Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(82)

Amelia took a sip of water first. “Remember the letters he wrote us? There was something extra in mine. A number where we could reach him . . . if we needed to. So it wasn’t a complete abandonment, more of a stepping back.”

“For you. There was nothing in my letter, and there’s been nothing since. You’ve seen him? Talked to him?”

“I dialed the number a few times over the years. Sometimes I just needed to hear his voice, to know we still had family.” She put the bottle down and crossed her arms against her chest, staring at the kitchen linoleum. “Family’s important.” Amelia looked up into his eyes. “I haven’t seen him. I don’t know where he is.”

He searched her face. “You’re lying.”

She shook her head. “Both things are true.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Her eyes swept over him. “Why would I? Look at you. You’re all over the place over a dumb train. It was enough that I knew where to go if we needed anything.”

He bristled. “You mean if you did.”

“I said ‘we.’”

“Did you call him when I was arrested? Or when I was in Westhaven?”

“He couldn’t have helped with that,” she said.

“So you didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Bodie watched her, not believing what he was hearing.

“He’s killing,” he said. “You know he is, and all the time you knew it. And you know the police are looking at me.”

“It’s not him,” she said.

“It is.” Bodie felt himself go. Anger, fear, frustration, all of it taking hold, turning him around and over. He grabbed the box off the table and threw it to the floor. Am didn’t flinch. She never did. He was the one who jumped at shadows and led a wrecked life. “It’s him, and I don’t want any part of it. Hasn’t he done enough?”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, bending down to pick up the box. She lifted the lid to find the train with most of its wheels broken off. “You ruined it.” She fiddled with the wheels, trying to reattach them, but it was no use. “You can’t choose your family, Bod. He loves us.”

“Stop.” He took the box from her, helping her up. “Just stop. He doesn’t know what love is. He’s sick, evil. And he’s here to do it all again. He’s why Silva’s gotten it into her head—”

“I told you she’s nothing to worry about.”

“Easy for you to say. Easier for him.”

“Trust me,” Amelia said. “All of this will work out.”

He glared at her. “Trust you.” He glanced down at the box, the sight of it repugnant to him. “I’m not some scared little kid this time, Am. I’ll turn him in like it’s nothing if it means I’d be rid of him for good. And I won’t forget you lied to me.”

He walked out, leaving her at the door. Maybe this was the break; maybe it would be clean, like this, him simply walking away, but even as he left, he doubted it. The hooks were in and buried deep, the tether to Am too tight to easily sever.

As the sun prepared to rise a while later, he stepped out onto the rooftop of his building as he’d done countless times before. He walked over to the edge and stood there, his heels firmly planted, his toes cupping the rim. He tilted his head up to smell the impending dawn—clean, fresh, new. It promised to be a beautiful day.

The last time he’d stood here, the police had grabbed him away, branding him some suicidal freak. He hadn’t been. He wasn’t now. But this was a good place to think and choose. One decision, one spark of a notion, made the difference between being here and not being anywhere anyone could reach. He liked having the choice and actively affirming the former by simply stepping back. It was a test he always passed. He was stronger than Am or their father gave him credit for, smarter than they knew.

This rooftop was far above the filth and screech of the street. He could pass the test here. The demon that had raised them was alive. He was killing. Bodie now had to wrestle with the mother of all moral dilemmas. It was fortuitous that his aerie perch gave him a clear view of the building across the street. Third floor. Corner window. Where the redheaded girl lived.





CHAPTER 58


At eight on the dot Sunday morning, Foster barely had time to slip out of her jacket at her desk before she was called into Griffin’s office. When she entered, she found Dr. Silva there, as well as Li. The determined, gung-ho feeling she’d had when dawn had come and there had been no reports of a new kill quickly left her.

“What’s this?” As she said the words, her optimism faded, and her body coiled for battle.

Silva smiled. “You came to my camp. I thought it only fitting that I return to yours.”

Foster looked to Griffin, to Li, and then back to Silva, her disposition hardening. Silva wanted to play, was that it? Some demented game of human chess? A game Foster and the others didn’t have time for, let alone the energy. She’d gotten just six hours’ sleep the night before. It was better than nothing, more than she’d thought she’d get, but less than she needed to wrestle with the doctor’s mind games.

“Right,” Griffin said, unamused. She stood, grabbed her coffee cup off her desk. “We’re not doing this. Foster. Li. Handle it. Quickly. Then get on with it.” Griffin walked out of her office. Foster figured they had five, six minutes before she got back from hanging around the coffee machine intimidating everybody.