Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(34)

She couldn't say anything. Tears glistened in her father's eyes.

“You were so pretty,” he whispered. “Your hair back in a ponytail, tied with a big red bow. Your mother used to comb it out for you every morning and you'd pick a ribbon for the day. Red was your favorite, followed by pink.

“You were in the backyard. Your birthday, I think, but I didn't see a cake. Other kids were over and we had filled the kiddie pool. You were laughing and splashing in the water, shrieking when I turned on the hose.

“You were laughing,” he repeated now, almost helplessly. “Catherine, I haven't seen you laugh in over twenty years.”

Her chest went tight. She thought she should say something. She ended up shaking her head, as if to deny his words.

“Your mother loved you so much.” He stood abruptly and turned away from her. “I'm glad she's dead. I'm glad she didn't live to see what would happen next.”

“Dad—”

“You're not right, Catherine. You came back to us; God knows we considered ourselves grateful to get you back from that hell. But you're not right. In the end, our little girl died that day, and I don't know who's standing in front of me now. You don't laugh anymore. Sometimes, I'm not sure you feel anything at all.”

She shook her head again, but he was nodding emphatically, as if arriving at some destination at the end of a very long trip. He turned back around. He looked her in the eye.

“You should let them have Nathan.”

“He's my son.”

“They have a lot of money, they'll take good care of him. Maybe they can even find him the right doctor.”

“I've been trying to find him the right doctor!”

Her father spoke as if he'd never heard her. “They can get him counseling. That's probably what we should've done.”

Catherine rose to her feet. “You're my father. I'm asking for your support. Will you give it?”

“It's not the right thing to do.”

“Will you give it!”

He reached out as if to take her hand. She frantically snatched it back. And he smiled at her sadly. “You were a happy child,” he said quietly. “Maybe it's not too late. Maybe if you get the right help, you can be happy again. That's all your mother wanted, you know. Even once she got cancer. She never prayed to live. She always prayed just to see you smile once more. But you never did, Catherine. Your mother was dying, and you still couldn't grant her that tiny little curve of the lips.”

“You're mad at me? Is that what this is about? You're pissed off at me because I couldn't smile while my mother was dying? You . . . you . . .”

She couldn't speak. She was beyond words, stupefied by shock and rage. If she could just find the mantel, she could get a grip on the wooden trim and anchor herself. In the next instant, however, she had a clear image of her hand wrapping around the brass candelabra there and using it to bash in her father's head.

In her own detached way, she wasn't sure what surprised her more: the depths of her grief or the strength of her fury.

“Thank you for your time,” she heard herself say. She brought her hands to her sides. She forced them to open. She breathed in, breathed out. The calm returned to her. Icy, yes. Barren. But better for her, better for her father, than any genuine emotion could ever be.

Catherine got her coat and very carefully moved toward the door.

Her father stood in the doorway behind her, watching her go down the steps, watching her walk to her car. He raised a hand in parting, and the sheer casualness of the gesture made her dig her teeth into her lower lip to keep from screaming.

Moving with practiced precision, she put her sedan in reverse and slowly backed out of the driveway. Put on the brake, shift to drive, find the gas. She took off down the street, driving too fast and still pursing her lips into a bloodless line.

She needed support. Her lawyer had been very clear. Without some kind of help, the Gagnons would win, they would take Nathan from her. Most likely, she would never see him again.

She would be all alone. And she would be broke.

Oh God, what was she going to do?

She was scattered. Distracted. Desperately searching for answers. That's why she didn't see it, of course. Not until the third or fourth intersection down. Then she finally glanced up, finally looked into her rearview mirror.

Someone had used her own lipstick to do it; she'd left it lying on the console between the seats. It was her favorite OPI color, a deep crimson, the color of a Valentine's Day rose, or fresh-spilled blood.

The message was simple. It read: Boo!





B OBBY WENT HOME. He had about thirty messages on his answering machine. Twenty-nine were from bloodsucking reporters, each and every one promising to tell his side of the story in return for an exclusive—did I mention exclusive?—interview. The thirtieth was from his LT, inviting him over for dinner.

“Come on over,” Bruni extolled into the answering machine. “Rachel's roasted half a cow and is serving it with ten pounds of mashed potatoes. We'll eat too much, make rude bodily noises, and shoot the shit. It'll be fun.”

Bruni was a good guy. He looked out for his team, kept them all together. He meant the invitation sincerely and Bobby should go. It'd be good for him, get him out of the house, keep him out of further trouble. He already knew he wouldn't.