When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(8)

She’d never meant for it to happen. In fact, once upon a time her life had fallen into three carefully planned phases: work, work, and work. She indulged in the occasional all-you-can-eat buffet, because a girl needed a hobby. Or maybe that was her shoe fetish. But either way, she’d spent the majority of her adult life happily kicking ass and taking names. Some of her fellow investigators found her obsessive, if not prickly. Not her problem. Following an on-the-job injury, she’d become a supervisor of homicide—technically a step up, though the truth was that D.D. was happier in the field than behind a desk. Her former squad mates, Phil and Neil (and now petite, perky, pain-in-the-ass Carol), had finally gotten used to her hands-on ways.

Today’s phone call from SSA Kimberly Quincy—inviting D.D. to join a major taskforce that was re-opening several cold cases attached to an infamous predator—was the stuff of policing legend. D.D. should be thrilled, giddy, dancing in her brand-new smooth-as-butter black leather boots. Except, of course, she’d fallen in love.

She’d had to return home. Alex, her crime analyst husband who taught at the police academy, totally understood the demands of her job. He’d been the same way once. Now, at this phase of life, he could afford to slow down, admire her zeal, and smile at her in such a way that stated I told you so without him ever having to utter the words.

What had brought her low? Totally captured her heart, then ripped it from her chest, so that every day she had to leave it behind? They had a son. Six-year-old, hyper, adorable Jack. Who raced around the house in Avengers pajamas with his favorite canine sidekick, Kiko. Jack jumped, their spotted rescue pup jumped higher. Jack sprinted across their fenced-in yard, Kiko ran faster. Jack wasn’t into shoes, but Kiko certainly loved to gnaw on an expensive pair of heels, which Jack then quickly hid under beds and behind sofas, anything to cover for his partner in crime.

Jack was silly, wild, and way too charming for D.D.’s or Alex’s mental health.

Which made it so hard to stand in the family room and state, “Mommy has to go away for a few days. Probably a week.”

Jack approached it smartly: no immediate waterworks. Instead, he’d played the brave young man. Head up, shoulders back.

“Okay, Mommy. If that’s what you have to do to catch the bad guys . . .”

While his lower lip trembled. Then, suddenly flinging himself sideways, he wrapped his skinny body around Kiko’s seated form.

“At least I still have you, girl. I know you’ll never leave me.”

He aimed a single glance over his shoulder to see if D.D. had caught the show.

Leaning against the wall, Alex broke into mild applause and congratulated Jack on his performance. Which made both D.D. and Jack glare at him with uncomfortable similarity.

“Your mom’s gotta go,” Alex chided their son. “Now give her a hug and stop auditioning for Broadway.”

Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, the six-year-old had forced himself to his feet. He gave his mother a pat on the back.

“I will miss you,” he declared stoically. “Please text.”

“How much TV is he watching?” D.D. demanded of Alex.

Her husband shrugged. “So many superheroes, so little time.”

“I will be home as soon as I can,” D.D. told her son.

“Sure,” Jack sniffed.

D.D. found herself turning to the dog—honestly, the shoe-eating canine—for moral support. Kiko gave D.D. her back.

“Well then,” D.D. said, addressing her husband. “Will you at least take my calls?”

“Always,” Alex assured her. “I’ll even accept FaceTime.”

“At least someone still loves me.”

Alex put an arm around her shoulders. “The heartbreak of little boys,” he murmured in her ear.

“Parenthood ain’t for sissies,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

He kissed her softly. “You know he’ll get over it in another minute. Go get ’em, slugger. We’re both proud of you.”

“Three to four days,” she muttered. “Seven tops.”

“Federal taskforce?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna catch a bad guy? Maybe even bring some poor lost person home?”

“I hope so.”

“Then don’t worry about us. Your menfolk will be fine. Though I make no promises about too much TV or Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”

D.D. shrugged. “I like Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”

“Perfect, we’ll blame you.”

Which is how D.D. found herself back in her car, travel bag beside her, returning to BPD headquarters with one more awkward conversation to go. Love, such a complicated and powerful emotion. Able to topple the strongest among us, to waylay the unsuspecting, and to wriggle deep inside a woman heretofore laser-focused on her career.

It all made sense till Flora Dane sauntered into BPD headquarters with Keith Edgar at her side. One look at the tightness in her shoulders, the bounce in his step, the way they both glanced at each other while trying not to glance at each other, and D.D. was forced to remember the other half of love. The part that didn’t bloom and grow. The colder, starker truth that love could cost you everything.

And often did.



* * *



—

D.D. LED FLORA AND KEITH to the homicide division’s suite upstairs. Both had been there before, and while D.D. would like to say the bump up to sergeant meant she could now host meetings in her massive office, she could barely stand with a fellow detective in the closet-sized space. Instead, D.D. led Flora and Keith to the glass-doored conference room, which—like the rest of the building—resembled an insurance company more than an urban police force. For that matter, the homicide unit had blue carpet and cubicles that screamed staid corporate job. Some of the detectives had strewn crime scene tape and blood spatter photos all over their padded gray walls just to keep their sanity. Humor was an investigative necessity.