with a small shrug. Better answer. I did know.

I cleared my throat, looked out the sunny bank of windows. Unexpectedly, my eyes stung and I fought through the choke hold of strangling emotion.

“Something’s happened,” I managed at last.

She stopped fiddling with her water glass and studied me. And suddenly, I was staring at my mother’s blue eyes. I was standing in the doorway of my mother’s bedroom, holding my father’s gun behind my back, while I tried to muster the courage for what I needed to say next.

“He hurt me,” I heard myself whisper.

“Danielle?” My aunt’s voice, my mother’s voice. They ran together, two women, both who’d claimed to love me.

I licked my lips, forced myself to keep talking. “My father. On the nights when he drank a lot… sometimes he came to my room in the middle of the night.”

“Oh Danielle.”

“He said if I did what he wanted, he wouldn’t have to drink so much. He’d be happy. Our family would be happy.”

“Oh Danielle.”

“I tried, in the beginning. I thought, if I just made him happy, I wouldn’t have to hear my mom cry at night. Things would get better. Everything would be all right.”

My aunt didn’t speak, just regarded me with my mother’s sorrowful blue eyes.

“But it got worse. And he drank more, came in more often. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take it. I went to Mom’s room that night. To tell her what he was doing. And I brought his gun with me.”

“You threatened Jenny?” my aunt asked in confusion. “You were going to shoot your mother?”

“No, I threatened my father. I told my mom that if she didn’t make him stop, I was going to shoot him. That was my plan. Not bad for a kid, huh?”

“Oh Danielle. What happened?”

“He came home while we were talking. He was drunk, calling our names. We listened to him come up the stairs. Mom demanded that I give her the gun. She said she’d take care of everything. She’d help me. She promised. I just had to give her the gun.”

“What did you do?”

“I handed her his gun. Then I bolted down the hall and hid under the covers in my bedroom. I didn’t come out until… afterward.”

My aunt took a shaky breath, released it. She set her water glass on the coffee table, then stood, walking a few steps toward the window. My aunt wasn’t a restless person. Her actions now distracted me, made me study her intently. She wouldn’t look at me. She stared out at the sun-bleached wetlands, where the birds had to be more comforting than our current conversation.

“You think it’s your fault, what your father did,” she said, softly.

“I was a kid. Can’t be my fault.”

She turned, smiling wanly at me. The first tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away, crossing her arms over her chest. “Dr. Frank taught you well.”

“He should’ve; you paid him enough.”

“Do you hate me, too, Danielle? Are my sister’s failings my own?”

“Did you know? You’ve been so adamant about therapy all these years. Did my Mom tell you what he was doing?”

Slowly, Aunt Helen shook her head. Then she caught herself, a second tear trickling down, a second tear wiped away. “I didn’t know about the abuse. I suspected. Dr. Frank suspected. But, Danielle, not everything going on in your family had something to do with you.”

“I told on him. I tried to make it stop and everyone died. My mom, Johnny, Natalie. If I hadn’t said anything… if I’d just kept trying to make him happy…”

“Your father was a self-centered son of a bitch. No one could make him happy. Not Jenny, not his kids, not all the second chances Sheriff Wayne gave him. Don’t pin this on yourself.”

“It wasn’t fair, especially for Natalie and Johnny. I can hate my mom. Some nights I do. She stayed with him. Worse, she took the gun from me. If she’d let me keep it and go with plan A… So during my bad moments, I tell myself mom got what she deserved. But Natalie and Johnny-” My voice broke. I got up and paced. “They died because they poked their heads out of their rooms. And I lived because I was too scared to get out of bed. It’s not fair, and no number of passing years changes that.”

“Danielle, I don’t know exactly what happened that night. I can’t tell you who did what to whom and I won’t tell you any of it was fair. But you’re wrong about your mother. She’d had enough. The day before your father… did what he did, Jenny called me. She wanted the name of a good divorce lawyer. She planned on kicking your father out. She’d had enough.”

“What?”

My aunt hesitated, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “She’d met someone. A good man, she told me. A good man who was willing to help her. She just needed to get her ducks in a row. Then she was going to ask your father for a divorce.”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at my aunt, stunned.

“It might be,” she continued now, “that your mother never confronted your father with your accusations. Maybe, after hearing what you had to say, she was angry enough to kick him out that night. Told him she wanted a divorce. And he…”

I could see it in my mind’s eye. The gun, which I’d carried to the bedroom, now lying on my mother’s nightstand. My mother, yelling at my drunken father to get the hell out. My father, caught off guard, enraged by my mother’s sudden defiance, seeing his own handgun, reaching for it…

Natalie, wondering about the noise. Johnny, curious about the loud pop down the hall.

I loved them. All these years later, I still loved them. If I’d known back then that I had to make the choice between my father’s abuse and my family’s love, I would’ve chosen my family. I would’ve chosen them.

“Danielle,” my aunt tried now, “it’s not your fault.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s been twenty-five years. Will everyone stop telling me that?”

“Will you ever start believing it?”

“We were a family. Everyone’s action is someone else’s reaction. If he hadn’t started drinking, if she hadn’t tried to leave him, if I hadn’t found his damn gun. We might as well have been a row of dominoes. I carried the gun to my parents’ bedroom. I told my mom what he was doing. I tipped the first domino, then we all started to fall.”

“Your father is to blame!” my aunt said sharply.

“Because he killed your sister?” I retorted just as sharply. “Or because he saddled you with his kid?”

My aunt crossed the tiny space in three strides and slapped me. The sting of the blow shocked me. I stared at her, startled by her fury.

“Don’t you dare talk about yourself that way! Goddammit, Danielle. I have loved you since the day you were born. Just as I loved Jenny, and Natalie and Johnny. I would’ve taken you all in. I would’ve stuffed my silly condo to the ceiling with all of you if I’d been given the option. But Jenny had a plan. And being a good older sister, I listened to her plan and trusted her to manage her own life. That’s what family does. Her failings aren’t my failings, nor are they your failings. Life sucks. Your father was a bastard. Now cry, dammit. Let yourself bawl it all out, Danielle. Then let yourself heal. Your mother would’ve wanted that. And Natalie and Johnny would’ve wanted it, too.”

Then, just as quickly as my aunt had slapped me, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight. I didn’t pull away. I could only surrender to her, my aunt, my mother. Things got so blurred with the passage of time.

“I love you,” my aunt whispered against my cheek. “Dear God, Danielle, you are the best thing that ever happened to me, even when you break my heart.”

“I want them back.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I can’t picture them anymore. I see only you.”

“You don’t have to see them, Danielle. Just feel them in your heart.”

“I can’t,” I protested. “It hurts too much. Twenty-five years later, it aches.”

“Then feel the pain. No one ever said family didn’t hurt.”

But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Instead I was in the bedroom again, handing the gun over to my mother. Trusting the woman with my aunt’s eyes to make everything all right.

“Go to bed, sweetheart,” she’d whispered. “Quick. Before he sees you. I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”

My mother taking the gun. My mother setting it carefully on the nightstand. Where the clock read…

I froze. Caught the scene in my head, forced it to rewind. My mother, placing the gun in front of her digital clock, red numbers glowing 10:23 p.m. Myself, scurrying down the hall toward bed, where I pulled the covers over my head and blocked out the rest.

10:23 p.m. I’d talked to my mother at 10:23 p.m.

But according to the police report, my family didn’t die until after one a.m., at least two and half hours later.

I pulled away from my aunt. “I need to go.”

“Danielle-”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but you’re right. Someday, it will be. I love you, Aunt Helen. Even when I’m a bitch, I know how lucky I am to have you.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, still holding my hands, “we’ll go together.”

“Tomorrow,” I agreed. Now I pulled my hands free and made my way toward the door, frantic to get out of her house.

I hit the driveway, already punching numbers on my cell phone as I ran for my car. All these years later, I didn’t know his number, so I did the sensible thing and dialed the sheriff’s office. Then, the second I got someone on the phone: “I’m looking for Sheriff Wayne. My name is Danielle Burton and I need to speak with him immediately.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Blood. D.D. noticed it first in the common area. It splattered across one table, dotted a nearby wall, then trailed down the carpeted hall.

“Jesus Christ,” D.D. breathed. She’d been wrong. They didn’t have until six p.m. The evildoer had already struck, while she’d been chattering away in Admin. Shit.

“The kids,” Karen exclaimed immediately. “Where are the kids?”

Just then, another rage-filled scream, high and piercing from down the hall: “No, no, no. Get away. I will kill you. I will EAT YOUR EYEBALLS!”

D.D. and Karen bolted toward the sound, making it partly down the hall before drawing up short. A bathroom loomed to the right. The door was open and an older girl with huge dark eyes and lank brown hair stood in front of the sink, holding a pair of scissors and dripping blood. Outside the bathroom, an older MC was positioned with his hands outstretched, as if to block the girl’s escape.

“Don’t fucking touch me! I’ll punch you in the nuts. I’ll rip off your penis!” The shrieks continued farther down the hall. D.D. shook her head in confusion. So far, she heard one extremely pissed-off young boy, and she saw one very bloody young girl. What the hell?

“Come on, Aimee,” the MC was crooning as D.D. and Karen approached. “Time to hand over the scissors. Everything’s all right. Just take a deep breath and put the scissors down. Nothing we can’t handle here, right? You and me, a few of your favorite coloring books-”

“I WILL DRINK YOUR BLOOD!” the distant boy roared.

Aimee held up her left arm and, deliberately, dragged the blade of the scissors down her forearm. A thin line of red bloomed across her skin. She stared at it with rapt fascination. More lines covered both arms, her cheeks, the exposed column of her throat. Her skin looked like a crazy quilt, seamed with stitches of blood.

A violent crash from the end of the hallway. Something heavy and wooden smashing against a wall. “DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME.”

Aimee jerked toward the sound, then promptly sliced open her collarbone.

“Jesus Christ, get the damn scissors,” D.D. commanded. “What are you waiting for?”

Karen, however, placed a quieting hand on her shoulder.

“Ed?” the nurse manager asked softly.

“Aimee didn’t start it,” the MC murmured back. “Not sure what happened. New kid arrived. Greg was escorting him through the unit, when all of a sudden Benny bolted across the common area into a wall. That set off Jimmy, who started tossing chairs, and everything disintegrated from there. I was trying to get Jamal back to his room. Cecille had Jimmy in a bear hug, Greg was trying to get the new kid tucked away. Andrew came out to see what he could do, and Jorge socked him in the eye.”

“NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOO!”

“Jorge?” Karen asked in shock. “Hit Andrew?”

“Solid right hook. Who knew? Fortunately, Lightfoot is, as his name implies, light on his feet. He started working with Jorge. I returned from tending Jamal and, lo and behold, discovered that during the ruckus, our friend Aimee got her hands on a pair of scissors.”

“How? We keep the craft supplies locked up.”

Ed stopped staring at Aimee long enough to give his boss an exasperated stare. “News flash, Karen, we’re not exactly at the top of our game. Unit’s a little funky, and that was before Benny tried to fly through Sheetrock.”

“BITCH BITCH BITCH. I WILL RIP OFF YOUR EARS. I WILL BEAT YOUR BRAINS. MASH THEM UP. BRAIN SMOOTHIE. ADD BANANAS. YUM YUM YUM.”

“Oh no.” D.D. finally figured out who was screaming. Benny. The small, dark-eyed boy who liked mashing fruit and playing with cars and making airplane noises. She could tell by Karen’s resigned expression that the head nurse already knew, had figured it out way before D.D. A day in the life.

Ed returned his attention to Aimee, whose dark eyes glazed over as she ran the open scissors along a vein in her neck.

“Hey, Aimee,” Ed said, voice sharper now, commanding the girl’s attention. “I know your safety plan requests that you not be touched. You want to be talked through these episodes. But we’re nearing the end of talking here. What are the rules of this unit? We treat ourselves and one another with respect. You’re not showing yourself respect. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re ignoring my orders. You have until the count of ten, Aimee. Then I come in after you.”

More crashing. Fresh screams, not Benny’s but another child’s as the agitation spread from room to room. Aimee calmly lifted her left hand and sliced open her palm. She inspected the wound, then added a second.

“Take her out,” D.D. hissed in Karen’s ear, practically dancing on the balls of her feet with the need for action. “I’ll grab her, you grab the scissors. Come on!”

Karen curled her fingers on D.D.’s forearm and didn’t let go. “The cuts are mostly shallow and will heal. Betray a child’s trust, however, and we lose months of hard work…”

“She’s filleting her own skin-”

“Five, six, seven…” Ed intoned.

“No, no, no,” another child wailed down the hall. “Won’t do it! Can’t make me, YOU FUCKING CUNT!”

“Shhh, shhh, shhh…”

“¡Diablo, Diablo, Diablo!”

D.D. didn’t think she could take it. She needed to tackle Aimee and grab the scissors. She needed to dash down the hall and take down crazy Benny. So many places to be, so many things to do. More screaming. Fresh cries. A dark-eyed girl making happy with craft scissors…

“Eight, nine, ten,” Ed completed.

The MC squared his shoulders, took a determined step forward. Aimee raised the scissors. She held them aloft, right above her heart, and in that instant of time, D.D. knew exactly what the girl was going to do.

D.D. started to cry, “Stop!” Started to dash forward. Aimee’s white hand flashed down, bloody scissors slicing through the air-

“I WILL GET YOU ALL. I WILL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU. JUST YOU WAIT JUST YOU WAIT JUST YOU WAIT. I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE-”

Ed grabbed Aimee’s wrist. The burly MC twisted the small girl’s arm behind her back as quickly and effectively as any cop. The girl cried out once. The scissors clattered to the floor. Aimee slumped forward, all fight draining from her body.

“I’ll grab bandages,” Karen said.

While down the hall came a fresh burst of screams.

It took an hour to restore the unit. Children were medicated; soothed with music; bribed with Game Boys; placated with small, quiet spaces; and read endless stories. D.D. paced. Banned from the action, treated as the inexperienced outsiders they were, she and her investigative team prowled the classroom end of the unit, trying to read files, but mostly twitching as various screams, crashes, and thuds echoed across the ward.

D.D. couldn’t sit. Neither could Alex. They roamed the lower hallway, feeling as agitated as the kids.

“Negative energy,” Alex told her, hands deep in his front pockets, restlessly jiggling his loose change.

“Fuck you.”

“Just proved my point.”

“Still fuck you.”

“No inner angel?”

“I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

“Again, score one for the shaman. I haven’t felt a vibe this bad since I visited Souza-Baranowski.” The Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center was Massachusetts’s maximum security prison.

“This is what happens at institutions. One person goes crazy, everyone goes crazy.”

“From shared negative energy,” Alex chirped.

“Seriously, I will strangle you.”

“Or we could find a broom closet and have sex.”

D.D. drew up short. Blinked several times. Was genuinely shocked by how instantaneously she wanted to do exactly that. Rip off Alex’s shirt. Dig her fingers into his shoulders. Ride him like a-

Her expression must’ve given her away, because his eyes darkened. “As much as I’d like to take credit for the look on your face, I think it’s score two for the shaman. In the midst of the negative, we are drawn to the positive. Each action calling for an equal level of reaction.”

“Every act of destruction calling for an equal act of creation?”

“Hell yeah. In a broom closet.”

“Deal.”

Or not. The unit doors opened and Danielle Burton strode into the common area. The nurse spotted the blood and stopped short, just as Andrew Lightfoot appeared in the hall.

D.D. motioned to Alex. They drew back quietly and got ready for the show.

“What happened?” Danielle demanded. “Who’s hurt? How bad?”

“Aimee got her hands on a pair of scissors,” Lightfoot provided, walking toward the dark-haired nurse. He came to a halt just a foot away from Danielle, taking a long drink from his water bottle. He studied her intently. She took a noticeable step back.

“Is Aimee okay?” Danielle asked, refusing to meet Lightfoot’s gaze.

“Well enough,” the healer murmured, dropping his water bottle to his side. “The milieu went acute, each child going off like firecrackers. I’d like to say there were many learning opportunities, but I’m not sure. The energy here… it is all wrong. Toxic. I’ve spent hours trying to cleanse the girl’s room. I can’t make headway. I’m too spent for this deep a taint.”

“You were working in Lucy’s room?” Danielle asked sharply.

“At Karen’s request.”

“You didn’t know her.”

“I’ve met her soul on the interplanes. She said to tell you thank you.”

“Stop.” Danielle walked away, setting her bag down on one of the tables. For the first time, she noticed D.D. and Alex, standing at the classroom end of the hallway. “Don’t you have work to do?” Danielle asked them pointedly.

“Doing it,” D.D. replied. She and Alex remained in place.

“How are you feeling, Danielle?” Lightfoot asked.

“Just fine,” she bit out.

“It’s not polite to lie.”

“It’s not polite to pretend you know me better than I do.”

“If you feel that I’m overstepping, then I apologize. It’s never my intention to cause you discomfort.” Lightfoot positioned himself closer to Danielle, sticking one hand in the pocket of his white linen trousers, the other tapping his water bottle against his leg.

Despite his earlier assertion that his interest in Danielle was purely professional, D.D. decided his gaze looked awfully personal. As if he wanted to step closer to the young nurse, savor the scent of her skin.

Danielle, on the other hand, clearly didn’t return the sentiment. She marched over to a set of cabinets, unlocked them, and started to pull out cleaning supplies. She snapped on plastic gloves, then grabbed a disinfectant spray.

“Clean or bounce,” she informed Lightfoot. “Those are the choices.” She turned to D.D. and Alex. “That goes for you two, as well. This is a working psych ward, not an after-dinner show. Earn your keep, or get lost.”

D.D. looked at Alex. He shrugged his agreement, so they crossed the common area and helped themselves to cleaning supplies. A small price to pay.

Apparently, Andrew thought the same. He got his hands on a roll of paper towels. “Your father needs to talk to you-” he started, his attention back on Danielle.

“Not interested.”

“Hatred is a negative energy, Danielle. Denying him only hurts yourself.”

“Stop it. We’ve already had this conversation. Your mumbo jumbo is your business. I’m not going there. For God’s sake, didn’t you do enough damage with Ozzie?”

Lightfoot frowned. D.D. perked up.

“Ozzie made remarkable progress,” the healer told Danielle. “His entire family was on the path to becoming more centered and loving-”

“His entire family is dead.”

“I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure it wasn’t Ozzie’s fault.”

“You’re sure? How? Ozzie’s soul tell you that on the interplanes?”

Good question, D.D. thought.

“Unfortunately,” Lightfoot said, “while souls enter this plane to experience the corporal world, once they leave they show little interest in the physical realities encountered here. Ozzie’s soul is not fixated on corporal death. Instead, he’s moved on to the next set of desired experiences. Which is how it should be.”

“Really?” Danielle mocked, starting to scrub the nearest table. “So Ozzie, a young boy who was brutally murdered, has already moved on, but my father, twenty-five years later, still wants to chat.”

Lightfoot shrugged. “Your father’s soul has unfinished business. The lesson has not been learned. The experience isn’t completed.”

“And Lucy?”

“I dreamt of her last night,” Lightfoot said. “She was dancing among the moonbeams of my mind. I knew immediately she was someone special, a being of incredible light and love. She told me she loves you. And she asked me to help you. She worries about you, senses the sadness in your heart.”

“Yeah? Did she tell you who killed her, too? Or is that too mundane a topic for your higher mind?”

D.D. looked expectantly at Lightfoot. Another excellent question.

“Death is merely a transition,” Lightfoot started, and across the table from D.D., Danielle rolled her eyes. D.D. found herself liking the nurse more than she should.

Lightfoot remained steadfast. “The unit is acute. You must find your forgiveness, Danielle. You must open your heart to love. Let go of your past. If you don’t, the dark forces will win.”

“And now a message from our sponsor,” Danielle said. “Hello, One-Nine-Hundred Rent A Soul? My boyfriend has a thing for asps, so for next Friday night, can I borrow Cleopatra?”

“I’m not joking,” Andrew said stiffly.

“Neither am I.”

“He has unbelievable power, Danielle.”

“Who?”

“You tell me.”

Lightfoot stared at the nurse. The nurse stared back at him. Slowly but surely, Danielle set down her cleaning supplies.

“You want to help someone, Andrew, pick a room, any room. The kids need you. I don’t.”

“It’s bad and it’s going to get worse.”

“Then go work a little voodoo. In your own words, life is about choice, and I don’t choose you.”

Lightfoot thinned his lips. His eyes flashed darkly. Slowly but surely, he turned and stalked down the hall. Upon reaching Lucy’s room, he glanced over his shoulder one last time at Danielle. Then he disappeared inside.

D.D. released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I take it you don’t care for woo-woo,” D.D. said.

“No, I don’t.” The nurse gathered her cleaning supplies. “Unfortunately, Andrew’s not wrong about everything.” She started scrubbing a bloody wall. “Man, this place is fucked up.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Did you come back just for me?” the sergeant asked a few minutes later. We’d finished cleaning and were now combining smaller tables to form a larger rectangle for the upcoming staff meeting. The other detective, the George Clooney look-alike, had taken over scrubbing the blood out of the carpet. Kept him busy, but also within earshot. D.D. continued, “Because I’d love to speak with you.”

“I’m here for the debriefing,” I said stiffly, fitting in the final table. “Karen said I could attend.”

“Gonna mention the anniversary, Danielle? You remember that twenty-five years ago your father gunned down your family?”

The sergeant was goading me. I understood that, and still had to work not to rise to the bait. I noticed some blood droplets on the far window, picked up the Windex, and got busy again.

For the past twenty-five years, I thought I’d done okay. I’d gotten myself through college. I’d landed a job that I loved, and three hundred and sixty days out of the year, I was pretty solid. I didn’t replay the events of one night over and over again. I didn’t dredge up old photos of my family. I didn’t recall the stink of whiskey on my father’s breath and I didn’t fixate on the weight of a nine-millimeter gun in a child’s hands.

I worked with my kids. And I made it a point not to look back.

Until one goddamn week a year.

I felt inundated with my family these days. Scalded by memories I’d made it a point not to remember. And suddenly flush with new information. My mom had been leaving my dad? She’d found a “good guy”? Maybe my father had slaughtered everyone over her affair, instead of my rebellion?

I didn’t know, and for the first time, I was desperate to speak with someone about my past. I’d tried Sheriff Wayne, wanting to ask exactly what time he’d arrived at the house that night. Could it really have been two and half hours between my conversation with my mom and my father opening fire?

A police receptionist had informed me that Sheriff Wayne had passed away two years ago. Died in his sleep. I couldn’t believe it. Sheriff Wayne was supposed to live forever. He owed it to me.

Now there was only Aunt Helen and myself who remembered my mother’s smile, my sister’s giggle, my brother’s goofy grin. It wasn’t enough. I needed more people. I needed more information.

“Tell us about Lightfoot,” D.D. prodded, behind me. “Is it just me, or is he way into you?”

I stopped wiping windows, turning around enough to meet the detective’s eye. “Andrew and I are not, and never were, an item. We had one date, which he spent grilling me about my father. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t consider discussions of my homicidal parental unit to be a turn-on. That was the beginning and end of our personal relationship right there.”

“He’s solely interested in your father?”

“From what I can tell, I represent some kind of celestial challenge. If Andrew can get me to forgive my father, to open my heart to the light, then, hey, he can convert anyone. Score one for the good guys.”

“But you don’t want to forgive your father.”

“Nope. I’m comfortable hating him. No need for group hugs on the mumbo-jumbo superhighway.”

D.D. arched a brow. “Is that what Lightfoot wants to do? Arrange a ‘meeting’ on the spiritual interplanes?”

“That’s the drift. If you want the details, better ask him, not me. I’m not buying what he’s selling.”

“Did Greg have any better luck?”

That detective’s transition was so smooth, I almost spoke first and thought later. At the last second, I caught myself. “Greg and I are friends.”

“Friends with privileges?”

“Hardly.”

“Friends who go to bars? Friends who bare their souls?”

“Friends who share an occasional pizza. This job wears you out. Not a lot left over for post-work rendezvous.”

“You left with Greg today,” the detective replied evenly. “Looked pretty comfortable doing it, too.”

The statement caught me off guard. But of course the cops were interviewing everyone in the hospital, and it wasn’t like Greg and I crept away in the still of the night. Any number of people could’ve seen us leaving together and reported it.

“Greg walked me out,” I conceded. “He’s thoughtful that way.”

“And drove you home?”

“He drove me to his place.”

“That’s sounding personal again.”

“We talked. He knows this time of year is rough for me.”

“I wouldn’t mind crying on his shoulder,” the sergeant commented.

I couldn’t help myself: “He’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”

“Meee-oww,” the sergeant drawled, clearly amused by my cattiness. “Word on the street is that Greg’s been chasing you for years. He finally get to cross the finish line, Danielle?”

I wouldn’t even dignify that with a response. Mostly because I didn’t want to think of my morning with Greg. I had been rejecting him for years. Only to finally go to his place, and have him reject me.

“Look,” I said impatiently, “I don’t have relationships. I work with kids, and I leave the personal crap alone. End of story.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

D.D. tilted her head, regarding me curiously. “Two families connected to this unit have been murdered, almost exactly twenty-five years after your family was shot to death. And last night, the child you were working most closely with was hanged. You still don’t think that has anything to do with you?”

I felt my heart spike, then the blood drain from my face. “But… My past is over. My family’s gone. Who’s left to hurt me?”

“Good question,” the sergeant mused. “Who’s left to hurt you?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. This couldn’t be about me. I didn’t have the gun this time, I wanted to blurt out. I swear, I didn’t have the gun.

“I need to review a report,” I mumbled, then I bolted from the common area. I couldn’t be in front of the police anymore. I didn’t want them to see the horror on my face. I didn’t want them to misinterpret my regret.

Fifteen minutes later, staff members began to assemble in the common area. It was nearly eleven-thirty, everyone running late. Given earlier events, that was hardly a surprise. The unit still felt wonky. I couldn’t remember a time when we’d had so many acute episodes back-to-back. I couldn’t remember a time when all of us felt as jittery as the kids.

I remained in Admin, watching from the observation window. The cops had finally disappeared. I could join the MCs at the table, but suddenly I felt self-conscious. The sergeant had put thoughts in my head, like maybe this was all my fault, like maybe I was to blame for Lucy’s death.

I was waiting for Greg, I realized. I was waiting for his presence to ground me.

When five more minutes passed without him appearing, I went looking for him.

I wandered down the hall, past children sleeping in various nooks and crannies, past doors of darkened rooms and past doors of hundred-watt brilliance. I didn’t see Greg, but then I heard his unmistakable baritone coming from the last room on the right.

I peered in. Greg was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled in front of him, his attention focused away from me, on a small boy with bright blonde hair who was curled into a ball. Greg was stroking the boy’s head and talking lightly, trying to encourage the boy to uncoil. The boy wasn’t buying it.

The new charge, I guessed. The one who’d stabbed his mother this morning. He was tucked in on himself, trying to block everything out. This couldn’t be happening to him. This strange room, this strange place, these strange people talking at him over and over again.

“Mommy,” the boy whispered. “I want my mommy.”

My heart contracted. First words spoken by so many children over so many years. Even from the kids whose mothers beat the shit out of them.

“I know,” Greg replied steadily.

“Take me home.”

“Can’t do that, buddy.”

“You could stay with me. Like we’ve done before.”

I stilled. Like they’d done before? I eased back, out of sight of the open doorway.

“You get to stay here for a bit, buddy. We’re going to work with you on calming down, on controlling that temper of yours, until you feel stronger, better about yourself. Don’t worry. This is a nice place. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Mommy,” the boy said again.

Greg didn’t reply.

“I hurt her,” the boy murmured. “Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to.”

The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.

“I am a naughty, naughty boy,” the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. “Nobody loves a boy as naughty as me.”

“You called nine-one-one,” Greg told him. “That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do.”

“Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa.” Suddenly, the boy started to cry. “Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I didn’t know!”

The boy’s voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, “Evan, I want you to take a deep breath-”

“I ruined the sofa!”

“Evan-”

“I want to go home, go home, go home. I’ll be a good boy this time. I promise, I’ll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home.”

The boy rolled away from Greg, dashing for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, crashing into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: “Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh…”

Benadryl? I mouthed to Greg over the noise.

He shook his head. “Paradoxical reaction. Grab Ativan.”

I rushed down the hall for the meds as Greg tried again in his firm baritone: “Evan. Listen to me, buddy. Look at me, buddy. Evan…”

By the time I returned, Evan had blood running down his nose from a cut on his forehead and Greg was holding out his cell phone, trying to capture the boy’s attention. “Evan. Evan, look at me. We’ll call your mom. We’ll call her right now. Okay? Just look at me, Evan. Watch me.” Greg punched some numbers into the phone. Evan stopped banging his head long enough to watch, his body shuddering with the effort to stay still. The boy was gone, his blood-rimmed eyes glazed over, his cheeks pale, his hands clenched into rigid fists. Most kids took days to recover from the emotional overload of a psychotic break. Evan, on the other hand, looked ready for round two.

I could feel it again, a wafting chill, like a dark cloud drifting across the sun. I wished I hadn’t come here tonight. Something was wrong. Even more wrong than last night, when we found Lucy’s body, dangling from the ceiling…

A receptionist had picked up at the other end of Greg’s cell phone. “Victoria Oliver,” he requested.

Evan started to dance, blue eyes wild, the blood dripping off the end of his nose, staining his blue-striped shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”

“Take your medicine,” Greg told Evan, just as a woman’s voice sounded in his phone. “Victoria?”

“Hello?”

“Meds, Evan.”

Evan whirled on me, nearly toppling me over. I surrendered the paper cup. He popped the Ativan, dancing again as he eyed Greg’s phone.

“Victoria,” Greg said again, tucking the phone to his ear. “This is Greg. I’m here with Evan. I thought… He needs to hear that you’re all right. And I thought you’d like to know that he’s all right. Everything’s good here.”

I couldn’t catch the reply. Evan was spinning around, a whirling dervish of blonde hair, blue shirt, and red blood.

A rush of frigid air, swirling up my spine, whispering down my arms…

“The pediatric psych ward’s on the eighth floor,” Greg was saying. “Yes, it’s a lockdown unit. Acute care. We’re a good facility, Vic; it’ll be okay.”

Vic? How did Greg know where to call Evan’s mother? Or that she’d take his call? Trying to contact a parent whose child had stabbed her wasn’t the smartest thing in the world. Unless you knew that the parent was open to such a call, and had the mental fortitude to handle it. Unless you knew the parent…

I was cold. Very cold. Shivering uncontrollably.

Greg, on the phone: “Can you… are you game? Just for a second. I don’t think he can take much… No, you need to take care of you. We’ll take care of him. Victoria… Vic… Trust me on this one. Evan needs you healthy. That’s what your son needs.”

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” Evan whined, still twirling.

Greg held out the phone. “One sentence, Evan. Listen to your Mom’s voice. Know she’s all right. Tell her you’re all right. Then we’re done.”

Evan grabbed the phone. He pressed it to his ear. He smiled, one bright second of relief as he connected to his mother. His posture relaxed, he came down off his toes.

Then, before I could move, before Greg could snatch the phone back:

“I will get you next time, bitch,” Evan snarled into the receiver. “Next time I will carve out your FUCKING HEART!”

The boy hurtled the phone to the floor, then flung himself at the wall, banging his head savagely.

“Oh Evan,” Greg said tiredly.

I rushed down the hall to get more Ativan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan.

Evan who?

Evan, the little boy who loves you.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan.

Evan who?

Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Michael, your husband who’s going to marry another.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Chelsea, your daughter who thinks you don’t love her anymore.

Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock.

I lie in my hospital bed, watching the green line on my heart monitor. Sounds echo down the crowded floor. Busy nurses, grumpy patients, chirping machines. I fixate on the stark white paint on the wall nearest me. The mirror-bright silver of the bed’s guardrails. The heavy black phone, weighing down the blanket on my legs. Then I study the monitor again, amazed at how a heart can remain beating long after it’s been broken.

My side hurts. Red blood flecks the white bandage. A deeper burn stings somewhere on the inside. Maybe an infection’s already building. It’ll taint my blood, shut down my vital organs. I’ll die in this room, and never have to go home.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan, the little boy who loves you.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

Knock knock.

Then it comes to me. Fuzzy at first, but with growing certainty. I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to lead this life. I need a new approach, a new attitude. I need to move, even if it kills me, because God knows, I’m already dying on the inside.

I think of summer sand. I remember the first time I held both of my children. And I remember the look on Michael’s face the day he left me.

So many dreams that never came true. So much love I gave away, that never returned to me.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Victoria.

Victoria who?

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question? Victoria who?

I need to get out of here. Then, suddenly, absolutely, I know what I’m going to do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Meditation turned out to be a complicated matter, which must explain why D.D. never did it. There was much settling of oneself into a comfortable position, most of the staff members opting to sit on the floor, the pros in fancy lotus positions, the less converted sprawling casually, their backs against a wall.

Space seemed to matter, people selecting spots where they could be on their own. Even Greg and Danielle, late arrivals to the party, didn’t buddy up. Greg positioned himself partway down the hall, while Danielle sat not far from where D.D. was currently standing.

The young nurse glanced at her. Opened her mouth slightly as if to say something. Then her jaw snapped shut. She closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the middle of the common area, where Lightfoot directed efforts in a low, melodic tone.

The shaman sat on top of a table, a bottle of iced green tea positioned within easy reach, a wrist resting on each knee and his fingers pointing up.

He spoke firmly, with a strong cadence. D.D. still thought he looked tired. Then again, it was after midnight now. She and her crew were equally beat, which made this a fun diversion for the evening.

Karen, the nurse manager, sat closest to the Admin offices. She’d removed her glasses for the occasion. A large bear of a man-Ed, D.D. thought was his name-sat not far from her. The younger MC with the short black hair-Sissy? Cecille?-sat to the left of him. Then came three more MCs and another nurse, Janet. The only person who didn’t participate was Tyrone, who had checks duty: Every five minutes, he recorded the location of each child and staff member. Given the kids and staff were currently quiet, the duty had him standing in the middle of the hallway, across from D.D. She felt like they were bookends-the only two vertical people at a horizontal party.

Gang’s all here, she thought, and was very curious about what would happen next.

“Slowly inhale,” Lightfoot intoned. “Feel yourself drawing the breath deep into your lungs, pulling in the air from your toes, bringing it up your entire body, every cell contracting, every pore of your body inhaling a slow rush of fresh oxygen. Still inhaling, for a long count of one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Now exhale. Push the air out for a shorter count of one, two, three, four, five…”

D.D., leaning against the wall with her arms across her chest, found her breathing pattern falling into Lightfoot’s hypnotic rhythm. She caught herself, forced a short exhale, and felt light-headed.

Alex had gone to fetch pizza. The taskforce members still had a long night ahead of them; given the earlier disruption with the kids, and now the “debriefing,” the detectives hadn’t had a chance to interview the staff yet. Karen had promised to start sending them MCs, one by one, the moment Lightfoot’s session was over. Assuming of course the unit remained under control. Given the fresh rounds of screaming and banging D.D. had heard just ten minutes ago, she wasn’t overly optimistic.

Lightfoot needed to live up to his hype or she didn’t see how the kids or the staff were getting through the night.

Lightfoot was sweating. D.D. could see beads of moisture forming on his upper lip. Despite his instructions for slow and steady breathing, his own chest moved shallowly, and one hand trembled on top of his knee.

The force of his efforts to stave off so much negative energy? To find the light amidst the dark?

Good Lord, now she was starting to sound like him.

“I want you to release your tension,” Lightfoot instructed, his voice strained. Across from him, Karen opened one eye, frowning at the healer.

“Focus on your toes. Feel the tension in the bottom of each foot. The tight little muscles along the arch of your foot, the tendons moving up your heel. The tiny muscles clenching each toe, digging them into the carpet. Now catch that tension. Relax it, push it out. Feel your toes uncurl, your feet relax comfortably against the carpet. Your heels are soft and pliant, each foot relaxed. You can feel the light, your foot warming, a white glow spreading across the bottom of your heel. Focus on it. Feel it expand, climbing to your ankles, your calves, the bend of your knees.”

The white light had a ways to go. Many muscles had to relax. Many body parts needed to glow. Around the room D.D. could see various staff members giving themselves over to the exercise. Even Danielle appeared fresher, the lines in her forehead smoothing out, her slender wrists resting loosely on her knees.

Lightfoot, on the other hand, looked like hell. He was sweating profusely, his pale yellow Armani shirt blossoming with dark stains. He used the small break between glowing muscle groups to take discreet swigs of iced tea. He had the group relaxing their stomachs now, and the iced tea bottle was nearly empty. D.D. didn’t think the healer was going to make it. Did one call for a time-out, a brief intermission, in the midst of meditation? Or did that ruin the moment, like checking your police pager in the middle of sex?

Now, as she watched, he grimaced. Rubbed his chest. Grimaced again. A muscle in his left shoulder did a funny little dance, then relaxed again. Lightfoot took another drink, squeezed his eyes shut, and seemed to settle in.

“Focus on the light,” he intoned. “The warm glow of light, of love. Feel it expand your rib cage, filling your lungs. Then push it up. Push it into the chambers of your heart. Love is in your heart. Love is pulsing through your veins, pushing out the negativity, filling your limbs with a great weightlessness. Light is love. Love is light. You are flooded with it. You feel it beating in your chest. You feel it pulsing beneath your skin. Your arms want to rise on their own. They are alight with love, weightless with joy.”

Sure enough, around the room, several pairs of arms began to rise up. Not Danielle’s, D.D. noticed. And not Karen’s. The nurse manager had abandoned the meditation. She was studying Lightfoot instead.

“Warmth,” he intoned. “Love. Light. Heat. Joy. I release all judgments. I understand I am responsible for all corporal actions and I forgive myself for my sins. I forgive others. I am a being of light. I call upon that light. I call upon the love in this room-” A sudden spasm crossed his face, peeling his lips back from his teeth. Lightfoot caught the grimace, soldiered on. “I seek the love of my friends, companions, coworkers-” His voice broke off again. Both shoulders twitched, his left arm bouncing up from his knee. Then his eyes popped up, and he winced sharply, abandoning all pretense as he brought up a hand to shield his face from the overhead lights.

The break in rhythm caught the attention of others. Danielle opened her eyes. Greg, too. They eyed Lightfoot uncertainly.

Karen was already on her feet, returning her wire-rimmed glasses to her face. “Andrew?” she asked as a fresh spasm shook his body.

D.D. pushed away from the wall, starting to understand that this was no longer business as usual.

Lightfoot raised his head toward the ceiling, shut his eyes, and bore down, as if fighting some kind of internal war.

“I call upon the LIGHT!” he boomed. “I am a being of LOVE. I am filled with JOY and PEACE and CONTENTMENT. I release negativity. I cast off all judgment. I feel the love of my friends and community. Their LOVE gives me the strength to PUSH the darkness from this building. There will be no NEGATIVITY. There will be no anger, no PAIN. We are united in the light, filling this space with LOVE, holding this space with LOVE. I call upon THE LIGHT, THE LIGHT, THE LIGH-”

His rising voice broke off. Both hands gripped his face. The next instant, the healer pitched forward, rolling off the edge of the table and flipping onto the floor, where his body convulsed wildly.

“The light, the light!” he screamed. “It’s burning my eyes, my eyes, my eyes!”

“Code blue!” Karen bellowed, sprinting toward the fallen man. “Call downstairs. We need a crash cart, stat!”

She was already on her knees beside Lightfoot, trying to secure his head in her hands as his body flailed and he beat at her with his hands.

“Bite stick!” Karen demanded, working to peel open one eyelid, check his vitals.

“Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch. It burns…”

The staff sprang belatedly into action. The nurses, Danielle and Janet, made a beeline for medical supplies. Greg grabbed a phone, while the other MCs pushed back tables, cleared the area. Lightfoot’s neck and back arched, muscles coiling and uncoiling rigidly beneath the tan sheath of his skin. Karen finally got his eyelid open. His eye was not rolled back up in his head, as D.D. had expected. Instead, he peered directly at Karen, quite conscious.

“The light,” he moaned. She released his eyelid. He moaned again, this time in relief.

Danielle and Janet were back with supplies. Karen took a Popsicle stick and jammed it into Lightfoot’s mouth. He immediately tried to spit it out. “Don’t touch me!”

“Towel,” Karen ordered, rolling him onto his side. “Quick, over his eyes. Cecille, kill the overhead lights. We can work by the glow of the hallway bulbs.”

Cecille obeyed, darkening the common area as Ed raced down the hallway to grab a towel. The second the overhead lights winked out, Lightfoot seemed to relax.

“Hurts. Can’t stop,” he muttered. “Inside me. Feel it. Cold, cold, cold. Bitter… burns. Must fight. White light, white light, white light. Tired. So tired… Must find… the light.”

Ed returned with a stack of towels. They folded one and placed it over the top part of Lightfoot’s face, shielding his eyes, D.D. took a second towel and, with effort, managed to pry Lightfoot’s fingers from Karen’s wrist and wrest his hand onto a rolled towel.

“Talk to me, Andrew,” Karen demanded loudly. “Stay with us. Where do you feel the pain?”

“Legs… arms… back… body… muscles, hurt, hurt, hurt.” His body thrashed against the floor. “Too loud. Too bright. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop…”

“The light hurts you?” Karen prodded.

“Burns… my eyes.”

“And noise?” D.D. spoke up.

“Ahhhhahhh,” he moaned, bringing up one hand to block his ears.

The doors burst open. Two medics bustled into the area, led by the security guard. They took one look at Lightfoot’s convulsing form and sprinted over to him.

“Condition?” the first man asked Karen.

“Started three minutes ago. Convulsions, light sensitivity, noise sensitivity,” Karen reported. “But conscious. Aware of his condition.”

“Pulse?”

“Two ten.”

The medic arched a brow. D.D. didn’t blame him. With that pulse rate, Lightfoot should be racing up Mount Everest.

“History of seizures?” the medic asked, trying to check vitals.

“Unknown,” Karen answered, just as Lightfoot said, “No. Not seizures. Spasms. Muscle… spasms…”

The medic glanced at Lightfoot’s towel-draped face, then back at Karen. She shrugged.

“The dark…” Lightfoot groaned. “I’m filled with the dark. So, so cold… it burns…”

“Hallucinating,” the medic muttered. He straightened, nodded to his partner. They grabbed a backboard and looked ready to get to work.

“Wait a minute,” D.D. called out. A case she’d read once. Lightfoot’s uncanny consciousness, even during what appeared to be a grand mal seizure. She strode over to Lightfoot’s table and sniffed his bottle of iced tea. Nothing. She touched her fingertip to the top edge, where a drop of moisture rested. She brought it cautiously to her mouth and, with a bolstering grimace, stuck out her tongue. It tasted…

Teaish. Grassy. Lemony. Then, beneath it all, a slightly bitter aftertaste.

“You need to get this tested immediately,” she informed the medic. “But I’m guessing strychnine.”

“Rat poison?” Greg spoke up from the hallway.

“In his drink?” Karen echoed, frowning. The staff looked at one another, then down at Lightfoot’s churning body.

“Symptoms fit.” She looked at the medic. “Hypersensitivity, muscle spasms, initial consciousness…”

“Yeah.” The medic nodded. “Now that you mention it… Well, we gotta motor, then, ’cause next on that list is respiratory failure. Come on, buddy. Hang in there with us. If you’re ever going to get poisoned, a hospital is the place to do it.”

With help from the MCs, they got Lightfoot’s body onto the gurney. Then they raced out of the unit for the elevator banks.

The elevator arrived with a ding. The doors opened, and Alex strode out, bearing a steaming tower of boxed pizzas. He looked at the medics, Lightfoot’s strapped-down body, and the shell-shocked staff, all staring at him.

“What happened to the healer?” he asked.

“That,” D.D. replied, “is an excellent question.”

Karen and her crew might be crack medics, but there was still a reason they paid D.D. the big bucks.

“Where did Lightfoot get the tea?” she demanded, the second the medics disappeared into the elevator.

“I don’t know. I think… I assume he brought it with him.” Karen looked at her staff. They milled about the half-lit common area, kicking at towels, staring at hastily rearranged furniture. Several were rubbing their arms, as if fighting a chill.

“Sure there’s no iced tea in the kitchenette?”

“No. We don’t stock it here.”

“Downstairs cafeteria?”

Karen shook her head uncertainly. Danielle piped up, “Andrew’s tea, the Koala brand, is one of those all-natural, all-organic, keep-the-planet-green products. I don’t think you can buy it around here.”

“Thank heavens for small favors,” D.D. muttered, as shutting down a hospital cafeteria and calling poison control was not high on her list of things she wanted to do right now. “Lightfoot arrive with any stuff, maybe a lunchbox, briefcase?” D.D. had a fleeting image of a brown leather strap over Lightfoot’s shoulder when she and Alex had first spotted him by the elevators. “Maybe a manbag,” she mused. “I want it.”

Karen dutifully led D.D. into the Admin area, where Lightfoot had stowed a brown leather satchel. D.D. flipped it open to find a container of Greek yogurt and a bag of sunflower seeds. She took the food for testing, then returned to the common area, where she could see the staff eyeing one another nervously for imminent medical collapse.

“Anyone else have iced tea?” D.D. asked.

One by one, they shook their heads.

“Who’s eaten here tonight?”

Four staff members slowly raised their arms. D.D. noted that Greg and Danielle were not among them.

“What time?”

The MCs had started at seven p.m., taking a snack break between nine and nine-thirty.

“Good news,” D.D. informed them. “Strychnine is one of the fastest-acting poisons, with symptoms emerging within five minutes of ingestion, so if you’re vertical now, you’re probably going to be vertical later. Timeline fits what we saw tonight: Lightfoot opened his drink, took a few sips, started the meditation, drank a bit more, and I’d say about eight minutes into it…”

“Collapsed in full convulsion,” Karen filled in, her voice subdued. Everyone stared at the table that Lightfoot had been sitting on.

“Strychnine is odorless,” D.D. informed the anxious staff members, “but has a bitter taste. So if you run across anything that tastes funky, set it aside immediately. I’ll phone the lab, have them send someone over to test the water, as well as everything in the kitchen, but that’ll take some time. When are the kids due to eat again?”

“Not until breakfast,” Karen supplied, “though some of the kids need a middle-of-the-night snack.”

D.D. thought about it. “Stick to food or drink items that come from sealed packages. Snack-sized cereals, that sort of thing. As long as the seal hasn’t been broken, they should be okay. Make sense?”

Everyone nodded mutely.

“All right. Who saw Lightfoot with the iced tea?”

The one with the short-cropped hair raised her arm. Cecille. “Um, I was one of the first people to take a seat. Andrew wasn’t here yet, but the iced tea was already on the table, like he’d maybe just opened it, then went to get something. Or maybe he went to throw away the cap.”

“The cap!” D.D. agreed. She marched over to the trash can. Right on top, one white lid stamped Koala Iced Tea. D.D. snapped on gloves and fished it out. Metal, for sealing a glass bottle. Not the kind of container that could be easily tampered with-say, penetrated by a syringe. Nope. Cap came off. Poison went in.

Now, possibly, the product had been poisoned at the warehouse level, part of a massive terrorist act. Or possibly, Lightfoot’s barky little dog had plotted revenge and spiked her master’s tea on the home front.

But D.D. was willing to bet Lightfoot’s distinctive beverage took the hit while sitting exposed in the common area.

“How long was Lightfoot gone?” she asked Cecille.

The MC shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not long. A few minutes. Five minutes maybe. People were starting to gather. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

D.D. looked around the room. One by one, everyone dropped their gazes.

“I was with a kid,” Greg volunteered softly. He glanced at Danielle. “She was with me. We came late.”

Establishing alibis. D.D. liked it. And they thought the milieu of the unit had been compromised before.

“I don’t understand,” Karen spoke up. “Why would someone poison Andrew? I mean, this whole thing… This is crazy.”

“Good question.” D.D. considered it. “Maybe because you brought him here to fix the unit. Calm it down. Following that logic, maybe someone doesn’t want the unit calmed down. That person wants you all jumpy and edgy and chasing after exploding kids. Lightfoot’s poisoned. You’re all freaked-out as hell. Mission accomplished.”

Karen gaped at her. “That’s insane.”

“Twelve dead and one injured. All connected with this ward. You’re right-can’t get much more insane than that.”

“Stop it! We are not those kind of people-”

“What kind of people?” D.D. asked with interest.

“Murderers. Dr. Deaths or Angels of Doom.”

“Medical caretakers who convince themselves that their patients-i.e., their troubled young charges-would be better off dead?” D.D. volunteered helpfully.

Karen glared at her. “Myself, my staff, we are committed to healing children. Not hurting them.”

“People change.”

“No!” Karen blazed. “You don’t get it. This is a pediatric psych ward. We work as tightly together as any trauma team. And we succeed precisely because we know one another that well, we believe in one another that much. I’d trust anyone here to hand me a drink right now and I would down it without hesitation.”

D.D. waited to see if anyone would take Karen up on that offer. No one moved.

“Maybe that just proves you’re the guilty party,” D.D. said.

“I was the first to help him.”

“Maybe because you already knew something bad was going to happen.”

“How dare you! I’m a nurse-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” D.D. interrupted. “So you’ve said. Fact remains, someone drugged Lightfoot’s iced tea, and I’m guessing that someone is standing right here, unless you believe the unit’s negative energy suddenly grew a pair of hands.”

No one said a word, which D.D. took as a sign of agreement. She continued briskly: “Now, seems to me, problems here are growing bigger, not smaller. Meaning, it’s time for my team to take a crack at your team, and meaning no one’s allowed off this floor until personally cleared by a member of my squad. No trips to the cafeteria. No five-minute break to catch a smoke. Are we clear? Let’s get this party started. And candidate number one will be…” D.D. glanced around the common area, spotting her target of choice: “Gym Coach, follow me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Greg didn’t look happy. The big guy trailed down the hallway toward the BPD’s makeshift command center, his gaze glued to the carpet, his high-top sneakers dragging. It made D.D. feel warm and fuzzy all over. Always nice to know she wasn’t losing her touch.

Inside the classroom, Alex had set up the pizzas across one table. The scent of melted cheese, fresh-baked dough, and spicy pepperoni made D.D.’s stomach growl. There was probably something ironic about stuffing one’s face right after watching a grown man get poisoned, but D.D. was starving. Alex and several of the other guys had already dug in, munching away. They looked up with interest as D.D. closed the door behind her and Greg then headed straight for the pizza. She found the fully loaded pie and slid two cheesy slices onto a paper plate.

“Want some?” she asked Greg.

He shook his head.

“Soda, water, iced tea?”

He gave her a look. “No. Thank you.”

“I bet the food’s safer in here than out there,” she told him.

“I’m with Karen on this one,” he answered stiffly.

“Loyal to the Corps?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“’Course not. Cops. Hell, what could we possibly know about the importance of teamwork?”

The classroom door opened. Danielle walked in.

“Not your turn, chickadee,” D.D. informed her, through a mouthful of pizza. “Go back and play with your other friends.”

“Can’t,” Danielle said. “I’m on leave, right? Can’t stay out there, so Karen sent me in here.”

“Wanna talk? Fine. Alex will take you next door. Alex.” D.D. gestured to him, just as Danielle said:

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

D.D. frowned, set down her paper plate, and strode over to Danielle. She stood right in the nurse’s face. Heightwise, D.D. had only an inch on the woman, but she knew how to use it. “This is a private party. Out.”

“No.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

The nurse shifted edgily. “You. Him.” Danielle jerked her head toward Greg. “The whole fucking unit. You think you need answers? I need them even more. Meaning Greg has got to start talking.”

D.D. snapped around to glare at Greg. “Do you know what she means?”

He shook his head.

“Yes you do,” Danielle said, eyes still on D.D. “I heard you with the boy. You know Evan. From off the unit. How can that be, Greg? How do you know him, and why didn’t you tell us?”

“Danielle-”

“For God’s sake!” Danielle exploded. “Two families are dead, Greg. And Lucy. Plus, now Lightfoot’s hospitalized. How many more, Greg? Something’s terribly wrong. Someone’s hurting our kids. You need to start talking. How do you know Evan?”

D.D. stuck her hands on her hips. “Might as well confess now, buddy boy. Because none of us are letting you out of this room until you do.”

Greg remained standing there, lips thinned, face unreadable. He stared at Danielle. She stared back at him.

“I knew the families,” Greg said abruptly. “All of them. Outside of the unit. I’m the missing link.”

“I started respite work couple of years ago,” Greg was saying five minutes later. He was seated at the table, Danielle next to him, D.D. and Alex across from him. Despite his earlier refusal, he and Danielle were now both armed with cans of soda, which they had opened themselves and tasted carefully.

“At first, I worked for just one family. I’d met them here; their four-year-old daughter suffered from schizophrenia. They were talking about how hard it was to get a break, to have a date night, go for a walk, buy groceries. Neither of their families were equipped to handle Maria, and there was a waiting list for trained help. I felt bad, especially for the mom. You could tell she was losing it. So I offered to watch Maria while the parents had a night out.

“I didn’t accept money.” He said this more to Danielle than to D.D. and Alex. “I did it as a favor. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Danielle nodded, tensely, her expression still guarded.

“But then they called me up again. They could use more help and they were willing to pay. Thirty bucks an hour. That’s more than I make here.”

“Thirty bucks an hour?” D.D. repeated.

“There’s a shortage of respite workers,” Danielle said, looking at D.D. and not Greg. “Not enough training available, not enough people suited for the work. Given that families with special-needs children can’t exactly hire the teenager down the street, the families end up held hostage. They have the highest burn job on the planet and can never take a day off. Meaning the ones who have means…”

“Pay well,” D.D. filled in.

“Very well,” Greg supplied, a tad self-conscious this time. “And they network with other families with special-needs kids, and once the word gets around…”

“You got a pretty good gig moonlighting as a respite worker.” D.D. frowned at him. “Why the secrecy, though?”

“It’s considered a breach of protocol. Like a conflict of interest. I’m already being paid to help with kids here. To set up a side deal with the parents…”

“Double-dipping?” D.D. asked.

“More like… I think in the past, there were situations where an individual MC might have seemed aggressive about it. Like he or she was preying on overwhelmed parents to get work. That led to some rules.”

“You’re not supposed to work with the families outside of the unit,” D.D. translated.

“Exactly.”

“But you have been. For years.”

Greg flushed, looked down. “I swear, I’ve never solicited the work. They call me, not the other way around. I wouldn’t prey. I wouldn’t do that.”

“So why are you breaking the rules?” D.D. asked. “You claim you’re a good guy, but clearly you’re not coloring within the lines.”

“Money,” he said softly, not looking at Danielle. “I need the money.”

“Need the money? Or want the money?” D.D. pressed.

“Need.”

“Why?”

“My sister.”

“Feel free to extrapolate.”

“She’s institutionalized. Will be for life. And the hospital the state’s willing to pay for is more like a prison than a mental health facility. She’s my sister. I couldn’t leave her there.”

“So you found her a new place?”

“Private institution. But that means more money. State pays some. I make up the difference. To the tune of twenty grand a year.”

“Twenty grand?” D.D. asked incredulously.

“Matter of economics. Supply versus demand. When it comes to mental health, we don’t have enough supply, and every year, we have more demand. Ask Karen about it sometime. We used to see a handful of genuinely psychotic children a year. Now we make those same numbers within a month. We don’t know what the hell to do with these kids; how are the parents supposed to know?”

“What about your parents?” D.D. asked. “Can’t they help with your sister?”

“No.”

“Again, feel free to extrapolate.”

But Gym Coach Greg suffered from a sudden attack of muteness. He stared at the table, fidgeted with the beveled edge.

“Hey, Danielle,” D.D. said after another minute. “Take a hike.”

“No,” Greg spoke up. “She stays.”

“Then you talk.”

He sighed, seemed to be debating something inside himself. “My parents are dead,” he said abruptly.

“When?”

“Eighteen years ago.”

D.D. did the math in her head. “You’d be, what? Twelve?”

“Fourteen.”

“Okay. Parents die. It’s fourteen-year-old you and your, what… mentally ill older/younger sister?”

“Older. Sixteen.”

“She take care of you?”

“Couldn’t.”

“Because she was mentally ill.”

“No.” He looked up, sighed again, seemed to finally reach some kind of decision. “Because she was under arrest for my parents’ murder. She’d poisoned them. With strychnine.”

“Look, I don’t know all the details,” Greg told them. “I was a kid and my sister… I don’t know. I’ve heard a lot of different stories over the years. At her trial, her attorney argued self-defense. That my father had abused her, and my mother didn’t intervene, so Sally killed them to escape. Then she suffered a breakdown. The experts diagnosed her with severe depression, as well as borderline personality disorder. My sister’s attorney argued the borderline personality was a result of the abuse; it all got very complicated. Eventually, the state agreed to waive the charges as long as my sister was institutionalized. My grandparents were serving as our guardians at the time. They made my sister take the deal and that was that. My sister went bye-bye, and we all pretended it never happened.”

“Where was this?” D.D. asked, making notes.

“Pittsburg.”

“How’d your sister get the strychnine?”

“Don’t know.”

“How’d she administer it?”

“Don’t know. I was at a Boy Scout camping weekend when it all went down.”

D.D. eyed him skeptically. “I want dates, place, and at least two corroborating witnesses.”

Greg rattled off dates, place, and the name of two former Boy Scout leaders. The guy had apparently been asked to supply that information a couple of times before.

“You believe your father was abusing your sister?”

“I never saw any signs of abuse.”

“So maybe your sister simply wanted to off your parents?”

“I never saw any signs of violence.”

“Well, which is it, Greg? A or B? Your whole family history comes down to two choices, an abusive father or a homicidal sister. You can’t tell us you’ve never considered the matter.”

“Consider it all the time,” he said matter-of-factly. “Still don’t have an answer. Welcome to mental illness.”

“But you’re breaking your back-not to mention a few rules-to fund better housing for your sister. That’s gotta mean something.”

Greg fell silent. When he spoke again, he didn’t look at D.D., but at Danielle. “There are answers about my family I’ll never have. But maybe it doesn’t matter. My sister either killed my father because he was doing something terrible, or because she was suffering from something terrible. Either way, not her fault. Either way, she’s the only family I have left.”

Danielle didn’t say anything. Her expression remained shuttered, her body language tight. Apparently, the nurse wasn’t the forgiving type.

“Your grandparents?” D.D. asked Greg.

“Died several years back. The murders, the trial, my sister’s hospitalization… it took a lot out of them. They never recovered.”

“So you’re on your own and working here. Then you decide to upgrade your sister’s hospital, which means you need more money. A lot more money. Good news, the world is filled with desperate parents overwhelmed by their psycho kids, so revenue opportunities abound. You take the first respite job, then what?”

“They referred me to another family, then another. And sometimes, on the unit, maybe it would come up in conversation.”

“So maybe,” D.D. filled in for him, “you did prey on vulnerable parents.”

“No.” Greg said it firmly. “They might ask. It’s a natural segue. Here I am, qualified to assist with their kid, and there they are, needing assistance. They ask, I answer.”

“They ask,” Danielle confirmed quietly. “I’ve even heard parents pester Karen to make staff available to babysit. Parents are desperate for options.”

“How did it start with the Harringtons?” D.D. asked.

“I knew them from the unit. Ozzie was a very active kid and, you know”-Greg shrugged-“I don’t have a problem with that. We can wrestle and chase and I can keep a handle on things. That’s my job. And Denise and Patrick Harrington wanted that. So we arranged that one morning each week-it depended on my schedule here-I’d come over and take Ozzie to play. We’d go to the park, maybe bike. Something physical. They’d get time to themselves, Ozzie could blow off steam. It worked for everyone.”

“When did it start, when did it end?”

Greg had to think about it. “September last year. Couldn’t give you an exact date. Soon after they discharged Ozzie. It lasted nine months, then Patrick lost his job, and respite wasn’t an option anymore.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“They fired you,” D.D. stated impatiently. “What’d you do?”

“Fired me? They ran out of money. Not their fault. Frankly, I felt bad for them. Life was already tough. But they were good people. And Ozzie was doing a lot better by then. I figured they’d be okay.”

“What do you mean, ‘Ozzie was doing a lot better’?”

“You know, with Andrew.”

D.D. cocked her head to the side. Studied Danielle and Greg. “That’s right. The Harringtons were using services from both Gym Boy and Healer Boy. Any other additional services?” She stared at Danielle.

Danielle shook her head. “I’m a nurse. Even to babysit, you couldn’t afford me.”

Greg, however, had turned a deep, dark shade of red.

D.D. leaned forward, regarded him steadily. “Come on, spit it out. Confession’s good for the soul.”

“There, um, there might be a reason the Harringtons used both me and Andrew.”

“Really? Do tell.”

Danielle was staring at him, too, the expression on her face wide-eyed, the person standing on the tracks seeing the train coming.

“Andrew found out about my respite work. Coincidentally, a family who hired me also hired him. He put the pieces together.”

D.D. arched a brow. So Lightfoot had something on the good-looking MC. So much for Karen’s little spiel about knowing everything about her staff.

“So, um…” Greg closed his eyes, blew out a breath. “Andrew suggested that when I worked with a family, particularly a wealthy family, I could recommend his services. If the family ended up hiring him, he’d then throw a little something my way. Like a finder’s fee.”

“Cash, you mean. More money.”

“Generally fifty bucks.”

“My, my, my,” D.D. mused. She turned to Alex. “And here Lightfoot told us he was giving his gift away.”

“Oh sure,” Greg said sarcastically. “To the tune of a hundred an hour.”

“Anyone else in on this?” D.D. asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Other MCs moonlighting as respite workers? Other therapists asking you to refer their services?”

“None that I know of. But again, not exactly something anyone can talk about on the floor. Maybe other staff members work outside the unit. Maybe not. You’d have to ask them.”

Alex spoke up. “Wait a minute. First the Harringtons are paying you thirty an hour to take Ozzie to the park. Then they’re paying Lightfoot a hundred an hour for counseling. They didn’t have that kind of money.”

“They’d submit the bills to the state, which generally covers a couple of hours of respite care a month. So the state paid for half my time, with the Harringtons making up the difference. As for Andrew, I don’t know, but I’m betting they put it under ‘psychiatric services.’ I saw paperwork once, on the kitchen table. It didn’t look like an invoice from a spiritual healer, but more like a clinical doctor. Andrew had initials after his name and everything. I’m guessing that was his way of finessing the system for people like the Harringtons.”

“People like the Harringtons maybe,” Alex said, still not sounding convinced, “but what about Tika’s family? No way they could afford even a fraction of your bill.”

“No, they couldn’t,” Greg agreed. “And they didn’t. I saw Tika four times. Same deal. Established a rapport with her here, got to feel like she was making progress. When she was discharged, the dad asked if I could stop by from time to time. The mother was about to have a baby, she could use the break, yada yada yada.

“So I stopped by. First time I entered the house, I about lost my lunch. The dad was passed out on the couch, obviously stoned, the mom’s ankles were so swollen from the pregnancy, she couldn’t get out of bed. I propped up her feet, got her some water, then I took all the kids to the park. Kept them for four hours. When I returned, the father seemed to have gotten himself together. He thanked me profusely and offered me a baggie for my troubles.”

“He paid you in drugs?” Danielle asked sharply.

Greg shot her a look. “I turned him down.”

“Oh, well, so you do have standards after all.”

He flushed, squared his jaw, then returned his attention to the cops. “I turned down the drugs,” he repeated stiffly. “What’s-his-name said he’d pay me next week. I almost refused, but then Tika ran over and gave me this great big hug, and… I don’t know. That house. I knew I was screwed, but sometimes… It’s tough to walk away.”

“So what’d you do?” D.D. pressed.

“Played sucker three more weeks. Showed up, took all the kids to the park, never got a dime. And just so you know, it’s not all about the money. If I thought I could’ve helped Tika-hell, I would’ve continued. But man, that family… Her stepfather… They’re the kind of people you learn quickly to avoid. They’re not interested in getting better. They want you to take care of them. They want you to do all the heavy lifting. Meaning nothing you do is ever gonna be enough, and nothing you do is ever gonna make a difference. You have to walk away, or they’ll bleed you dry. Plain and simple.”

“And Lightfoot? You recommend the family to him?”

“I recommended he stay clear,” Greg answered dryly.

“And did he?”

Greg hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He seemed… interested in them. I mean, the parents were a mess, but the kids… Ishy, the oldest, clearly had some kind of autism, but he was a sweet, sweet boy. Then there was Rochelle, who was positively brilliant. And Tika… Tika was… complicated. Very sensitive, almost intuitive. Andrew seemed fascinated by all of them, but Tika in particular. Four old souls, he told me one day. Four old souls stuck in a corporal abyss.”

“Four?” Alex asked.

“The baby,” Greg supplied. “Apparently, Andrew had already met it on the spiritual superhighway.”

“Really?” D.D. said.

“Sure. He even knew it was going to be a girl. Don’t know, man, but sometimes… Andrew knew stuff. And sometimes he did work for free; he could afford to. So if he wanted to deal with Tika’s family…” Greg shrugged.

“Did he?” D.D. pressed.

“Don’t know. It’s not like we hang out.”

D.D. exchanged a glance with Alex. She could tell what he was thinking. Lightfoot had lied to them about not knowing Tika Solis. He’d also failed to mention that he was engaged in some manner of health-care fraud, billing the state for professional services he wasn’t qualified to render. Made D.D. wonder what other secrets the healer had been keeping.

D.D. turned back to Greg. “Jealous? I mean, here you are, tragic past, mentally ill sister, having to work so hard to scrape by. And there’s Lightfoot. He’s got the looks, the life, the house on the beach. How are you ever gonna compete with a guy like him?”

“Compete?” Greg asked.

“Sure. He tosses you fifty bucks to send him some work, but we all know he’d give you even more if you’d hand over your girlfriend.”

“Excuse me?” Danielle this time.

“Please. The way Lightfoot looks at you,” D.D. drawled. “Like you’re a dessert he wants to gobble up.”

“He only cares about my family history-”

“No he doesn’t.” Greg this time, voice curt.

Danielle turned to him. “What the hell?”

“He wants you. Always has. Anyone can tell by watching him watch you. What I don’t understand is why you don’t want him.”

“Because he’s an asshole?” Danielle offered.

“An asshole with money.”

“You do have issues,” she informed him, eyes blazing.

“Don’t we all.”

“Look, I had one dinner with Andrew, that was enough. Like I’m some commodity for guys to buy and sell.”

“You never had dinner with me,” Greg retorted. “How many times have I asked? One dozen? Two? Three? In your own words, you gave more consideration to the ‘asshole’ than you did to me.”

Danielle flushed. She slunk down in her chair, looked away. “Well, I honestly like you,” she muttered. “That makes a difference.”

“Assholes get dinner. Likable guys get squat.”

“As you said, we’ve all got issues.”

“Well, now I’m an asshole who milks desperate parents for money. Does that mean I can buy you dinner?”

“Excuse me,” D.D. interjected. “Hate to intrude, but forget dinner: Next place Gym Coach here is heading is jail. You knew all the families. You had opportunity to hang Lucy and poison Lightfoot. You’re also obviously familiar with the more deadly uses of strychnine, plus have a history with family annihilations-”

“Technically, no.” Greg interrupted. “I have a family history of patricide. My sister killed my parents. That’s not family annihilation.”

“He’s correct,” Alex spoke up.

D.D. glared at him.

“And I have an alibi,” Greg continued. “Thursday night, the Harringtons, right? I was working, watching Evan Oliver, the boy who was brought in this afternoon.”

“Wait a minute.” Alex leaned forward. “The boy who was admitted today. That’s the one who stabbed his mother, right?”

“Evan Oliver, yes. I work for his mom once a week.”

“You met the family outside the unit?”

Greg nodded.

“What about Lightfoot? Did he work with the boy, too?”

“I might have referred him. He might have paid me fifty bucks.”

Alex leaned back. Looked at D.D. Looked at Greg. “Experienced with firearms, Greg?”

“Hardly.”

“What about Tasers?”

“What? Come on, look at me: I don’t have to resort to toys.”

“Not even a pillow, maybe to suffocate a baby?”

“What?” Greg appeared horrified.

D.D. turned back to Alex. “You think?” she asked.

“I’d like to ask Healer Boy a few questions,” Alex agreed. “Including why he lied about not knowing the Laraquette-Solis family, when he decided to start billing for his ‘gift,’ and what kind of alibi might he have for Thursday or Friday night.”

“Then it’s a good thing we know where he’s at.” D.D. pushed back her chair. Alex followed suit. “You two,” she addressed Danielle and Greg, “stay put. If you’re lucky, when I return I’ll decide not to arrest you. But I make no promises.”

She smiled at them wolfishly. Then she and Alex were on the hunt again.