Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(14)

“So would it be strange to kill a woman's husband and have her thank you for it?”

Elizabeth paused. “That reaction would be less common,” she said slowly.

“That's what I thought.”

“But that doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“It's gotta mean something, Doc, or she wouldn't have said it.”

“Bobby, did you talk to Catherine Gagnon? Did you know Jimmy's wife?”

“Nah, Doc. I can honestly tell you, we've never exchanged a word.”

Bobby was already out in the reception area, donning his heavy wool jacket and rewrapping his scarf. Elizabeth trailed behind him, her radar working full power but unable to penetrate his screen.

“See you Monday at three. Gee, it feels good to have an appointment.” Bobby rolled his eyes, gave her a little salute, headed for the door. Moments later, she watched him walk down Boylston Street, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands buried deep into the front of his jacket.

Dr. Elizabeth Lane stood at the window long after his figure had passed from sight. Finally, she sighed.

She hated what she had to do next.

Elizabeth picked up the phone.

“Hello.” A few moments passed. “So sorry. My condolences. I realize this is very awkward.” And then, “Again, I'm very sorry for the timing, sir, but we need to talk.”





T URNING INTO SOUTH Boston, Bobby tried to figure out what he should do next. The doctor was right; he was tired, hungry, stressed out. He should call it a night, hole up at home and get some rest. He lived on the first floor of a three-family row house—rented out the top two floors for a little income, really little actually, since one of the tenants, Mrs. Higgins, had come with the house. The previous owner had been charging her one hundred and five dollars a month for the past twenty years, and Bobby hadn't the heart to change terms on her. People were like that in Southie. They took care of one another, and even if he was still an outsider, one of the new bloods buying into the old neighborhood, he felt he should live up to the spirit of the place. So he kept Mrs. Higgins and her three cats at a hundred and five a month, and in return, she baked him chocolate chip cookies and told him stories of her grandkids.

Mrs. Higgins was going to be disappointed with him now. She'd liked Susan, approved the way everyone else in Bobby's life approved. Susan was sweet, Susan was kind. Susan was grade-A wife material all the way.

And it was over. Bobby had lied to the counselor earlier, maybe because the knowledge still stung. As of five hours ago, he and Susan were through. It had been a fantasy, and now it was done.

He'd bolted awake shortly after one this afternoon, shaky and disoriented from the sound of traffic pouring through a sun-bright room. Ohmygod, he'd overslept his alarm. He was at the wrong house, he didn't have his uniform, oh shit, he was really in for it now—

And then it came back to him. The night, the shooting, the spray of a man's brains across a distant room. He lay in Susan's bed, feeling his heart pound, and for a moment, he was afraid he was having a heart attack. He couldn't breathe, and his arm was tingling, shooting pains going straight to his chest, which continued to heave and gasp.

Then it came to him. Susan's blonde head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. The length of her bare body, pressed against his. Her left leg, crooked over his hip. Her sheets, smelling of lavender and sex.

He'd eased his arm out from beneath her, and she'd stirred, rolling over, sighing deeply, then drifting back to sleep. He'd watched her a moment longer, feeling an emotion he couldn't name. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to inhale the fragrance of her skin. He wanted to curl up against her and cling to her like a child.

And he'd thought, almost wildly, that maybe if he never got up, the day would never happen. He could stay here, she could stay here, and he'd never have to tell and she'd never have to know. His world could remain warm naked skin, tousled blonde hair, and lavender-scented sheets.

He'd never have to face what he had done. He'd never have to be the man who pulled the trigger. God, life was full of shit.

Bobby got out of bed. He made it to the bathroom, where he realized he hadn't had a chance to urinate since eight last night, and pissed for what felt like forever. Then he got dressed, found the lower drawer where he kept his extra things, and as quietly as he could, emptied the contents into his rucksack.

He paused at the doorway of the bedroom. He took in the flush of Susan's cheeks, the rumpled curls of her golden hair. And Bobby felt an ache that went on and on and on.

Bobby rarely thought of his mother anymore, but when he did, it was almost always during moments like this one. When he wanted something he knew he couldn't have. When he felt a little unhinged, a little undone, a permanent outsider, always looking in.

He remembered the way the woman had held her child last night, the little boy's head tucked against her chest, her hands tight over his ears. And he found himself wondering, in a dark, foreboding sort of way, if his mother had ever done the same.

Two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, when he should've been cruising I-93 for speeders or drunks or motorists in need of assistance, when he should've been going through the paces the way he'd been going through the paces for years, Bobby stood in the doorway of his girlfriend's bedroom and felt something inside him tear. A sharp, hard ache. A genuine physical pain.