Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(35)

Amelia stood. “C’mon, Bod, don’t leave like this. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

He grabbed his jacket slung over the yellow thing. He cut his eyes her way. “You’re just like Silva and those other doctors. Handling me like I’m crazy or something, like . . . like . . .” He glared at her. “I’m him.”

“You’re not him, Bod,” Amelia said. “You never could be.”

He softened, then reached over and kissed her on the top of her head, giving her a smile. “Thanks. I’m okay. We’re good. I’ll call you, huh?”

“Bodie . . .”

He turned and gave her one last look, seeing his own face reflected back. They were a pair. Twins. Two halves of a messed-up whole. God, what humans could endure . . . and what they couldn’t. “Next time, my place. I’ll order in.”





CHAPTER 18


She cleared the plates, loaded the dishwasher, then stood at her window watching the night watch her back. It was an impulsive decision, partly, but she grabbed her jacket and keys and went out. She also walked for miles, like Bodie did, though she had never told him that it was yet another thing they shared. How strange was it that they both favored the same stress reliever, wanting to experience the city at the same time at night when the streets were practically theirs alone?

Not every thought of hers was of Bodie. Amelia had other things to think about, many things, and most of them pinballed around in her head without order or priority. It was why she could never sit still in school or concentrate on one task at a time, unless, of course, she was painting, creating. Her father had called them her sparks of genius.

She walked, her hands plunged deep in her pockets, her collar up, protection against the night. She liked the autumn, the bite in the air, the colors, the rustle of leaves, the smell of wood smoke from chimneys. The changing seasons were one of the great things about living in the Midwest, and Amelia loved them all, but particularly this one, a time of stark transition from the fullness of summer to a kind of sleep—a time of stasis—until life returned in the spring.

She eventually found herself standing at the corner of Rush Street at midnight, staring down the block at the trendy bars. She wasn’t choosing, not really. It didn’t matter to her which one. It wasn’t as though she found herself here by coincidence, either; her route, her walk, had been purposeful. She needed a drink and she needed company and she needed not to have to think about her brother. There was no sin in wanting company, human contact, and it was ladies’ choice. She picked the Rusty Anvil—a dark, brooding little place she’d been to before—and slipped inside to see what the night had to offer. Hopefully, she’d find someone she wanted. Barring that, she hoped to find someone who would do.





CHAPTER 19


Peggy Birch’s murder was all over the news as Foster and Lonergan pulled into the medical examiner’s lot on West Harrison Tuesday morning. The squat, sand-colored building took up almost the entire block, and if one didn’t know its purpose, they could easily peg it for an art museum or a modernist courthouse. But she knew better. This was the place where they closed the file on lives that had been cut down by bullet or knife, rope or fist, or simply fate. Foster focused on her phone as the news of Peggy Birch’s killing played out for morning commuters. The local reporter stood on the bridge, cameras rolling, as she detailed the violent death of a young woman, now identified as Margaret Ann Birch. There was a shot of the Riverwalk, the spot where crime scene tape had been strung and Birch found. The killing was one of six that had taken place over the weekend in a city where violence appeared to have no remedy. “No suspects are in custody connected to this latest incident,” the reporter said before tossing things back to the anchor.

“Margaret Ann Birch,” Lonergan groused. “They even flashed her picture. Why do they make it sound like she’s the one did somethin’ wrong?”

Foster got out of the car. It wasn’t a discussion she wanted to have with him. Instead, she stood with her back to the ME’s office, needing a bit more time. “The longer we take, the bigger the story will get,” she said. “That’s when people will get scared, and scared people do stupid things.”

It didn’t help that the department leaked like a sieve or that Birch’s killing was front page worthy—Young White Woman Butchered on Riverwalk. The city would attribute the death to a maniac, a fiend, and if Ainsley was eventually charged and named, they’d go for the prurient, the base. Race would be dragged in, as it always was when bad things happened to those usually insulated from crime. Keith Ainsley would be eaten alive.

She stopped at the door, her heart pounding. The last time she’d passed through these doors, she’d done so at a run—her world spinning—to find her partner lying on the ME’s table, a bullet in her brain. She had stayed with Glynnis until her family could get there so that she wouldn’t be alone, as Glynnis had done for her when it had been Reggie lying there.

“Scared of dead bodies, Foster?” Lonergan quipped as he passed her up and strolled inside. “Some murder cop you are.”

She glanced up at the sky, at the clouds, a breeze drying beads of sweat on her forehead, and then she walked inside to catch up. It wasn’t the dead she feared but the memories they left in their wake.