Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(99)

"Who according to you has a troubled background—"

"He's a certifiable whacko."

"Then Tommy Grayson probably has a history at Boston State Mental."

"And," Bobby managed to fill in the rest all by himself, "Sinkus has that information."

"You'll make it as a detective yet," D.D. said dryly. "Anything else I need to know?"

"I'm working on finding a hotel for Annabelle."

D.D. arched a brow.

"And I'm thinking, though perhaps I didn't mention it to her, that as long as she's tucked away at said hotel, we could staff her apartment with a decoy."

D.D. pursed her lips. "Expensive."

Bobby shrugged. "Your problem, not mine. I don't think the situation will drag on, though. Given the level of activity in the past twenty-four hours alone, seems to me that Tommy's patience is just about used up."

"I'll float it by the deputy," D.D. said.

"Okeydokey"

Bobby turned to leave. D.D. stopped him one last time.

"Bobby," she said quietly. "Not bad."



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Chapter 34


WHEN I WAS twelve years old, I came down with an extremely aggressive viral infection. I remember complaining of feeling hot and nauseous. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. Six days had passed. By the looks of it, my mother hadn't slept for any of them.

I was weak and groggy, too exhausted to lift my hand, too confused to sort out the maze of lines and wires attached to my body My mother had been sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed. When my eyes opened, however, she came flying out of it.

"Oh, thank God!"

"Mommy?" I hadn't called her mommy in years.

"I'm here, love. Everything is okay I'm with you."

I remember closing my eyes again. The cool feel of her fingers brushing back my hair from my sweaty face. I dozed off gripping her other hand. And in that instant, I did feel safe and I did feel secure, because my mother was by my side, and when you are twelve years old you believe your parents can save you from anything.



TWO WEEKS LATER, my father announced we were leaving. Even I had seen this one coming. I'd spent an entire week in the hospital, poked and prodded by top medical experts. Anonymous people couldn't afford that kind of attention.

I packed my lone suitcase on my own. It wasn't hard. A few pairs of jeans, shirts, socks, underwear, my one nice dress. Had blankie, had Boomer. The rest I already knew how to leave behind.

My father had departed to take care of miscellaneous errands— settle up with the landlord, gas up the car, quit yet another job. He always left my mother to do the packing. Apparently, condensing your entire adult life into four suitcases was women's work.

I had watched my mother perform this drill countless times. Generally, she hummed a mindless tune, moving on autopilot. Open drawer, fold, pack. Open new drawer, fold, pack. Open closet, fold, pack. Done.

That day, I found her sitting on the edge of the double-size bed in the cramped bedroom, staring at her hands. I crawled onto the bed beside her. Leaned against her, shoulder to shoulder.

My mother had liked Cleveland. The two older women down the hall had taken her under their wing. They had her over on Friday nights to play pinochle and sip Crown Royal. Our apartment was tiny, but nicer than the one in St. Louis. No cockroaches here. No high-pitched scream of the local commuter rail screeching to a stop one block away.

My mother had found a part-time job as a cashier at the local grocery store. She would walk to work in the mornings after seeing me onto the bus. In the afternoons, we'd take long walks through the quiet, tree-lined streets, stopping at a nearby pond to feed the ducks.

We'd lasted a whole eighteen months, even surviving the bitterly cold winter. My mother claimed that the gray slushy snow didn't bother her at all; it simply reminded her of life in New England.

I think my mother could've made it in Cleveland.

"I'm sorry" I whispered to her as we sat side by side on the bed.

"Shhhhh."

"Maybe, if we both said no—"

"Shhhhh."

"Mom—"

"You know what I do on days like this?" my mother asked me.

I shook my head.

"I think about the future."

"Chicago?" I asked in confusion, for that's where my father said we were going next.

"No, silly. The ten-year future. Fifteen, twenty, forty years from now. I picture your graduation. I imagine your wedding. I dream about holding grandbabies."

I made a face. "Ugh. Never happen," I told her.

"Sure it will."

"No, never. I'm not getting married."

Her turn to smile, ruffle my hair, try to pretend we both didn't see her shaking fingers. "That's what all twelve-year-olds think."

"No. I'm serious. No husband, no kids. Children mean having to move too much."

"Oh, sweetheart," she said sadly, and gave me a hard, tight hug.


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I THINK OF my mother as I leave my apartment now, Bella in tow. I have my Taser in hand. It feels melodramatic, creeping down the stairs in my own apartment building in broad daylight. Bobby was right: My apartment was no longer safe. As it went in the world of secret agents and double lives, my cover was blown. So I might as well take Bobby's advice and hole up in a hotel for a while.