Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(22)

“Loop him in.”

“I will.”

I heard a staticky radio voice. “Gotta go,” Slidell said.

“You’ll attend the autopsy tomorrow?”

“Wearing bells.”

I disconnected.

“The child is dead?” Ryan asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“They want us to join them?”

I shook my head.

“Larabee’s doing the autopsy tomorrow?”

I nodded again.

People flowed in two directions around us. A girl passed, maybe twelve or thirteen, a parent at each elbow. All three were eating chocolate ice cream cones. I pictured lights rippling blue and red across a small, still body on filthy concrete. I watched the girl melt into the crowd, my stomach clamped into a hard, cold lump.

Suddenly, my hands began to tremble. I pressed them to my thighs. Looked down at my feet. Noted a lone weed growing from a crack in the pavement.

Shelly Leal. Mama. Ryan. Or maybe it was the tail end of the cold. Or simply lack of sleep. I had no energy left to block the despair.

Tears welled. Broke free. I backhanded fat salty drops from my cheeks.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Ryan said. No questions about Leal. About the call from Finch. I appreciated that.

“I’m a big girl.” Not looking up. “Go on to your hotel.”

Music swelled as a door opened in the colossus behind us. Receded. Somewhere, a truck beeped rhythmically, backing up.

Ryan reached out and took both my hands in his. Clamped tight to stop the shaking.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning,” I said.

Ryan’s gaze burned the top of my head. “Look at me.”

I did. The irises were too bright against the backdrop of bloodshot. Electric blue. Startling.

“When a child is killed, something inside us dies.” Ryan’s tone was gentle, meant to calm. “But an investigation doesn’t normally throw you like this. It’s me, isn’t it?”

I took a second and a breath to make sure I’d say nothing I’d later regret. “Life’s not always about you, Ryan.”

“No. It’s not.”

I pulled my hands free and wrapped my arms around my ribs. Lowered my eyes.

“I can’t explain why I needed to go away. To grieve alone. To see if anything remained of me worth salvaging. My leaving was selfish, but I can’t undo it.”

I focused on the green wisp struggling for life at my feet. Said nothing.

“Please know I never meant to hurt you.”

I wanted to smash Ryan with my fists. I wanted to press my cheek to his chest. To allow him to pull me close.

Ryan had walked out of his life with barely a backward glance at me. One quick visit. One email. His daughter’s death had been an unimaginable blow. But could I forgive the insensitivity? Would forgiveness just set me up for more pain?

I studied the brave little weed. Felt oddly buoyed. Such optimism in the face of impossible odds.

I had no obligation to explain myself to Ryan. To ever trust him again. Yet the words came out. “My mother is here in North Carolina.”

I could sense Ryan’s surprise. I’d never spoken to him of Mama.

“She’s dying.” A sliver of a whisper.

Ryan remained still, allowing me to continue or not.

Snapshots formed in my mind. Mama’s hand in mine in the dark when she couldn’t sleep. Mama’s face flushed with delight after a binge at the mall. Mama’s suitcase packed with silk scarves, satin nighties, and Godiva cocoa mix.

Mama hunkered with her laptop behind a cart.

The weed blurred into a wavery green thread. A ragged breath juddered up my chest.

No.

I palmed the new tears, squared my shoulders, and raised my chin.

Ryan’s neon-etched face was right above mine.

I managed a weak smile. “How about that sarsaparilla?”

At the annex, Ryan brewed coffee while I went to the study to phone my mother. She sounded tranquil and lucid. She’d gone to the computer center to continue her research. No big deal.

I wasn’t fooled. Even when the demons slipped their leash, Mama was able to coat her actions in wholly believable rationalizations. To convincingly lay on others the blame for overreaction. It may have been the most disturbing aspect of her madness.

“Are you making progress on your end?” A fizz of excitement below her calm.

“Progress?” I was lost.

“With your poor dead girls.”

“Listen, Mama. I—”

“I’m doing everything I can on mine.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re trying to stop me, but it won’t work.”

“No one is trying to stop you. The Internet went down.”

“There are more, you know.”

“More?”

“Poor lost souls.”

Jesus. “Are you taking your meds, Mama?”

“The minute you left, I began pulling up old newspaper stories from Charlotte and the surrounding area. The Vermont girl was killed in 2007, so I started with that year.”

Jesus bouncing Christ.

“I’ve found at least three.” Again, the spy-versus-spy whisper.

I had two options. The smart one, shut her down and call Finch. The easy one, hear her out. It was late, I was exhausted. I opted for easy. Or perhaps I hoped enough of her brain was functioning logically to have actually produced something.