Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(126)

She ducked reflexively. Left. Right. Left. I used the opportunity to spring across the room.

Not away from her.

But toward her. Bounding over the coffee table, pivoting around the camelback sofa. Ducking and weaving straight into the firing zone.

Her eyes opened. Her face shone, pale and shocked in the dark, and I suffered a fresh fissure of memory. Another time, another pale face. Another person I loved and just wanted to make happy.

But it wouldn’t be enough. It was never enough. She would hurt me instead.

I drew to a halt twelve inches in front of my baby sister and stood stock-still as Abigail leveled her Sig Sauer at my chest, hot barrel touching my sternum, point-blank range.

“You should’ve saved me,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I did. I sacrificed myself for you. Time and time again. It just wasn’t enough. I loved you, Abby. And if you loved me, then you should’ve been happy for me, just like Aunt Nancy said.”

“I f*cking hate—”

“Shhh…”

My little sister’s hand shook. Then her finger moved on the trigger. Just as I whipped the plastic ballpoint pen from the back of my ponytail, and, holding it horizontally between my two hands, brought it down like a steel bar against the top of her forearm, right below her wrist.

An old bartender’s trick. Sounds like nothing. Looks like nothing. Hurts like hell, right before the hard pen cuts off blood flow to the forearm and the entire hand goes numb, rendering your opponent’s fist slack and unresponsive.

Abigail’s right hand opened reflexively. She couldn’t help herself, her mouth forming a silent O of pain as her Sig Sauer clattered to the floor. I kicked it away. She caught me in the side of the head with her left fist.

Then she was battering at me, and I was doing my best to defend as the back door burst open and a dog came racing into the house, barking frantically, while a female voice rang out, “Boston PD, hands where I can see them!”

I couldn’t put my hands where Detective D. D. Warren could see them. Abigail had given up on her gun, and now had her fingers locked tight around my throat. She was squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, the dark room going even darker. My hands on hers, clawing, grappling for purchase, trying to find her fingers, force them off, as lights began to explode inside my skull.

She had such tremendous hand strength. She wasn’t just wringing the breath from my body. She was doing her best to crush my neck.

Staggering back into the low coffee table. Losing my balance. Falling sideways to the floor.

“Stop, police!”

My little sister looming above me, still holding tight, her eyes filled with almost unholy glee. Until the lines blurred, and she wasn’t my sister anymore. Instead, I peered up into my mother’s face.

Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave…

I gave up on clawing her hands and started fighting in earnest. Jab, jab, jab to her kidneys. Uppercut to her chin, right punch to the side of her face, again and again. Hitting and hitting and hitting. A year’s worth of training, the fight of my life.

The world growing dark as my insane sister absorbed blow after blow, her resolution never wavering, her fingers never falling from my throat.

“Abigail Grant! Detective O. Step away right now. Hands where I can see them!”

Shoot, I willed Detective Warren. Just shoot. But, of course, she couldn’t. Abigail and I were tangled into each other, her hands on my throat, my fists buried into her stomach, two desperate women, one hulking form.

Then, out of nowhere, a white-and-tan rocket, as Tulip scrabbled down the hardwood hall and launched herself, snarling and yipping into Abigail’s exposed side.

White fangs sinking. Abigail screaming. Finally, my sister releasing my throat, staggering back and straightening as she grabbed Tulip’s small, lunging body and hurtled her against the far wall.

A yelp. Then silence.

Me, rolling onto my side. Trying to get up. Trying to get away. Crawling. Kind of. Sort of. Couldn’t get my arms under me. Couldn’t draw air into my lungs.

“Abigail Grant. Hands up. This is your last warning. Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.

My sister turned toward D.D. There was something in her hand, something that hadn’t been there before. The knife. From my ankle sheath. It must’ve fallen out when we were fighting.

Her gaze fell to my exposed side and I couldn’t help myself. I stilled, waited for her to strike the blow. Blood and fire. Maybe this was what we’d both been waiting for. Twenty years of unfinished business.

I didn’t put my hands up in self-defense. I just stared at my baby sister. Willed her to look at me. Willed her to see the big sister who’d genuinely loved her.

“Don’t.” D. D. Warren’s voice. Closer. But also softer, as if she could feel the turning point. “Put down the knife, Abigail. You’re a cop, remember? Catch Me. You wrote that in your notes, because you know better. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“My mother was right,” Abigail whispered, to her, to me. “The monsters are everywhere. Coming in the dark of the night to hurt small children. On the Internet, on the streets. I see them everywhere. I tried using my badge, I tried using my gun. None of it works. The monsters. Our mother. They are all inside my head.”

“O. Put the knife down. I’ll help you. Your sister will help you. We can make this right.”