Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(97)

I could feel it again, a wafting chill, like a dark cloud drifting across the sun. I wished I hadn’t come here tonight. Something was wrong. Even more wrong than last night, when we found Lucy’s body, dangling from the ceiling…

A receptionist had picked up at the other end of Greg’s cell phone. “Victoria Oliver,” he requested.

Evan started to dance, blue eyes wild, the blood dripping off the end of his nose, staining his blue-striped shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”

“Take your medicine,” Greg told Evan, just as a woman’s voice sounded in his phone. “Victoria?”

“Hello?”

“Meds, Evan.”

Evan whirled on me, nearly toppling me over. I surrendered the paper cup. He popped the Ativan, dancing again as he eyed Greg’s phone.

“Victoria,” Greg said again, tucking the phone to his ear. “This is Greg. I’m here with Evan. I thought … He needs to hear that you’re all right. And I thought you’d like to know that he’s all right. Everything’s good here.”

I couldn’t catch the reply. Evan was spinning around, a whirling dervish of blonde hair, blue shirt, and red blood.

A rush of frigid air, swirling up my spine, whispering down my arms …

“The pediatric psych ward’s on the eighth floor,” Greg was saying. “Yes, it’s a lockdown unit. Acute care. We’re a good facility, Vic; it’ll be okay.”

Vic? How did Greg know where to call Evan’s mother? Or that she’d take his call? Trying to contact a parent whose child had stabbed her wasn’t the smartest thing in the world. Unless you knew that the parent was open to such a call, and had the mental fortitude to handle it. Unless you knew the parent …

I was cold. Very cold. Shivering uncontrollably.

Greg, on the phone: “Can you … are you game? Just for a second. I don’t think he can take much…. No, you need to take care of you. We’ll take care of him. Victoria … Vic … Trust me on this one. Evan needs you healthy. That’s what your son needs.”

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” Evan whined, still twirling.

Greg held out the phone. “One sentence, Evan. Listen to your Mom’s voice. Know she’s all right. Tell her you’re all right. Then we’re done.”

Evan grabbed the phone. He pressed it to his ear. He smiled, one bright second of relief as he connected to his mother. His posture relaxed, he came down off his toes.

Then, before I could move, before Greg could snatch the phone back:

“I will get you next time, bitch,” Evan snarled into the receiver. “Next time I will carve out your FUCKING HEART!”

The boy hurtled the phone to the floor, then flung himself at the wall, banging his head savagely.

“Oh Evan,” Greg said tiredly.

I rushed down the hall to get more Ativan.





| CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO





VICTORIA


Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan.

Evan who?

Evan, the little boy who loves you.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan.

Evan who?

Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Michael, your husband who’s going to marry another.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Chelsea, your daughter who thinks you don’t love her anymore.

Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock.

I lie in my hospital bed, watching the green line on my heart monitor. Sounds echo down the crowded floor. Busy nurses, grumpy patients, chirping machines. I fixate on the stark white paint on the wall nearest me. The mirror-bright silver of the bed’s guardrails. The heavy black phone, weighing down the blanket on my legs. Then I study the monitor again, amazed at how a heart can remain beating long after it’s been broken.

My side hurts. Red blood flecks the white bandage. A deeper burn stings somewhere on the inside. Maybe an infection’s already building. It’ll taint my blood, shut down my vital organs. I’ll die in this room, and never have to go home.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan, the little boy who loves you.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

Knock knock.

Then it comes to me. Fuzzy at first, but with growing certainty. I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to lead this life. I need a new approach, a new attitude. I need to move, even if it kills me, because God knows, I’m already dying on the inside.

I think of summer sand. I remember the first time I held both of my children. And I remember the look on Michael’s face the day he left me.

So many dreams that never came true. So much love I gave away, that never returned to me.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Victoria.

Victoria who?

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question? Victoria who?

I need to get out of here. Then, suddenly, absolutely, I know what I’m going to do.





| CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE





Meditation turned out to be a complicated matter, which must explain why D.D. never did it. There was much settling of oneself into a comfortable position, most of the staff members opting to sit on the floor, the pros in fancy lotus positions, the less converted sprawling casually, their backs against a wall.