Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(96)

The notion confused me. I rested my head against the cool glass of my window, and for a moment I saw my father again, sitting across from me at Giacomo's as we celebrated my twenty-first birthday, appearing content.

My father had won. I never understood, because he'd never let me be part of the war he was fighting. But that night, my birthday, must have felt like a victory to him. He had lost his mother. He had lost his wife. But his daughter… Me, at least, he had kept safe, though it had cost him so much along the way.

And I was amazed now, humbled in a way that brought tears to my eyes, that he had viewed my life as a victory. He had given up his career for me. He had given up neighbors, his home, his own sense of self. Ultimately, he had given up his wife.

I can picture my father remote. I can picture him relentless, hard, aggressive. But I can't remember him ever being bitter or mean-spirited. He always had his cause, his reason, even if his paranoia drove me crazy.

And knowing the whole story now, all I wanted to do was go back in time to tell him I was sorry, to give him a grateful hug, to tell him I finally understood. Then again, niceness was never what my father had wanted for me. We fought, constantly, incessantly, partly because my father had enjoyed a good battle. He'd raised a fighter. And he liked to test my skills.

Amy Marie Grayson. Amy Marie.

And just for a moment, I could almost hear it. My mother's voice, crooning softly, "There's my little angel… Good morning, Amy, bobamey mamey"

I was crying. I didn't want to. But the enormity of it hit me all at once. My mother's sacrifice. My father's loss. And I was sobbing hard and ugly, only vaguely aware of Bobby's hand upon my shoulder. Then the car was slowing down, pulling over. My seat belt retracted. He pulled me onto his lap, an awkward motion, given the hard intrusion of the steering wheel. But I didn't care. I buried my face against his shoulder. Clung to him like a child. And sobbed because my parents had given everything to save my life and I'd been furious at them for doing so.

"Shhhh," he was saying over and over again.

"Dori is dead because of me."

"Shhhhhhh."

"And my mother and father. And five other girls. And for what? What about me is so damn special? I can't even hold down a job and my only friend is a dog."

On cue, Bella whined anxiously from the backseat. I had forgotten about her. Now she bounded over the top of the seat to get to the front. I could feel her pawing at my leg. Bobby didn't push her away. He just murmured more low words of comfort. I could feel the strength of his arms around me. The hard band of his muscles.

It made me a little crazy. That he could feel so real, so strong, when I felt as if everything in my life was disintegrating, torn into shreds and drifting away like confetti. And I was grateful at that moment that we were in a car, parked along a busy freeway, because if we'd been at my apartment, I would've stripped him naked. I would've removed every piece of his clothing, bit by bit, just so I could touch his skin, run my tongue along the ridges of his stomach, taste the salt of my own tears upon his chest, because I needed so badly to outrun my own thoughts, to feel only the intensity of one frantic moment, to feel alive.

Amy Marie Grayson. Amy. Marie. Grayson.

Oh Dori, I am so sorry. Oh Dori.

Bobby kissed me. Tilted up my chin, covered my lips with his own. And it was so gentle, so giving, that it made me cry all over again, until I took his hand and pressed it against my breast, hard, because I didn't want to feel like glass and I didn't want him viewing me as someone who would break.

Amy Marie Grayson. Whose uncle had destroyed her entire family.

And found her again last night.

I pulled away, hitting my elbow on the steering wheel. Bella whined again. I slid from Bobby's lap, back onto the seat, and pulled Bella close.

Bobby didn't try to stop me. Didn't say a word. I could hear him breathing heavily.

I scrubbed at my cheeks. Bella helped with a few enthusiastic licks.

"I should get back to work," I said brusquely.

Bobby regarded me strangely. "Doing what?"

"I have a project due. Back Bay. My client is going to wonder."

Bobby stared at me. "Annabelle… Amy? Annabelle."

"Annabelle. I just… I'm used… Annabelle."

"Annabelle, you need to find a new apartment."

"Why?"

Arched brow. "Well, for starters, a crazy man knows you live there."

"Crazy man isn't exactly a spring chicken. And I'm not easy pickings."

"You're not thinking straight—"

"You are not my father!"

"Whoa, back up. Despite my, um, obvious personal interest"— he plucked at his trousers, which had tented nicely—"I'm still a state detective. We get training in these things. For example, when an obsessed stalker homes in on a target, bad things are bound to happen. This Tommy—or whatever he goes by these days—has obviously figured out you're alive and well in the North End. He's spent the past twenty-four hours breaking into a police officer's home, arranging an ambush with four attack dogs, and delivering a token of his affection to your front door. In other words, this is not someone you want to mess with. Give us a day or two. Stay in a hotel, keep your head down. There's a difference between playing safe and running scared."