Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(47)

Had she slept last night? She couldn't be sure. Sometimes she dreamed, so that must have involved sleep. She'd seen Nathan, the day he was born. She'd been pushing for three hours. Almost there, almost there, the doctor kept telling her. She'd stopped screaming two hours ago, and now only panted heavily, like a barn animal in distress. The doctors lied, Jimmy lied. She was dying and this baby was tearing her in two. Another contraction. Push, screamed the doctor. Push, screamed Jimmy. She sank her teeth in her lower lip and bore down desperately.

Nathan came out so fast, he overshot the doctor's waiting hands and landed on the sheet-covered floor. The doctor cheered. Jimmy cheered. She merely groaned. Then they put little Nathan on her chest. He was blue, tiny, all covered in muck.

She didn't know what she was supposed to think. She didn't know how she was supposed to feel. But then Nathan moved, his tiny little lips rooting for her breast, and she found herself unexpectedly blubbering away like an idiot. She cried, huge fat tears, the only genuine tears she had shed since her childhood. She cried for Nathan, for this beautiful new life that had somehow come from her own barren soul. She cried for this miracle she had never believed could happen to her. And she cried because her husband was holding her close, her baby was snuggling against her, and for a fraction of an instant, she did not feel alone.

She'd dreamed of her mother. Catherine saw her standing in the doorway of her childhood bedroom. Catherine lay in her narrow bed, her eyes desperately alert. She had to stay awake, because if she slept, the darkness would come, and in the darkness would be him. Forcing her head into his lap. The smell, the smell, the smell. Grunting as he rammed himself into her, a camel trying to pass through the eye of a needle. The pain, the pain, the pain. Or it would be worse. It would be the days and weeks later, when he didn't even have to force her anymore. When she simply did whatever he wanted, because resistance was futile, because the indignities no longer mattered, because the little girl who'd been thrown into this hellhole didn't exist anymore. Now only her body remained, a dried-up shell going through the motions and feeling only gratitude that he returned to her at all.

Someday he wouldn't. She understood that. Someday, he would tire of her, simply walk away, and she would die down here. In the dark, alone.

There were not enough lights in the house. Three, four, maybe it was five in the morning, Catherine rounded up all the candles. Flashlights were good. The light in the oven. The night-light for the water dispenser in the refrigerator door. The undercabinet lights. The inside-the-cabinet lights. The fires in the two gas fireplaces. She went from room to room, turning them on. She needed light, she had to have light.

She'd dreamed of Jimmy. Smiling Jimmy, happy Jimmy. Hey, what's a guy gotta do to get a little spritz? Angry Jimmy, drinking Jimmy, cold Jimmy. You're sure she won't get anything? I don't want her touching one red cent.

She'd dreamed of Jimmy so much, she'd bolted out of bed at six a.m. and run to the bathroom to throw up.

Boo, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Boo.

Oh please God, let Jimmy be finally dead.

Now it was nearly nine. Visiting hours at the hospital. Catherine had already called four times. Nathan was awake. She could see him.

Fuck that. She didn't trust the hospital. It didn't offer enough security. She was bringing her son home.

Catherine had her coat, had her keys. One last check of the house. That's right, the candles. She passed through the rooms, blowing out the burning wicks one by one. She was just coming downstairs again when she remembered the Taser. She'd had one in the safe. She returned upstairs to the master bedroom, preparing to arm herself for a war against an enemy that had no name.

Who would write Boo! on her rearview mirror? Who would do such a thing?

She didn't like to think about it too much. There were answers out there, and most of them terrified her.

The safe was wide open, the way the police had left it. She gazed inside. The Taser was gone. Rat bastards. They'd probably inventoried it for evidence. Like the Taser was really going to protect her from Jimmy's gun.

She returned downstairs, the anger reinvigorating her and driving her toward the front door. To the hospital, to Nathan. She'd just put her hand on the knob when, from the other side, someone knocked. Catherine recoiled, hand to her chest as if struck. The knocking came again.

Very slowly, she put her eye to the peephole.

Three people stood there. The police.

No, she thought wildly. Not now. Nathan was all alone. Didn't they know that at any time, a man driving a blue Chevy could turn down the street?

Knocking again. Slowly, Catherine opened the door.

“Catherine Gagnon?” the man standing in front asked. His nose was squashed, as if he'd been hit in the face one too many times. It appeared incongruous with his nice gray suit.

“Who are you?”

“Rick Copley, ADA for Suffolk County. I'm here with Detective D.D. Warren, BPD”—he gestured to a beautiful blonde with cheap taste in clothes—“and Investigator Rob Casella, DA's office.” He gestured to a particularly grim-faced man who was wearing a dark suit fit only for funerals. “We have a few questions we need answered. May we come in?”

“I'm on my way to see my son,” she said.

“Then we'll do our best not to take too much of your time.” The ADA was already pushing into her home. After another moment, she gave way. It probably was best to do this now. Before Nathan—or Prudence—returned.