Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(49)

Then Vero will climb onto the woman’s lap and hug her tight. And generally, after a moment or two, the woman will sigh. Long and sad. Like she has years, lifetimes, oceans, of sad to let out. Vero cannot make the sad go away. She just sits there and lets it envelop her, too, until eventually, the woman gets up and lights another cigarette.

Vero eats her Cheerios. She carries her bowl to the sink, rinses it carefully, places it in the drying rack.

“Can we go to the park?” Vero asks.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay, Mommy. Love you.”

“Love you, too, child. Love you, too.”


* * *



SHE IS GONE. Six-year-old Vero disappears. Six-year-old Vero never stood a chance. And now it is me and old and wiser Vero, back in the princess bedroom, drinking scotch out of teacups, watching the roses bleed.

“You should’ve killed me sooner,” Vero says.

I pick up my china cup, take another sip of scotch. And I remember. The woman. The park. What will happen next.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Then we sit in silence, one lost child and woman, twice returned from the dead.


* * *



A KNOCK ON the window. It forces me to open my eyes, get my bearings. I’m lying across the bench seat in the back of the sheriff’s SUV. My mouth tastes chalky and foul, and I’m clutching the yellow quilt against my chest. It makes a crinkling sound as I sit up, set it on the seat beside me.

The other detective, Kevin, is standing outside the vehicle, looking in. “You okay?” he asks through the window.

I nod. He pops open the door, and now both him and the sergeant in charge, Wyatt, study me.

“Can we get you something?” Wyatt asks.

“Water.” I hesitate. “I think I’ll go inside. Freshen up in the ladies’ room.”

They don’t outright exchange glances, but still take a minute to consider my request.

“I’ll walk you in,” Wyatt says at last. “Kevin can buy you a bottle of water.”

“Don’t trust me in a liquor store alone?” I ask him.

He says, “No.”

When I get out of the car, my legs are shaky. If I’m being truly honest, my head still throbs dully and the glare from the overhead parking lot lights makes me want to scream. I’m weak, faintly nauseous and completely disoriented. I have to focus on the cold to remember I’m now in New Hampshire and not in some tower bedroom. I have to study my shoes to remind myself I’m a fully functioning adult and not a child, still crammed into the back of a closet.

“Headache better?” Wyatt asks, as if reading my mind.

“No.”

“What works best?”

“An ice pack. A dark, quiet room.”

“Well, we’ll get you home soon enough.”

We’re back at the liquor store. The automatic doors swoosh open. I wince immediately at the influx of too many lights.

Wyatt takes my arm and physically guides me along one wall toward the sign that reads RESTROOMS. I can’t help myself; I look for the cashier, the one who was nice to me before I threw up. I want to see her again. I’m running low on acts of kindness tonight.

But I don’t detect any sign of her. Some bored kid is manning the register now. I wouldn’t buy scotch from him, I think immediately. I wouldn’t want to deal with his knowing snicker.

Wyatt stands outside the family restroom while I clean up. My color is horrible, completely washed out, except, of course, for the nasty patchwork of stitches and bruising. I look like a crack addict. This is your brain on scotch, I think. Except I haven’t had a drink in at least . . . forty-eight hours? I wonder, if I’m truly an alcoholic, shouldn’t I be detoxing? Maybe that’s why I got sick, why my head hurts so damn much.

But I associate sweating and trembling with detox, and I don’t see any beads of moisture dotting my skin. I’m mostly tired. A woman with a battered brain who should be resting, not gallivanting through liquor stores.

I rinse out my mouth. Splash water on my face. Wash my hands again and again. Then, this is it. I open the door, face my police escort.

“Are you going to take me home now?” I ask Wyatt.

“We’ll work our way there,” he says.

Which means he’s not.


* * *



KEVIN SITS IN the back of the SUV with me again. He purchased three bottles of water, one for each of us. Wyatt has his unopened in the cup holder up front. Both Kevin and I sip our bottles, riding in silence. From time to time, I run my hand through the folds of the yellow quilt, feeling the edges of something that shouldn’t be there.

But now is not the time or place. Later, when the detectives finally leave me alone . . .

We wind our way through long, looping back roads. No streetlights. No guardrails. No center divider. Welcome to northern New Hampshire. None of us can see beyond the glow of the headlights. We could be driving through deep woods, past scattered houses, through tiny villages. Anything is possible.

Wyatt is talking on his cell phone, but the words are too muted through the barricade for me to follow. I’m uncomfortable, though. The longer we drive, the deeper we head into the night, the more I think nothing good will come of this.

Finally, a gas station looms ahead. The vehicle slows. In the rearview mirror, Wyatt glances at me.