Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(82)

I thought of Officer Mackereth. His invitation to brunch. The fact that I’d worked my final shift tonight and probably wouldn’t see him again.

Thirty-seven hours to live.

What was I waiting for? I was who I was. I’d done what I had done. And in a day and a half, what would happen would happen.

No more training. No more planning. No more preparing.

Living. That’s the only thing I had left to do. All thirty-seven hours of it.

I started to think about it. Really, truly consider it.

Then I turned the corner toward my house, and discovered my aunt Nancy standing there.


I HAVE KNOWN MY AUNT for nearly twenty years. She is a practical woman—gets up early, goes to bed late, works hard in between. Life has problems, but none that can’t be quickly identified and properly tackled. Elbow grease resolves most things. If not, perhaps a plate of freshly baked brownies will do the trick.

In our years together, we’ve cried a little, hugged on occasion, but laughed most of all. My aunt believes in laughter; you need it to run a business, especially in the hospitality trade.

I valued that about my aunt. What you see is what you get, which made her one of those people you immediately liked when you walked into a room.

So it was doubly strange to stand awkwardly in front of her now, positioned on the covered front porch of a Cambridge triple-decker I’d never expected her to visit. We stood four feet apart, my hands still jammed in my coat pockets, my face more shuttered than I would’ve liked.

“Charlene,” she said at last, breaking the silence first.

“How did…? When did…?”

“It’s time, Charlene. Come home.”

I stared at her a moment longer, trying to process. My post-workout glow vanished. In its place, I felt uneasy.

“Why don’t you come inside,” I said at last, reaching into my pocket and fumbling with the house key.

She nodded briskly. I realized for the first time that she wore her long winter coat but no hat or gloves. Her normally pale cheeks had turned pink with the cold, and her slight frame trembled beneath her coat.

I felt bad, hugging her belatedly and feeling her gratefully return the gesture. It should’ve broken the ice, returned us to normalcy, but instead I felt more confused. Of course my aunt knew where I lived. She was the only person with whom I’d kept in contact. I’d even planned on calling her today to make arrangements for Tulip.

But to see her here. Now. So suddenly. The day before the twenty-first. It spooked me, and I found that as I ushered her into my landlady’s house, I kept her slightly in front of me, in my line of sight.

My landlady was an early riser. She looked up from the kitchen table as we entered. She still wore her pink-and-purple striped day robe, but being a woman of a certain age, she could carry it off. She registered my aunt’s presence, my first ever guest, and performed a little double take.

I did the honors: “Ummm, Fran, this is my aunt Nancy. Aunt Nancy, this is my landlady, Frances Beals.”

My aunt crossed to shake hands politely, and up close, even Fran could see her shiver.

“Have you been outside in this weather? Goodness, you look chilled to the bone! Let me get you a cup of coffee. How do you take it?”

“Black, thank you. Lovely home.”

“Hundred and fifty-three years old,” Fran volunteered, “but I like to think the old gal doesn’t look a day over a hundred.”

“I know how she feels,” my aunt responded.

Frances laughed as she bustled about the kitchen, fetching coffee. I took my aunt’s coat, pulled out a chair for her, offered breakfast.

Aunt Nancy shook her head, but in such a way that I didn’t believe her. I hung up both of our coats, then returned to the kitchen, inspecting the shelf in the pantry that was marked with my name, before finally settling on some whole grain bread for toast.

Behind me, Frances resumed talking with my aunt, about the house, Boston, New Hampshire, landlady versus innkeeper. I welcomed their distraction, so that my aunt couldn’t see how badly my hands were shaking, and Fran wouldn’t notice that all of a sudden I couldn’t remember how to work the toaster.

My aunt and I had last spoken by phone two weeks ago. She hadn’t mentioned coming. I hadn’t mentioned returning. We had a drill. It involved never speaking of the twenty-first. That was the foundation of our relationship after all—love each other, support each other, and never mention unpleasant truths.

My early childhood had been “unfortunate.” My mother had been “misguided.” What happened to Randi, then Jackie, “tragic.”

You gotta love New Englanders. We can take anything we don’t want to face, whitewash it resiliently into a faint echo of itself, then simply lock it away.

I finally managed to get out two slices of bread and slide them into the toaster. While they browned, I found the carton of egg whites and set to scrambling. Working on the stove kept my back to my aunt and my landlady. They seemed content to chat, but from time to time, I could feel my aunt’s gaze upon me, assessing.

When the toast popped up, I split the pieces between two plates, topped them both with scrambled egg whites, and carried my concoction to the table.

My aunt looked up from talking with Frances, and her voice immediately trailed off. She stared at my exposed throat, and so did Frances. Belatedly I fingered the bruises from yesterday’s session with J.T.