Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(96)

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

D.D. tilted her head, regarding me curiously. “Two families connected to this unit have been murdered, almost exactly twenty-five years after your family was shot to death. And last night, the child you were working most closely with was hanged. You still don’t think that has anything to do with you?”

I felt my heart spike, then the blood drain from my face. “But … My past is over. My family’s gone. Who’s left to hurt me?”

“Good question,” the sergeant mused. “Who’s left to hurt you?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. This couldn’t be about me. I didn’t have the gun this time, I wanted to blurt out. I swear, I didn’t have the gun.

“I need to review a report,” I mumbled, then I bolted from the common area. I couldn’t be in front of the police anymore. I didn’t want them to see the horror on my face. I didn’t want them to misinterpret my regret.



Fifteen minutes later, staff members began to assemble in the common area. It was nearly eleven-thirty, everyone running late. Given earlier events, that was hardly a surprise. The unit still felt wonky. I couldn’t remember a time when we’d had so many acute episodes back-to-back. I couldn’t remember a time when all of us felt as jittery as the kids.

I remained in Admin, watching from the observation window. The cops had finally disappeared. I could join the MCs at the table, but suddenly I felt self-conscious. The sergeant had put thoughts in my head, like maybe this was all my fault, like maybe I was to blame for Lucy’s death.

I was waiting for Greg, I realized. I was waiting for his presence to ground me.

When five more minutes passed without him appearing, I went looking for him.

I wandered down the hall, past children sleeping in various nooks and crannies, past doors of darkened rooms and past doors of hundred-watt brilliance. I didn’t see Greg, but then I heard his unmistakable baritone coming from the last room on the right.

I peered in. Greg was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled in front of him, his attention focused away from me, on a small boy with bright blonde hair who was curled into a ball. Greg was stroking the boy’s head and talking lightly, trying to encourage the boy to uncoil. The boy wasn’t buying it.

The new charge, I guessed. The one who’d stabbed his mother this morning. He was tucked in on himself, trying to block everything out. This couldn’t be happening to him. This strange room, this strange place, these strange people talking at him over and over again.

“Mommy,” the boy whispered. “I want my mommy.”

My heart contracted. First words spoken by so many children over so many years. Even from the kids whose mothers beat the shit out of them.

“I know,” Greg replied steadily.

“Take me home.”

“Can’t do that, buddy.”

“You could stay with me. Like we’ve done before.”

I stilled. Like they’d done before? I eased back, out of sight of the open doorway.

“You get to stay here for a bit, buddy. We’re going to work with you on calming down, on controlling that temper of yours, until you feel stronger, better about yourself. Don’t worry. This is a nice place. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Mommy,” the boy said again.

Greg didn’t reply.

“I hurt her,” the boy murmured. “Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to.”

The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.

“I am a naughty, naughty boy,” the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. “Nobody loves a boy as naughty as me.”

“You called nine-one-one,” Greg told him. “That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do.”

“Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa.” Suddenly, the boy started to cry. “Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I didn’t know!”

The boy’s voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, “Evan, I want you to take a deep breath—”

“I ruined the sofa!”

“Evan—”

“I want to go home, go home, go home. I’ll be a good boy this time. I promise, I’ll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home.”

The boy rolled away from Greg, dashing for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, crashing into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: “Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh …”

Benadryl? I mouthed to Greg over the noise.

He shook his head. “Paradoxical reaction. Grab Ativan.”

I rushed down the hall for the meds as Greg tried again in his firm baritone: “Evan. Listen to me, buddy. Look at me, buddy. Evan …”

By the time I returned, Evan had blood running down his nose from a cut on his forehead and Greg was holding out his cell phone, trying to capture the boy’s attention. “Evan. Evan, look at me. We’ll call your mom. We’ll call her right now. Okay? Just look at me, Evan. Watch me.” Greg punched some numbers into the phone. Evan stopped banging his head long enough to watch, his body shuddering with the effort to stay still. The boy was gone, his blood-rimmed eyes glazed over, his cheeks pale, his hands clenched into rigid fists. Most kids took days to recover from the emotional overload of a psychotic break. Evan, on the other hand, looked ready for round two.