Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(52)

“Drives the man into killing his entire family?”

“Why not? We close the case, Lifetime makes the movie, I finally get sex.” D.D. stopped. Probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.

“Does the sex part involve Lightfoot or me?” Alex asked.

“In that scenario, Lightfoot’s gone to prison, so it doesn’t involve him.”

“Perfect. Let’s make the arrest.”

“Only after you solve the next problem: the Laraquette-Solis crime scene.”

Alex nodded, serious again. “Lightfoot claimed not to know them, and I gotta say, I don’t see them as the shaman type.”

“Though they do know their herbs.” D.D. shrugged, trying out different scenarios in her mind, not making much progress. She started to pack up her fudge. “Grilled cheese?” she asked Alex, gesturing to the remaining half a sandwich. He considered the matter, then helped himself to a few bites. The gesture struck D.D. as intimate. Look at them, sitting forearm to forearm at this tiny little table in this cute little fudge shop in this gorgeous little town, sharing a sandwich.

She felt discomfited again. Torn between the life she had and the life she wished she had. Or, more accurately, torn between the person she was and the person she wished she could be.

“All set?” Alex asked after finishing the grilled cheese. D.D. nodded, and he graciously carried her tray to the trash. She replaced her fudge in the plastic bag, adding Alex’s box on top. They waved goodbye to the proprietor, then stepped out onto the sun-drenched street, having to pick their way through the throng of summer tourists.

“Next stop?” Alex asked, angling automatically toward the ocean. At the end of the street, they could just make out a slice of blue water. It was tempting to walk toward it.

“Don’t know,” D.D. said, staring at the distant water, listening to the gulls.

“Dig deeper into Lightfoot?”

“Probably.” But her heart really wasn’t in it.

“It might just be two coincidental crimes,” Alex said, as if sensing her apathy.

“I don’t know that the crimes are linked,” she admitted. “I feel it, but I don’t know it.”

Beside her, Alex blinked. It took her another second to get it.

“Crap, I sound just like him!”

“Cops know woo-woo.”

“That’s it, I want to go home and shower.”

“Works for me,” he said.

She shook her head and headed for the car. “We’re going to HQ.”

“No shower?”

“Nope. I’m getting out a whiteboard, we’re poring through the reports, and we’re gonna overanalyze every single detail of this case until we goddamn well know something. Screw woo-woo. You know what makes the world a better place? Good, old-fashioned hard work.”





| CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN





DANIELLE


“So how are things at the PECB?” Dr. Frank asked.

He sat in a dark green wingback chair flecked with tiny gold stars. I sat across from him, not on the proverbial couch, but in a second star-dusted deep-green wingback. Between us was a cherry table with a tape recorder and two china cups: tea for him, coffee for me. We could be a set piece at a theater: prominent shrink interviewing prominent patient.

I picked up the fine rose-patterned china cup and took a sip before answering. Work was Dr. Frank’s standard warm-up question. I only saw him a couple of times a year, so each occasion called for some sort of icebreaker, and he’d long ago realized I’d rather talk about other children’s problems than my own.

“I have a new charge,” I said now, setting down the coffee. It was decaf, really terrible. I didn’t know why I still accepted a cup, after all these years. You’d think I’d know better.

“Yes?” he said encouragingly, his gaze eternally patient.

“Her name’s Lucy. She’s a primal child. Fascinating, really. She soothes herself by taking on the persona of a house cat. Plays with her food, grooms herself, naps in sunbeams. As a cat, she’s fairly workable. Lose the persona, however, she’s aggressive, violent, wild….” I lifted my hair to reveal a giant scratch alongside my neck, as well as an assortment of dark purple bruises. “That was from an encounter last night.”

Dr. Frank didn’t say anything. Talking is my half of the relationship.

“We’d assumed she was completely nonverbal,” I continued. “But last night she spoke to me. Also, I’ve caught her listening a few times when the staff was speaking. The look in her eyes … I think there’s a lot going on in her head we don’t know about yet. In fact, I think she might be much more capable than we’ve assumed.”

“You said she’s your charge?”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve been on the unit a lot these days, and if I’m on duty, I generally work with the nonverbals. My specialty.”

“I see.” Another standard Dr. Frank line. Sometimes, I felt like I could script these sessions before I ever arrived, which was probably why I didn’t visit so much anymore. I’d quit altogether if not for Aunt Helen. She seemed to need for me to have a therapist, so Dr. Frank and I humored her.

Now Dr. Frank was eyeing me steadily. I knew what he was building toward, but I made him work for it. After all, asking was his half of the relationship.