Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(83)

“Good Lord,” my aunt whispered.

“Sparring,” I said defensively.

“Your neck…your hands.”

Several of my knuckles were bright purple, my left hand abraded, my wrist slightly swollen. I set my aunt’s plate down, tucked my hand behind my back. “Hey, you should see the other guy.”

My aunt and landlady continued to regard me with equal levels of horror.

“It’s okay,” I said at last, voice firmer. “I’ve taken up boxing, that’s all. And I like it. Now, eat.”

I pulled out a chair, sat down next to my aunt, picked up my toast. After another moment, my aunt nodded, maybe to me, maybe to herself, then regarded her own breakfast. She eyed the egg white–topped bread curiously, then gamely took a bite.

“Very nice,” she declared after swallowing. “Never been a huge fan of egg whites, but with the toast, it works.”

“She’s a healthy eater, that one,” Fran said.

I looked at my landlady in surprise. I hadn’t realized she’d noticed what I ate, one way or another.

“Hard worker,” Fran continued, apparently taking it upon herself to vouch for my character to my own aunt. “Tends her night job, comes home to sleep, then is always ready to report to work the next evening. No nonsense, this one.”

“Charlene’s got a good head on her shoulders,” my aunt agreed. “She was always a huge help to me in the B&B. This past year, I’ve missed her.”

I ate another bite of toast, starting to feel like an outsider in my own life.

“Lease is almost up,” Fran commented. She faced me, instead of my aunt. “You coming or going?”

“Sunday,” I said.

“You’ll give me the answer?”

“Sure.”

My aunt, who understood the relevance of Saturday, frowned at me.

“Gonna include the dog that’s not your dog?” my landlady continued. “You know, the one that’s supposed to be outside but is in your room instead?”

I flushed. My aunt arched a brow.

“Yeah…um…Gonna talk to my aunt about that. See about finding a home for Tulip.”

“Hmmm,” my landlady said. “By Sunday?”

“Yeah, by Sunday.”

“Dog pees, dog chews, it’s out of your pocket.”

“Agreed.”

“I like her,” my aunt said, referring to Frances.

I finally smiled. “Figured you would.”


BY THE TIME I led my aunt down the hall to my little room, I felt nervous again. Like a teenager, anxious to impress her parent with her first dorm room. Look at me, look at the life I created all on my own. Clean sheets, made bed, hung-up clothes, the whole works.

Tulip met us at the door. Judging by the look on her face, she hadn’t appreciated being shut up for the morning adventures. Maybe you can take the dog off the street but not the street out of the dog. I thought I knew how she felt.

She refused to greet me, but worked her charm on my aunt instead. My aunt had the typical questions. What was Tulip’s name, breed, what a sweet face, what a nice disposition.

While she fawned over the dog that I hoped would become her dog, I went through the requisite hostess motions—found my aunt a chair, refreshed her coffee, then closed the door behind us for privacy. We sat, me on the edge of the bed, her in the lone wooden chair, and Tulip on the floor in between. The conversation almost immediately sputtered out.

“Sorry you had to drive down,” I said at last, not really looking at her, but at the floor beside her chair.

I was thinking of Detective Warren’s assessment of Randi and Jackie’s attacker. It would be up close and personal. Someone I wouldn’t immediately fear. Someone I would welcome with open arms.

I couldn’t really be afraid of my aunt.

Could I?

“Have the police learned anything more?” my aunt asked.

“About Randi and Jackie’s murders?” I shook my head. “No. But I’m working with a couple of Boston detectives now. They have some fresh ideas.”

“You still think you’ll be next,” my aunt said, a statement not a question.

I nodded.

“You’ve lost weight, Charlene. You look different. Harder.”

“Probably.”

“It’s not good for you, Charlene. The way you’re living right now. It’s not good for you.”

I surprised myself. I looked up, stared my aunt in the eye, and asked, “What happened to my mother?”

My aunt’s pale blue eyes widened. I don’t think I could’ve shocked her more if I’d blurted out that I was a man trapped in a woman’s body. But she caught herself. Fussed with her hair for a second, fingering the fringe around her neck, tucking a short Brillo curl behind her ear.

Her hands were trembling. If I looked harder than she remembered, then she looked older than I remembered. Like the winter had been long and taken some of the fight out of her.

Or maybe she’d spent the past year performing her own countdown to the twenty-first. Which was more stressful, fearing for yourself or for someone you loved?

“What do you think happened to your mother?” she said at last.

“She’s dead,” I said flatly. “And it’s my fault. I think…I did something…resisted, or maybe finally got angry, lost control. I hurt her, though. Badly, and that’s why I don’t remember. I don’t want to face what I did.”