Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(46)

The problem started when Justin asked me for a spoon.

He wanted to test the cooked noodles. Could I pass him a spoon?

I stared at him, standing in front of a saucepan of stewed tomatoes, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember…a spoon, a spoon, a spoon?

“Libby,” he said.

I stared at him, more and more curiously.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Burner’s too hot.” He reached in front of me, turned the dial down. That made sense to me. The dial controlled the fire, the fire controlled heat, and I didn’t want my sauce to burn.

But then Justin ruined the moment, by asking me again for a spoon. I turned to him in near exasperation.

“I don’t have a sfpoof,” I heard myself say.

“A what?”

“A sfpoof.”

That didn’t sound right. I frowned. Ashlyn was staring at me. Z, too. My head hurt. I put a hand to my forehead, and realized I was now swaying on my feet.

Z approached me.

“Tell me your name,” he ordered.

“Kathryn Chapman,” I said tiredly.

My husband paled, though I wasn’t sure why.

“Mom?”

Z touched me. I flinched, couldn’t help myself. That cobra, those fangs, those gleaming scales…

My back hit the hot-burning, bubbling sauce.

“Libby!”

Justin jerked me to the side, away from the stove. Then Z placed his fingers around my eyeball and steadily pulled my eyelids open.

I think I whimpered. Someone did.

“How hard did that f*cker hit you?” Z murmured. “Count to ten.”

I stared at him blankly, trying to disappear into my husband, who stood beside me solidly now, arm around my shoulders for support. I wished I could turn in to him. When we were first dating, I’d loved to tuck my body into him, the feeling of his hard planes against my softer build. Two pieces of a puzzle that clicked into place. He had made me feel safe then, and I could use a feeling of safety right about now.

His fingertips curled around my shoulder. A subtle squeeze of reassurance, and I felt the weight of his earlier promise. He would keep Ashlyn and me safe. He had sworn it.

“One, two…,” Z prodded.

“Eight?” I whispered.

“Ah, crap.” Z stepped back, looked at Justin. “I think your wife has a concussion.”

“I think your psycho gave it to her. Can’t you control your own men?”

“Apparently, no more than you can control your own family. No matter. Radar’s a crack medic. He can handle her.”

Z made a motion with his hand toward the camera in the ceiling. An electronic eye to go with the snake’s eye, I thought, feeling my mind spiral further away. Justin led me to a stool, telling Ashlyn to please stir the sauce. Then, he left me, and I was once more all alone, watching the overhead lights bounce crazily off miles and miles of stainless steel, and I was going to be sick except what was the point? In the past twenty-four hours, I had thrown up way more than I’d taken in. I tried to explain that to my churning, twisting stomach, as I sat and watched my husband lift the heavy pot of pasta off the stove, carry it to the sink and dump it into a colander. Then Ashlyn, voice sounding stilted, said the sauce was done, except she was staring at me, not the sauce at all, and in her eyes I saw worry and anger and fear, and that made my head ache more. I didn’t want my child worried and angry and afraid. I was supposed to take care of her. Wasn’t I?

Justin and I against the world.

Justin clicked off the burner and Radar walked through the kitchen doors.

He looked me up and down, seemed to study my eyes, then nodded to himself.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“Spfoof,” I said.

“Excellent. I’ll help get you there.”

“We’ll all go,” Justin started.

“You will sit,” Z instructed firmly. “Your daughter will sit. Eat. Last chance you’re gonna get. Radar, tend to business.”

The kid put his shoulder under my arm, helped me to standing. I only swayed once, then the world righted itself. Walking wasn’t so hard. No need to think, just place one foot after the other.

Except my footsteps carried me away from my family. I felt like I should say something. Try to communicate some message of hope, reassurance. Or maybe even love. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it? On this eve of our lives falling apart, shouldn’t I be able to call out across the void, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.

Forgive me.

I left my husband and daughter sitting at the stainless steel counter.

And as so often was the case these days, none of us said a word.


IF THE MOTHBALLED PRISON had an impressive commercial-grade kitchen, the infirmary was equally state-of-the-art. Radar led me straight into an exam room, complete with stainless steel sink and locked drawers filled with all sorts of interesting equipment. The bed appeared bolted to the floor. Maybe so you didn’t float away.

Radar checked my pulse, my blood pressure, then shone a pinpoint light straight into my eyeballs. I bit my lower lip to keep from screaming in pain. Next, he started to inspect my skull with his fingers, working them through my unkempt, uncombed, dirty-blond hair. I felt self-conscious until his fingers landed on a spot behind my ear. This time, I did cry out, and he hastily withdrew his hands.