Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(59)

She simply bundled Nathan up in his coat and got the hell out of there.





N ATHAN WAS SILENT for the ride home. He sat in the back of the car, in his car seat, his right hand clutching the shoulder strap. Catherine thought there was something she should say. And then, for a while, she was simply as sad as Nathan that Prudence wasn't working today.

Pulling into a narrow parking space, she went around to get Nathan out of the back. The sun was shining, the afternoon surprisingly warm. She looked down the street and saw several of her neighbors out, walking kids, walking dogs. She wondered if it was strange that she didn't wave to her own neighbors. She wondered if it was stranger that none of them would've bothered to wave back.

Nathan piled out of the car, awkward in his heavy wool coat and new cowboy boots. The coat, a gift from his grandparents, was three sizes too big for him. The cowboy boots, purchased from the baby section of Ralph Lauren, at least fit.

Nathan wouldn't look up. Not down the street. Not at their townhouse. He put his hand in Catherine's obediently enough, but as they got closer and closer to the front steps, his feet began to drag. He shuffled along halfheartedly, kicking at stray leaves.

Catherine glanced up at their front door. She thought of the lobby behind it, then the stairs leading up to their unit. She thought of the master bedroom, with its torn-up carpet, splattered walls, and hastily rearranged furniture. Suddenly, she didn't want to go up those stairs either. She wished, for both of their sakes, that they could simply run away.

“Nathan,” she said quietly, “why don't we go to the park?”

Nathan looked up at her. He nodded so vigorously, it made her smile even as her heart ached. They set off down the street.

The Public Garden was crowded. Young lovers, dog walkers, urban families with stir-crazy kids. Catherine and Nathan walked along the water, where the swan boats paddled in the summer. She bought popcorn from a vendor and they amused themselves feeding the milling ducks. Finally they found a park bench at the edge of a clearing, where children the same age as Nathan, but twice his size, ran and tumbled and laughed in the now waning sunlight.

Nathan didn't even try to join them. At the age of four, these were the lessons he'd already learned.

“Nathan?” Catherine said quietly. “Now that you're home . . . some people are going to need to talk to you.”

He looked up at her, his face so pale, she felt compelled to run her finger down his cheek. His skin was cool and dry, the face of a boy who spent too much time indoors.

“Do you remember Thursday night?” she asked softly. “The bad night?”

He didn't say a word.

“Daddy had a gun, didn't he, Nathan?”

Slowly, Nathan nodded.

“We were fighting.”

Nathan nodded again.

“Do you remember what we were fighting about?” Catherine was holding her breath. This was the wild card, of course. How much did a frightened four-year-old remember? How much did he understand?

Reluctantly, Nathan shook his head.

Catherine released her pent-up breath. She said lightly, “All the people need to know, honey, is that Daddy had a gun. And that we were terribly scared. They understand the rest.”

“Daddy's dead,” Nathan said.

“Yes.”

“Daddy doesn't come home.”

“No, he won't come home again.”

“Will you?”

Catherine stroked his cheek again. “I will try to always come home to you, Nathan.”

“And Prudence?”

“She will come home, too.”

Nathan nodded gravely. “Daddy had a gun,” he repeated. “I was scared.”

“Thank you, Nathan.”

Nathan went back to watching the other kids. After a moment, he crawled onto her lap. After another moment, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rested her cheek against the top of his ruffling hair.





W HEN BOBBY RETURNED home, not one but three people waited outside his front door. And his day, he thought, just kept getting better and better.

“Shouldn't you be in church?” He asked ADA Rick Copley as he unlocked the door. Then he held up a hand. “Wait, I know: you already sold your soul to the devil.”

Copley scowled at Bobby's attempt at humor, then followed Bobby inside his first-floor unit. Behind Copley came D.D. Warren, careful not to look Bobby in the eye, and behind her came an investigator from the DA's office whom Bobby vaguely remembered from the initial shooting interrogation on Friday morning. He couldn't recall the man's name.

Investigator Casella was the magic answer, provided by Copley thirty seconds later as the ADA made introductions in the middle of Bobby's family room. The space was small, the furniture well broken in and currently cluttered with an assortment of empty take-out food boxes and piles of napkins. All three looked around, no one sure where to sit.

Bobby opted not to help them out. As far as he was concerned, these were not people he wanted getting too comfortable in his home.

He went into the kitchen, grabbed himself a Coke, and came back into the family room without bothering to ask if anyone else wanted something to drink. He pulled out a wooden kitchen chair and had a seat. After a moment, D.D. shot him a dry glance, then set about moving pizza boxes until the trio could plunk down on his ancient sofa. They promptly sank down four inches. Bobby used the Coke to cover his smile.