Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(78)

W E DON'T TALK about it,” he said at last. “Every family has its topics that are off-limits, you know. In my family, we don't talk about her.”

“Who's we?”

“My father. My older brother, George.” Now Bobby stood in front of one of the framed diplomas on her wall, staring blankly at the glass. “My father used to drink.”

“You mentioned that.”

“He was a violent drunk.”

“He beat your mom and you and your brother?”

“Pretty much.”

“Did anyone in your family try to seek help?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So your father was an abusive drunk. And your mother left him.”

“I didn't see it,” he said quietly. “I just heard my brother George yell at my father one night. But I guess . . . My father had gotten really loaded. Then he'd gotten really mad. And he'd grabbed a leather belt and he'd just whaled on my mother. Just . . . whipped her like a dog. I guess George tried to interfere, and my father went after him, too. Knocked him cold. When he came to, my father had finally passed out and my mother was packing a bag.

“She told George she couldn't do it anymore. She said maybe if she left, Pop wouldn't get so mad. She had family in Florida. Together, they picked my father's pockets, then she was gone.

“Later, I heard my father and George arguing about it. My father got so mad, he threw George against the wall. George crawled to his feet and he stood in front of my father and he said, ‘What the f*ck are you gonna do now, Dad?' He said, ‘I've already lost my mother.' He said . . .” Bobby's voice grew quieter. “He said, ‘What's left?'”

“What did your father do, Bobby?”

“He went after my brother with a knife. He stabbed George in the ribs.”

“And you saw this, didn't you, Bobby?”

“I was in the doorway.”

“And what did you do?”

He said, “I did nothing.”

Elizabeth nodded. Bobby had been six or seven years old. Of course he'd done nothing.

“George went to the hospital,” Bobby said. “My father swore that if George would lie, say he was mugged, then he swore he would never drink again. So George lied, my father went to rehab, and none of us ever mentioned my mother again.”

“Did that work?”

“Eventually. There were some relapses, some hard times. But my father, he really worked to make it work. I don't know. Maybe my mother's leaving scared him. Or maybe attacking George scared him. But he started to get his act together. He did his best.”

“Have you ever heard from your mother, Bobby?”

“No.”

“Are you angry at her?”

“Yeah.”

“Your father was the one who beat you.”

Bobby finally turned, looked her in the eye. “We were just kids. And he was a violent drunk who thought nothing of using belts and knives. How could she have just left us with him? What the hell kind of mom leaves her kids alone with a man like that?”

“Bobby, can you tell me now why you keep seeing Catherine Gagnon?”

He closed his eyes. She saw the shudder that racked his frame. “Because she was holding her son. Because even when Jimmy pointed a gun at her, she didn't give up Nathan.”

Elizabeth nodded. She had read his statement from Thursday night. She saw now what he had seen then, and she reached the next logical conclusion, the one he wasn't yet ready to face.

“Oh, Bobby,” she said softly. “You are in such a world of hurt.”





T HE POLICE WERE winding down their work in Catherine's house. The female detective had left. Bobby, too. Now she saw only a random uniformed officer here and there, doing God knows what.

The space was emptying out, trying to become her home again. She thought she'd feel grateful. Instead, as she watched each crime-scene tech disappear out the door, she felt increasingly anxious, vulnerable. Her home wasn't her home anymore. It had been penetrated, violated in a horrible manner. She wanted to run away. Instead, she stood a lonely watch in the front parlor, desperately trying to earn Nathan a few hours at least of slumber.

He thrashed in the pillows now, his lips mumbling words from an unhappy dream. An outsider may have thought the front parlor was too bright, but she knew the truth. The two burning lamps didn't offer enough radiance for her and her light-obsessed son. At the rate things were going, soon there would not be enough bulbs in the world to grant either of them a respite from the shadows.

She didn't know what to do.

So of course, her father-in-law arrived.

James Gagnon strode into the foyer with his thousand-dollar cashmere coat and impeccably polished shoes. Three in the morning, for God's sake, and he looked like he'd just stepped out of his courtroom.

The young uniformed officer standing in the foyer took one look at him and snapped to attention.

Stand strong, Catherine told herself. Oh God, she was tired.

“Catherine,” her father-in-law boomed. “I came the moment I heard.”

Catherine moved into the foyer, purposely putting distance between him and Nathan. James rested his hands on her shoulders, the picture of fatherly concern. He kissed both of her cheeks, his gaze already moving hungrily past her, searching for his grandson.