Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(82)

Bobby was studying the landscape as well, going over it with his fine sniper’s eye. He looked at D.D., pointed out the first couple of swells, then an even broader rise next to the far edges of the woods. D.D. nodded.

Time to release the hounds.

“You will return to the car now,” D.D. said, not looking at Tessa.

“But—”

“You will return to the car!”

Tessa shut up. D.D. turned back to the assembled team. She spotted an officer in the back, same one who’d worked the murder book at the original crime scene. She waved him over. “Officer Fiske?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You will escort Inmate Leoni back to your cruiser and wait with her there.”

The kid’s face fell. From active search to passive babysitting. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“It’s a big responsibility, escorting a prisoner alone.”

He perked up a little, taking up position at Tessa’s side, one hand on his holster.

Tessa didn’t say anything, just stood there, her face expressionless once more. A cop’s face, D.D. thought suddenly, and for some reason, that made her shiver.

“Thank you,” D.D. said abruptly.

“For what?” Tessa asked.

“Your daughter deserves this. Children shouldn’t be lost in the woods. Now we can bring her home.”

Tessa’s expression cracked. Her eyes went wide, endlessly stark, and she swayed on her feet, might have even gone down, except she shifted her stance and caught herself.

“I love my daughter.”

“We’ll treat her with respect,” D.D. replied, already gesturing to the SAR team, which was starting to re-form itself into a search line at the closest edge of the woods.

“I love my daughter,” Tessa repeated, her tone more urgent. “You think you understand that now, but it’s just the beginning for you. Nine months from now, you’ll be amazed by how little you loved before that, and then a year after that, and then a year after that. Imagine six years. Six whole years of that kind of love …”

D.D. looked at the woman. “Didn’t save her in the end, did it?”

D.D. deliberately turned away from Tessa Leoni and joined the cadaver dogs.





30



Who do you love?

That was the question, of course. Had been from the very beginning—but, of course, Detective D.D. didn’t know that. She thought she was dealing with a typical case of child abuse and homicide. Can’t say that I blame her. God knows, I was called out to enough houses where wan-faced five-year-olds tended their passed-out mothers. I’ve watched a mother slap her son with no more expression than swatting a fly. Seen children bandage their own scrapes because they already knew their mothers didn’t care enough to do it for them.

But I’d tried to warn D.D. I’d rebuilt my life for Sophie. She wasn’t just my daughter, she was the love that finally saved me. She was giggles and joy and pure, distilled enthusiasm. She was anything that was good in my world, and everything worth coming home to.

Who do you love?

Sophie. It has always been Sophie.

D.D. assumed she was seeing the worst a mother could do. She hadn’t realized yet that she was actually witnessing the true lengths a mother would go to for love.

What can I tell you? Mistakes in this business are costly.

I’d returned to Officer Fiske’s police cruiser. Hands shackled at my waist, but legs still free. He seemed to have forgotten that detail, and I didn’t feel compelled to remind him. I sat in the back, working on keeping my body language perfectly still, nonthreatening.

Both doors were open, his and mine. I needed air, I’d told him. I felt sick, like I might vomit. Officer Fiske had given me a look, but had consented, even helped unzip the heavy BPD coat that pinned my arms to my torso.

Now, he sat in the front seat, obviously frustrated and bored. People became cops because they wanted to play ball, not sit on the bench. But here he was, relegated to listening to the game in the distance. The echoing whines of the search dogs, the faint hum of voices in the woods.

“Drew the short straw,” I commented.

Officer Fiske kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Ever done a cadaver recovery?”

He refused to speak; no consorting with the enemy.

“I did a couple,” I continued. “Meticulous work, holding the line. Inch by inch, foot by foot, clearing each area of the grid before moving to the next, then moving to the next. Rescue work is better. I got called up to help locate a three-year-old boy lost by Walden’s Pond. A pair of volunteers finally found him. Unbelievable moment. Everyone cried, except the boy. He just wanted another chocolate bar.”

Officer Fiske still didn’t say anything.

I shifted on the hard plastic bench, straining my ears. Did I hear it yet? Not yet.

“Got kids?” I asked.

“Shut up,” Officer Fiske growled.

“Wrong strategy,” I informed him. “As long as you’re stuck with me, you should engage in conversation. Maybe you’re the lucky one who will finally earn my trust. Next thing you know, I’ll confide to you what actually happened to my husband and child, turning you into an overnight hero. Something to think about.”

Officer Fiske finally looked at me.