Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(121)

“Our mother is dead. I won’t go back and neither should you. We’re sisters, and sisters don’t treat each other like this.”

“Arm.”

“No.” I turned and walked away.

“Leave now and she dies,” she shrilled behind me. “Eight minutes. Maybe nine. All your aunt has left. Or maybe you don’t care. Maybe leaving your family to die is what you do best, SisSis.”

She had used my old nickname, which I considered a victory of sorts. The beginning of getting both of us to remember. I needed to recall most of my childhood if I was going to survive the next fifteen minutes. And Abigail…I needed her to recall at least some parts when she didn’t hate me so much. When maybe, she even loved me a little.

I turned back toward her. She once again pointed the needle. After another moment’s hesitation, I held out my arm. She moved quickly, before I changed my mind, jamming the needle straight through my coat into the fleshy part of my upper arm. I barely felt it, a faint pinprick that could’ve been a piece of grit caught in the weave of my shirt. She hit the plunger, and the whole thing was done in a millisecond.

Abigail eyed me. I returned her gaze levelly, waiting to feel something. Woozy, a burning in the back of my throat, maybe tingling down my arm. Most of our mother’s tricks were meant for instant gratification, but I didn’t feel a thing.

Abigail nodded, apparently satisfied, then made me strip my coat and hand it to her, immediately divesting me of most of my homemade weapons, which I’d stuck in the pockets. Next she patted me down, claiming my cell phone, but overlooking the ballpoint pen tucked into the back of my hair and the duct-tape knife covered by my ragged jeans, thick wool socks, and worn winter boots. Once I’d passed inspection, she opened the door wider, letting me into the darkened hall.

“Randi never even felt it,” she said, as if that should mean something to me. “Your other friend, Jackie, she turned around when I pricked her. I told her there had been some kind of thorn stuck to the back of her shirtsleeve and she believed me. Aunt Nancy saw me coming with it, though. I let her. I wanted her to know.”

Abigail led me past my own bedroom to the large living room, with its multiple seating areas plus kitchen. I’d been right earlier—no one’s lucky day. Both Aunt Nancy and my landlady, Frances, were present. Frances was slumped, pale and weak-looking, in a faded wingback chair, the farthest from me. My aunt was closer, reclined on the camelback sofa, eyes closed, eyelids fluttering in a way that didn’t appear good.

I rushed to her immediately and felt for a pulse. I found it, but it was weak. My aunt’s skin was clammy, and she was shivering uncontrollably.

“What did you do?”

“You mean she never tried it on you?”

“What?”

“Insulin. Crashes the blood sugar. Leads to coma, possibly death. Or a free trip to the emergency room.”

She delivered the words flippantly. I understood the untold story behind them, the countless episodes she must’ve endured at our mother’s hands. I would’ve liked to offer her compassion. Instead, I faced off against her, legs spread for balance, and pleaded my case.

“I’m here, you have what you wanted. Now, let me give Aunt Nancy and Fran some sugar cubes, and we’ll send them on their way.”

“Frosting,” Abigail stated. “Works better. I gave it to both of your friends right at the end. Otherwise the postmortem blood tests would’ve revealed low blood sugar, giving away my little game. But a little frosting applied at the right moment…You’ll find a spray can of it behind you on the kitchen counter.”

Her ready agreement to let me treat my aunt and landlady puzzled me. Instead of being relieved, I felt even more on edge as I turned around and headed toward the darkened kitchen. Halfway to the center island, my legs suddenly faltered. I missed a step, stumbled slightly, then caught myself. I shook off the episode, blinking my eyes against a sudden bout of light-headedness. The insulin, going to work. I retrieved the silvery spray can of decorator’s frosting sitting in the middle of the counter and returned with it to my aunt’s side.

“You may give them the frosting. Take any for yourself, and I will shoot you.” Abigail had pocketed the needle. In its place she now held a. 40-caliber Sig Sauer.

“And take away all your fun?” I asked lightly.

“I didn’t say I’d kill you. I just said I’d shoot you.”

It took me a bit to figure out the spray nozzle, which came complete with four decorative tips. Color was white, flavor vanilla. Decorate cookies, rouse a loved one from impending death. My hands were shaking. I had to concentrate to make my fingers do what I needed.

I tended first to my aunt, who seemed worse off. Next, I crossed to Frances, jamming the nozzle into her slightly gaping mouth and squirting in more frosting.

Then I stepped back, and both my sister and I studied them.

“How did you become Detective O?” I asked. I stood six feet from her, slightly in front of her, her Sig Sauer aimed at my left shoulder. Without any lights on, the room was dark, a series of larger and smaller lumps which indicated furniture, other objects that could be used for cover.

I thought the lack of lighting gave me the advantage, as I knew the space better than her. But she still held the gun, and looked very comfortable with it.

“Patron,” she said.