Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(14)

Leoni turned to Trooper Lyons. She grabbed his beefy hands, peering up at him desperately. “She’s gotta be safe, right? You would keep her safe, right? You would take care of her? Bring her home. Before dark, Shane. Before dark. Please, please, I’m begging you, please.”

Lyons didn’t seem to know how to respond or handle the outburst. He remained holding Leoni’s shoulders, meaning D.D. was the one who grabbed the waste bucket and got it under the ashen-faced woman just in time. Leoni puked until she dry-heaved, then puked a little more.

“My head,” she groaned, already sagging back into the love seat.

“Hey, who’s disrupting our patient? Anyone who’s not an EMT, out!” Marla and her partner had returned. They muscled into the room, Marla giving D.D. a pointed glance. D.D. and Bobby took the hint, turning toward the adjoining kitchen.

But Leoni, of all people, grabbed D.D.’s wrist. The strength in her pale hand startled D.D., brought her up short.

“My daughter needs you,” the officer whispered, as the EMTs took her other hand and started administering the IV.

“Of course,” D.D. said stupidly.

“You must find her. Promise me!”

“We’ll do our best—”

“Promise me!”

“Okay, okay,” D.D. heard herself say. “We’ll find her. Of course. Just … get to the hospital. Take care of yourself.”

Marla and her partner moved Leoni to the backboard. The female officer was still thrashing, trying to push them away, trying to pull D.D. closer. It was hard to say. In a matter of seconds, the EMTs had her strapped down and were out the door, Trooper Lyons following stoically in her wake.

The lawyer stayed behind, holding out a card as they stepped from the sunroom back into the home. “I’m sure you understand none of that was admissible. Among other things, my client never waived her rights, and oh yes, she’s suffering from a concussion.”

Having gotten his say, the lawyer also departed, leaving D.D. and Bobby standing alone next to the kitchen. D.D. didn’t have to cover her nose anymore. She was too distracted from the interview with Officer Leoni to notice the smell.

“Is it just me,” D.D. said, “or does it look like someone took a meat mallet to Tessa Leoni’s face?”

“And yet there’s not a single cut or scrape on her hands,” Bobby provided. “No broken nails or bruised knuckles.”

“So someone beat the shit out of her, and she never lifted a hand to stop it?” D.D. asked skeptically.

“Until she shot him dead,” Bobby corrected mildly.

D.D. rolled her eyes, feeling perplexed and not liking it. Tessa Leoni’s facial injuries appeared real enough. Her fear over her daughter’s disappearance genuine. But the scene … the lack of defensive wounds, a trained officer who went first for her gun when she had an entire duty belt at her disposal, a female who’d just given such an emotional statement while studiously avoiding all eye contact …

D.D. was deeply uncomfortable with the scene, or maybe, with a fellow female officer who’d grabbed her arm and basically begged D.D. to find her missing child.

Six-year-old Sophie Leoni, who was terrified of the dark.

Oh God. This case was gonna hurt.

“Sounds like she and the husband got into it,” Bobby was saying. “He overwhelmed her, knocked her to the floor, so she went for her gun. Only afterward did she discover her daughter missing. And realize, of course, that she’d just killed the only person who could probably tell her where Sophie is.”

D.D. nodded, still considering. “Here’s a question: What’s a trooper’s first instinct—to protect herself or to protect others?”

“Protect others.”

“And what’s a mother’s first priority? Protect herself or protect her child?”

“Her child.”

“And yet, Trooper Leoni’s daughter is missing, and the first thing she does is notify her union rep and find a good lawyer.”

“Maybe she’s not a very good trooper,” Bobby said.

“Maybe, she’s not a very good mother,” D.D. replied.





6



I fell in love when I was eight years old. Not the way you think. I had climbed the tree in my front yard, taking a seat on the lower branch and staring down at the tiny patch of burnt-out lawn below me. Probably, my father was at work. He owned his own garage, opening up shop by six most mornings and not returning till after five most nights. Probably, my mother was asleep. She passed the days in the hushed darkness of my parents’ bedroom. Sometimes, she’d call to me and I’d bring her little things—a glass of water, a couple of crackers. But mostly, she waited for my father to come home.

He’d fix dinner for all of us, my mother finally shuffling out of her dark abyss to join us at the little round table. She would smile at him, as he passed the potatoes. She would chew mechanically, as he spoke gruffly of his day.

Then, dinner completed, she would return to the shadows at the end of the hall, her daily allotment of energy all used up. I’d wash dishes. My father would watch TV. Nine p.m., lights out. Another day done for the Leoni family.

I learned early on not to invite over classmates. And I learned the importance of being quiet.

Now it was hot, it was July, and I had another endless day stretching out before me. Other kids were probably living it up at summer camp, or splashing away at some community pool. Or maybe, the really lucky ones, had happy, fun parents who took them to the beach.