Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(106)

“Then it’s a good thing we know where he’s at.” D.D. pushed back her chair. Alex followed suit. “You two,” she addressed Danielle and Greg, “stay put. If you’re lucky, when I return I’ll decide not to arrest you. But I make no promises.”

She smiled at them wolfishly. Then she and Alex were on the hunt again.





| CHAPTER

THIRTY-FIVE





VICTORIA


A rumbling sound from the hallway wakes me up. My eyes pop open. I feel a moment of intense, overwhelming nausea, and roll onto my right side to vomit.

Then the queasiness passes, and I’m left disoriented and shaken. Slowly, I return to my back. I stare at the blank ceiling of my hospital room and give myself a moment to adjust.

Playing with my son. Speaking with my ex-husband. And then … this.

Should I cry? I want to. I think if your child stabs you, crying is probably a logical thing to do. But I can’t summon any tears. I feel stark, hollowed out. For years I’ve fought a war. Then, in thirty seconds, I lost it.

Now there’s no going back. This is the new reality. My son is a violent offender and I’m his first victim.

At least it wasn’t Chelsea, I think, and then I do cry, low, muffled sobs of relief, because Michael wasn’t the only one who’d spent years terrified that one day he’d have to harm his son to save his daughter. At least it didn’t come to that. At least not that.

Then I picture Evan again, his bright blue eyes and infectious giggle as we raced around the backyard, and I cry harder.

I will always look at Evan and know what he did. And he will always look at me and know what he did, too.

Can’t go back. No going back.

It comes to me again. The burning, obsessive realization: I have to get out of here. I can’t be this person anymore. I can’t lead this life. It hurts too much.

I sit up. The movement sends a sharp, bolting pain through my left side. I gasp, falter, then catch myself. After everything I’ve been through, I refuse to be cowed by something as trivial as physical pain. I grit my teeth, and force my way to standing.

My legs wobble. I grab the metal bed-rail and hang on tight.

When I’m finally convinced I won’t collapse, I turn my attention to the row of machines. I turn off the heart monitor first, unclipping the plastic lead from my finger. Next, I remove the tape holding the IV needle in the back of my hand, sliding the needle free. A single drop of blood appears against my pale skin. I wipe it away and will myself not to bleed again.

I walk gingerly, five steps across the room; I’m not going to make it. With each inhale, my insides feel like they’re being flayed by shards of glass. I’m light-headed, achy. I need to lie down. I can try again tomorrow. But when I turn back to the bed, I can’t do it. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe Evan isn’t the only one who broke this morning. But I can’t go back. I won’t.

Goddammit, after the past eight years, I’m entitled to at least one nervous breakdown.

Tighter binding, I decide. Something wrapped around my ribs to support my weakened side.

Good news: I’ve spent years quietly repairing the results of Evan’s rampages. I’ve reset finger bones, superglued deep cuts (I saw it on the Discovery Channel), and taped fractured ribs. All I need is a few supplies, and I’m a surprisingly decent medic.

Well, I am in a hospital.

I shuffle slowly into the hallway, clutching the back of my hospital gown. The clock on the wall shows it’s after midnight. Sunday is over. Monday has officially begun. I try to find strength in that. A brave new day. Mostly, standing in the middle of the overbright corridor, I feel lost and alone.

The ward is quiet, the nurses’ station empty. I keep moving. Four doors down, tucked against a wall, I find a cart of first-aid supplies. I slip a roll of gauze and a box of butterfly clips into my hands, then shuffle back to my room, shutting the door behind me. I have to rest. My head is spinning. I chew some ice chips, then crawl into bed. My lips hurt. I chew more ice; then, despite my best intentions, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, the wall clock tells me two hours have passed. Someone has placed a blanket over me, and a small duffel bag rests on the chair. Michael, probably. I feel an ache in my chest, as if my ex-husband has left me all over again. Crazy. I’m going crazy.

I don’t care.

I’m still clutching the first-aid supplies. That fortifies me, returns my sense of purpose. I climb out of bed; my legs feel stronger this time and my breathing remains even.

I peel off my flimsy hospital gown, inspecting the bandage on my side. Dark pinpricks of rust. Old blood. Not fresh. Good enough for me.

I work carefully, wrapping the gauze around my rib cage, pulling it tight with each pass, until the constriction forces me to elongate my back and breathe in shallow gasps. Finally, I secure the binding, stabilizing my ribs and easing the sharpest edge of my pain.

Next I explore the duffel bag. Michael has thrown together the basics: sweats, underwear, socks, flip-flops, toiletries. I have a sense of déjà vu, then it comes to me: The duffel bag holds the same items as the hospital bag I packed for Chelsea’s birth, and the one I’d planned to pack for Evan’s birth, had I not gone into premature labor.

I struggle again. Wanting to finger each item as if it’s a talisman of the life I can’t give up, of the woman I’d hoped to be. I’ll sit here. Cry pathetically with my sweatpants on my lap.