Redemption Road(47)

The basement was done.

Over.

For an instant, she sensed Beckett behind her, his voice in the stairwell, then on the street. She moved faster, slid into the car, then gunned it, seeing his face as a white blotch, his hands rising and then down. She drove fast and let the car do the talking. Rubber at the corners. Engine on the flats. Her skin still burned, but it was more like shame and rage and self-loathing.

DNA on the wire.

Her hand hit the wheel.

She wanted to move and keep moving. Barring that, she wanted to get drunk. She wanted to be alone in the dark, to sit in a chair and feel the weight of a glass in her hand. The memory would still be there, but the colors would dim; the Monroe brothers would fade; the carousel would stop.

Beckett, however, had other ideas. His car hit the driveway twenty seconds behind her own. “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

“I heard what they said.” Beckett stopped at the bottom step. “Through the door, I heard it.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, I don’t know what to do.” He looked as ruined as Dyer as he tried and failed to keep his eyes off the place her hands joined her arms. “Liz, Jesus…”

“Whatever they’re talking about has nothing to do with me. I’m a cop. I’m fine.”

“If something happened—”

“I shot them like I said. I don’t regret it. I would do it again. Beyond that, there’s no story. Good guys won. The girl’s alive.”

“And if the girl was talking? If Hamilton and Marsh could get through her father’s lawyers?”

“She’d say the same thing.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. The way things are with you two.” He tilted his large head, and shadows moved on the broken landscape of his face. “You make it easy to believe the worst.”

“Because we look out for each other?”

“Because when you talk, you use the same words. You should look at your statements. Put them side by side and tell me what you see. Same words. Same phrasing.”

“Coincidence.”

“Show me your wrists.”

“No.”

He reached for her arm, and she slapped him so hard the sound itself was like a shot. They froze in the silence that followed. Partners. Friends. Momentary enemies.

“I deserved that,” Beckett said.

“You’re goddamn straight.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“Go away, Charlie.”

“No.”

“It’s late.”

She fumbled with keys, and Beckett watched from the fog of his discontent. When the door closed between them, he raised his voice. “You should have called me, Liz! You should have never gone in alone!”

“Go home, Beckett.”

“I’m your partner, damn it. We have procedures.”

“I said, go home!”

She put her weight on the door, felt the crush of her heart and wood against her skin. Beckett was still outside, standing and watching. By the time he left, she was shaking and didn’t know why.

Because people suspected?

Because her skin still burned?

“Past is past.” She closed her eyes and said it again. “Past is past and now is now.”

“Is that how you do it?”

The voice came from a dark corner beyond the sofa, and Liz’s hand touched checkered wood before she cataloged it. “Damn it, Channing.” She took her fingers off the pistol grip, flipped on an overhead light. “What the hell are you doing?”

The girl’s feet were pulled up in the well of a deep chair. She wore jeans and chipped polish and canvas sneakers. The same hooded sweatshirt framed her eyes. Bright as they were, the girl still looked haunted, her narrow shoulders rolled inward, a kitchen knife in the knot of a single hand. “I’m sorry.” She put the knife on the arm of the chair. “I don’t do well with angry men.”

Elizabeth locked the door. Crossing the room, she collected the knife and put it on the kitchen table. “How did you get in here?”

“You weren’t home.” Channing hooked a thumb. “I jimmied the window.”

“Since when do you break into people’s houses?”

“Never before tonight. You should have set your alarm, by the way.”

“Would it have stopped you?”

“I feel safe with you. I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth ran water in the sink, splashed some on her face. She didn’t know if the girl was sorry or not. In the end, it didn’t matter. She was hurting. Like Liz was hurting.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

“No.”

“I’m facing indictment, Channing. You’re a potential witness against me. It would be … unwise.”

“Maybe I’ll run away.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I could do it, you know.” Channing stood and walked along a row of books. “Run away. Check the hell out.” The profanity seemed wrong in such a young and flawless mouth, and the girl spoke as if she could see Elizabeth’s thoughts. “Tell me you don’t think about it. Tell me you weren’t just thinking about it.” Channing flicked fingers toward the door, meaning Beckett and the conversation and the mantra that bordered on prayer. “Leaving this place. Disappearing.”