Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(108)

Ben's hand had come up. He was rubbing his scar almost thoughtlessly. A nervous habit meant to soothe? Or reminder of a memory that still burned?

"You kidnapped Dori," I murmured.

"Had to," he said with a shrug. "Needed someone. Didn't want to be alone. And she'd stolen your locket. I couldn't let her do that."

"She didn't take the locket, you bastard. I gave it to her. She was my friend, and I shared with her because that's what friends do. You're terrible, you're horrible, and I will never be with you. Your touch makes me sick!"

"Oh, Amy" He sighed again. "You don't need to be jealous. Dori wasn't who I really wanted. She was merely a means to an end. I took her and Roger came back to me."

I blinked wildly in shock. "You saw my father again? In Arlington?"

"Roger came home. Just like I knew he must. Once, a very long time ago, Roger loved me. He would hide with me in the closet and hold my hand while our parents yelled. 'It's okay' he'd tell me. 'I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe.' Then one night, our father walked into the kitchen, found our mother standing there, and shot her three times in the chest. Boom, boom, boom. He turned, spotted me next. He raised the gun. I knew he was going to fire. Except Roger stopped him. Roger told him to put the gun down. Roger told him if he really wanted to kill someone, the least he could do was kill himself.

"And our father did exactly that. The dumbf*ck pressed the muzzle against his temple and pulled the trigger. Bye-bye, Daddy Hello, boarding school.

"Except in boarding school, Roger disappeared. He had his own classes, his own friends, his own life. He left me. Just like that.

"So I waited in the house in Arlington. Because I knew then what I had always known. That Roger would come back. That it would be just him and me again. With a gun."

"You tried to kill my father!"

Ben looked at me. He shook his head sadly, touched his scar. "Oh no, Amy Your father, my dear brother, tried to kill me."


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HOME STRETCH, BOBBY and D.D. came jogging up Hanover, dodging pedestrians, ignoring honking taxis. Dusk was falling, the street growing crowded as eateries opened their doors for the night. Bobby and D.D. weaved around teenagers yakking on cell phones, mothers pushing strollers, locals walking dogs.

D.D. had an easy rhythm. Bobby was starting to flag. No doubt about it: Once this case was done, he was getting his sorry ass back to the gym.

Still no word from Annabelle.

He used his growing panic to power his stride.

And he ran.



I DIDN'T BELIEVE him. My father with a gun? Even Mr. Petracelli had said my father couldn't stand firearms. Hearing about the night with his parents, I could certainly understand why.

But apparently, even for my liberal-minded father, Dori's abduction had been the final straw. Somehow, he'd gotten himself a gun. And then he'd caught a red-eye back to Boston to track down his brother.

"Roger, please don't go. Roger, I'm begging you, please don't do this…"

According to Tommy/Ben, the two brothers had squared off in the darkened shadows of my former home. Tommy, bearing the crowbar he'd used to break in. My father, wielding a small handgun.

"I didn't take him seriously," Ben told me now. "Roger couldn't hurt me. He'd saved me. He loved me. He had told me he would always take care of me. But then…

"He looked so tired standing there. Asked me if I'd taken that girl. Asked me if I'd taken any others. What could I do? I told him the truth. That I'd kidnapped six girls. That I'd encased them in plastic and kept them as my own little family. And that it still wasn't enough. I wanted you, Amy I needed you. I would never rest until you were mine.

" 'I used to believe,' Roger said quietly, 'that nature didn't really matter. Nurture could always overcome, whether it was parents nurturing a child or even a person such as me, learning to nurture myself. With enough time, attention, attitude, all of us could be anyone we wanted to be. I was wrong. DNA matters. Genetics live. Our father lives, inside of you.'

"I told my brother that was fascinating, given he was the one holding the gun. He accepted that. Even nodded as if that made sense to him.

" 'True,' he said, 'because on my own, I never thought I could do such a thing.'

"Then he shot me. Just like that. Raised the gun. Put a bullet in my head." Ben's fingers brushed his scar.

"Shock is a funny thing. I heard the sound. I felt a burning sensation in my forehead. But I remained standing for a long time, at least I think I did. I stood and I looked at my brother.

" 'I love you,'" I said. Then I fell.

"He walked over to me.

" 'Promise me you'll never leave,' I said.

"And Roger walked out the door.

"I don't know how long I was there. I blacked out, went unconscious, something. But when I came to, I discovered I could move. So I left. I kept going until some guy stopped me and said, 'You know, man, I think you might need a doctor.'

"He called an ambulance. Six hours later, surgeons removed a twenty-two-caliber slug that had ricocheted around the front part of my brain. That was nearly twenty-five years ago, and I haven't felt much since. Not happy. Not sad. Not desperate, not angry. Not even alone.