Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(120)

No more.

I want to buy a cute town house in a normal neighborhood. Maybe one with a park nearby. And given my improved fortunes, I will have a nanny for the early years, then day care when my child is older. Or maybe I’ll meet a nice older woman who’d love to help out a single mom living on the same block. I will host barbecues where I can get to know my neighbors’ names, and let them learn a little bit about me.

And I won’t stand in a corner anymore. I will step up. I will become part of the world I live in, even when it’s scary. Because life is scary, but it still beats the alternative.

Flora turns down another road, then another.

She’s not humming anymore, but her finger is tapping impatiently on the wheel. We’re getting close, I think. I wonder if Flora knows that she is smiling.

Then a house bursts into view. Two stories, painted a charming yellow with slightly eccentric lavender shutters. The wraparound farmer’s porch offers an array of benches, and rocking chairs with all sorts of brilliantly colored pillows, while the front door is a bright cherry red.

The car hasn’t even parked when the front door bursts open and a woman I can only presume is Flora’s mom comes hopping out, still pulling on her second boot. Half her hair is on top of her head, half is trailing down her back, and she is wearing so many different tops I give up sorting it out. She’s grabbed some kind of man’s checkered blue flannel shirt as her outer layer and is dusting what appears to be flour from her hands.

The parking area has been shoveled for our visit. Now Flora brings my car to a jerking halt.

“My mother, Rosa,” she says, her voice still slightly hoarse. Time, the doctors had told her, had told me. We all need time.

But it’s not her voice that matters. I’m looking at her face, and this is a Flora I’ve never seen. Younger. Lit up. Happy, I think again. But more than that, home.

This is Flora at home.

She already has the car door open, flying across the yard. In the passenger’s seat, I slow, struggling with my seat belt. An inner instinct tells me not to rush. I don’t want to miss what’s going to happen next.

A pause. At the last minute, Flora’s mom draws up short. I would swear she’d been about to fling her arms around her daughter, but then caught herself, as if knowing better.

For one moment, Flora’s mother appears awkward, less certain. Yearning. She is staring at her child with clear, deep longing.

My own breath catches in my throat. I wonder if my mother ever looked at me like that. I’m already promising my baby I will always look at him or her with such love.

Then …

Flora closes the distance. Flora throws her arms around her mother and hugs her so hard, so tight. On and on and on.

Rosa closes her eyes. She squeezes back. Even from this distance, I know she is crying. And laughing and crying some more. I blame the baby hormones, but I’m crying, too.

I take my time easing out of the car. I cross the yard more carefully, aware of the snowy footing.

Flora has finally stepped back from her mom.

Rosa is teary-eyed but beaming. She looks at me. She smells of molasses and cinnamon and brown sugar, which are things I’ve been told mothers smell like, but I have never experienced it for myself.

“You,” she says, “must be Evie.”





Acknowledgments


This book has been such an adventure! First off, my deepest appreciation to my editor, Mark Tavani, for keeping me focused and at the computer, even when the book was evil and all my characters hated me (which happens more than you think!). Not just anyone is cut out to deal with the cranky authors of the world. Thank you, Mark, for being the voice of wisdom for me.

On the investigative details front, a big shout-out once again to Lieutenant Michael Santuccio of the Carroll County Sheriff’s Department for educating me on cold cases, prior shootings, and proper procedures for current arrests. Given this book also delves into the nefarious world of the dark web, thank you, Robin Stuart, for helping me understand all the cool ways to scrub a computer, and all the cooler methods forensic techs will use to rebuild a hard drive in the end. Rob Casella from Northledge Technologies also educated me on cloud technology and multifactor identification. In the war of cops versus criminals, I’m happy there are such brilliant people on our side. Oh, please bear in mind that any mistakes in this novel are mine and mine alone. My sources may be an expert, but I am just me.

Under the care and feeding of authors, the list is very long this year. First and foremost, thank you, Laurie Gabriel, for the warm reception from yourself and your family. Thank you to my posse, who always has my back: Michelle, Kerry, Genn, and Sarah. My deepest appreciation to my local family, Pam and Glenda, Bob and Carol, for taking such good care of me, especially this past year. And of course, love and affection for my real family, including my ninety-nine-year-old grandmother, who e-mails me weekly to make sure the book is getting done and my teenage daughter who questions anything and everything but also makes me real chocolate cream pie so at least I have hope of surviving another day.

To my pub team, you are extraordinary. For my agent, Meg, thank you for all the extra guidance and heartfelt support. Finally, I couldn’t have done this without the constant presence of my snoring elderly terrier, Ruby, or the youngsters, Bowie and Annabelle, crashing around the living room. Certainly, life is never boring.

Along those lines, several people joined the bookmaking fun by winning naming rights in this novel. Patty DiPiero won the right to a character of her choice, coming up with Patricia Di Lucca, arsonist investigator extraordinaire. Rhonda Collins won the annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes, nominating her friend Sandi Clipfell as the missing woman, presumed dead. Tina Maracle won the international edition, Kill a Friend, Maim a Mate, naming herself as missing, presumed dead. There are more books to write; who knows what will happen next? But thank you all for your generous support and I hope you enjoy your literary immortality.