Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(79)

Evan doesn’t look like he believes us, but he’s also tired from the morning’s events. He’s prepared to be mollified with TV, so I turn on cable, then escort my ex-husband to the door.

Michael doesn’t say goodbye, just turns and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

I stand there long after he’s departed, my fingers touching the spot on my skin as if that will keep him with me.



I always thought when the moment came it would be in the middle of the night. Evan would be screaming and shrieking. I would be bolting down a hallway or up a flight of stairs. Maybe I’d trip, or maybe I’d just be one step too slow. I’d go down, and my frothing son would be upon me.

Instead, I sit next to Evan on the sofa. He keeps his eyes on the TV, slightly slack-jawed, deep in TV coma. I relax, feeling sleepy from so much time outdoors. Maybe I’ll take us for ice cream after this. Maybe we can attempt a public outing.

I feel a prick. A pain in my side. I reach down to rub it away, and notice a knife handle sticking out from between my ribs. My son’s hand is holding it. And my son, my beautiful son, is glaring at me.

“Et tu, Brute?” he snarls.

At that moment, staring into the black pools of his eyes, I get it. Why my son appears so calm: because there’s no more turmoil inside him. Evan’s surrendered to the phantom. He’s let the phantom win.

I stare at the paring knife. I stare at my blood, dripping down the handle, across his pale thin fingers, into the tan sofa cushion. And I feel pain now, white-hot, dizzying. I feel other drippings, inside my body, from whatever vital organs have just been pierced.

I watch the day dim before my eyes, grow shadowy around the edges.

Such a pretty day, I think. Such a happy day to end like this.

I look at my son. And I do what any mom would do.

I wrap my fingers around his bloody hand, and I say, before the darkness takes me, “It’s okay, Evan. It’s all going to be okay. I love you. I will always love you.”





| CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX





DANIELLE


I was on paid administrative leave. No point to staying on the ward. I should return home, shower, eat, and sleep for the next forty-eight hours. Naturally, I lingered on the unit instead.

I hung out in the Admin area, tackling general paperwork, then, reluctantly, writing up the last few hours of Lucy’s life. I made a minute-by-minute account of everything that happened during my shift, from my medical evaluation downstairs to Jorge’s meltdown upstairs. The detectives’ arrival. The execution of the warrant, the handing over of files, my solo outing for the infamous glass of water, as well as my brief visit to Lucy’s room. I recorded Lucy’s state of mind, her feline waltz through the moonbeams. Finally, I mentioned refilling the stupid copier, answering the detectives’ questions, and then, after Greg’s announcement, launching our desperate hunt through various hospital corridors. I went over it, again and again and again.

The repetition didn’t make it any easier to take. I couldn’t find the state of numbness that’s supposed to follow such tragedies. We’d never lost a child before. We’d had some attempt suicide. We’d heard of others who met tragedy after leaving here. But we’d never had a kid die on our watch. I didn’t know what to do to ease the tightness in my chest. I hadn’t cried since that one week with my Aunt Helen, when I’d realized that tears were both too much and too little for mourning an entire family.

So I wrote my report. When I was done, I took the string ball Lucy made for me, and stapled it to the upper right-hand corner.

Eight a.m. The kids were up, the sun was shining through the windows, and the newly appointed security guard was standing outside the doors.

I headed for the hospital cafeteria and waited for Karen to find me there.



It was past nine when Karen finally showed. She entered the cafeteria and headed straight for me. Her wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her ash-colored hair pinned back messily, an administrator who’d been roused from her bed and still hadn’t had the chance to return there. Her footsteps were brisk. Her gaze level. She was all business, my boss. She’d been heading the unit for at least a dozen years now, and I couldn’t think of anyone better for the job.

She pulled out the chair across from me, setting down her ubiquitous pile of papers, and pushing her glasses into place with one finger. She eyed my uneaten bagel, cup of coffee. “Do you need a refill?” she asked, gesturing to my mug.

I shook my head. My stomach couldn’t take any more caffeine, let alone my nerves.

She headed for the food, loading up a tray, then returning to me. She had a banana, a muffin, and steaming mug of Lipton tea. This was kindness on her part. We had a kitchenette in the unit where she could eat the exact same meal for free. But there’s something about meeting someone in a cafeteria. You must break bread together; it’s part of the tradition.

She peeled her banana. I managed a bite of bagel. Then, because I just couldn’t take it, I spoke first.

“You know I didn’t hurt her, right?” I burst out. “You know I would never do anything to harm Lucy, or any other child.”

“I don’t know that,” Karen said, and I felt my stomach lurch. She continued, “I believe that, however. If asked an opinion, I would say you would never intentionally harm a child.”