by Lisa Gardner
There are things I’ll never know. When carrying me into Evan’s house, Andrew urged me to open my heart, to find the light. Was that the real Andrew pushing through, trying to help me survive? Or did my father simply assume that if he could get me to visit the land of interplanes, he could hurt me, too?
Don’t know.
Is my father back in the abyss, even now waiting for the next corporal existence? I know I saw him that night, his eyes shining from Andrew’s face. And I know I felt my mother, Natalie, Johnny, even Sheriff Wayne. Or maybe I just wanted to feel them. Maybe it was the illusion of seeing them that gave me strength. Then again, I found the gun. Surely that argues for my father’s involvement, or I had a way-lucky guess.
I go back and forth, a thirty-four-year-old skeptic, discovering late in life that some part of her wants to believe.
I feel different these days. I remember my family more often, and with less pain. I’ve lost my mother and siblings, and yet they’re still with me.
Maybe there really are angels? Or maybe I’ve finally completed the five stages of grief?
Don’t know.
What about Andrew? Assuming his soul was hijacked by my father’s, did the end of corporal existence finally set him free? I asked Evan one day. He told me Andrew is an angel, and he talked to him just last night. Evan seemed relaxed about it, so I let it go. Evan’s word is good enough for me.
The state buried Lucy. We took up a collection to pay for the marker. I ordered it shaped in the form of a sleeping cat, though the granite guy thought I was nuts. After her funeral, a giant rainbow appeared on the horizon. Strictly speaking, rainbows are a matter of light hitting water particles. I decided to view it as Lucy’s spirit, granting us one last smile.
Maybe I do know.
I have a date.
He’s handsome, solid, and currently unemployed. Karen fired Greg four weeks ago, saying his violation of unit policy left her no choice. Greg’s thinking of either returning to school to become a psych nurse like me, or establishing a full-time respite-care business. In the meantime, he’s busy assisting various families and soon, of course, he’ll be even busier having sex with me.
I have moments when I’m still angry. I hate how easy it is for a parent to destroy the life of a child. I still see cases that break my heart. And I still make sure I walk way around any sewer grates.
But I get up each morning. And I find myself making the same vow each night.
I’m going to live with more light in my heart. I’m going to continue my work with troubled kids. And I’m going to fall in love with a really good man.
I’m the lone survivor, and this is what I’ve lived to tell.
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When you hear of a first-grader being expelled for violence, you have a tendency to think of a kid with those parents. You know, the parents who don’t care, aren’t engaged, are perhaps violent themselves. So I was shocked two years ago when the troubled kid wasn’t a stranger, but the son of a good friend. As parents went, she and her husband were caring, resourceful, and involved. And they still felt they were losing the war to save their child.
I’m indebted to this family for sharing their experiences with me. Their sessions with various specialists. Their multiple stays in a locked-down pediatric psych ward. And yes, their interaction with a spiritual healer who they believe has done the most to reach their child. They shared their story in hopes of garnering more understanding for mentally ill children and their often overwhelmed caretakers.
They’d like you to know that not all kids who can’t sit still are brats. Not all kids who refuse to sleep are troublemakers. And not all kids who scream at the top of their lungs are disobedient.
They’re kids. And they’re trying. And so are their parents.
My deepest appreciation to Kathy Regan and her staff at the Child Assessment Unit in Cambridge, Massachusetts. They tirelessly answered my questions, while allowing me to spend time on a real psychiatric ward. I could not have created my fictional psychiatric children’s ward, PECB of the Kirkland Medical Center, without the benefit of learning about their experiences and approaches. While I allowed the fictional PECB to use a progressive approach inspired by CAU’s impressive work, the center itself, its staff, and their actions are purely products of my (highly disturbed) imagination and bear no resemblance to the first-class operation run by Kathy and her staff at CAU.
For anyone who’d like more information on the CAU’s progressive approach, I recommend Opening Our Arms: Helping Troubled Kids Do Well, by Kathy Regan. I also recommend The Explosive Child, by Dr. Ross W. Greene, for a detailed look at the collaborative problem-solving (CPS) approach.
On the more mundane side of research, a happy shout-out to my favorite pharmacist, Margaret Charpentier, who once again helped me pick the perfect poison. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten to collaborate. I think the results are fun, as always.
Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy: Congratulations to Audi Solis for being chosen as the sixth annual Lucky Stiff. I hope you enjoy your grand end. Sharing the fun across the Atlantic, Jo Rhodes won the Kill a Friend, Maim a Mate. According to Eleane Rhodes, it was the least I could do.
For anyone else who wants in on the action, the next sweepstakes should be up and running by September. Visit www.LisaGardner.com for more info.
Under “Care and Feeding of Authors,” thank you to Michael Carr, whose pen functions more like a scalpel when editing a manuscript. I cried only for a little bit, and the book is better for it. My appreciation to my first readers, Kathleen, Barbara, and Diana, for doing an excellent job, as always, with the page proofs. And finally, the big guns—I couldn’t do this without Meg, Kate, and the support of my entire publishing team. Thank you for making the magic happen.
On the home front, my love to my patient husband and my not very patient but always adorable child.
Finally, this book is in memory of Michael Clemons, a good man, gone too soon. We miss you.
Lisa Gardner on Detective D.D. Warren
D.D. Warren really exists. When I first named the hardened Boston detective in my 2005 novel, Alone, after a family friend, I wasn’t thinking additional novels or potential series character. I was thinking I needed a city cop for a single murder scene that fell in Boston jurisdiction. I liked the idea of a tough female who’d give my sniper hero, Bobby Dodge, a run for his money. I added stilettos, a killer leather jacket and next thing I knew, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren took on a life of her own.
Turns out, she loves to eat, mostly because her job doesn’t leave her any time for sex. She doesn’t have pets, doesn’t trust herself with plants, and considers her three-man homicide squad to be her primary family. She’s not exactly a people-person, but she’s a first crack detective who, over the years, has handled the murder investigation of six girls, the disappearance of a South Boston wife, and a string of family annihilations that has left eleven people dead.
Which is funny, as the real D.D. Warren is known for her lush garden, her scrumptious baking skills, and her generous spirit. On the other hand, she is blonde, beautiful, and brilliant, so I like to think fictional D.D. Warren would be proud of her. She also has a great selection of shoes.
I gave my fictional character a friend’s real name because I like to do that kind of thing. My books are generally populated with old high school chums, various long lost relatives, and of course, the annual winners of my Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes (www.LisaGardner.com). It takes a lot of bodies to populate a busy suspense novel, and I can’t spend that much time creating new names. My brain is occupied by other Important Ideas, like how to kill them all off.
Which is how happy homemaker D.D. Warren became tough Boston Detective D.D. Warren, due to next save the city in my March 2011 release Love You More. It’s very satisfying when a character surprises me. And it’s very gratifying to have such an understanding friend.
Lisa Gardner 21
February 2010
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Read on for a preview from Lisa Gardner’s upcoming novel
LOVE YOU MORE
Available March 2011
PROLOGUE
Who do you love?
It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing.
Who do you love?
He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip.
“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent.
My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason.
He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”
“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”
“Belt. On the table. Now.”
“No.”
“GUN. On the table. NOW!”
In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side.
I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting.
Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished.
Who do you love?
He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?
“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”
I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered.
Love you, more, baby. Love you, more.
His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon.
One last chance …
I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time.
Who do you love?
I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table.
And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire.
1
SERGEANT DETECTIVE D.D. WARREN prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasn’t simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then they’d definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here. D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of blood—which, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.
Today, however, she wasn’t going to do any of those things. Today, she was spending a lazy Sunday morning dressed in gray sweats and Alex’s oversized red flannel shirt. She was camped at his kitchen table, clutching a thick clay coffee mug while counting slowly to twenty.
She’d hit thirteen. Alex had finally made it to the front door. Now he paused to wind a deep blue scarf around his neck.
She counted to fifteen.
He finished with the scarf. Moved on to a black wool hat and lined leather gloves. The temperature outside had just crept above twenty. Eight inches of snow on the ground and six more forecasted to arrive by end of week. March didn’t mean spring in New England.
Alex taught crime-scene analysis, among other things, at the Police Academy. Today was a full slate of classes. Tomorrow, they both had the day off, which didn’t happen much and warranted some kind of fun activity yet to be determined. Maybe ice skating in the Boston Commons. Or a trip to the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum. Or a lazy day where they snuggled on the sofa and watched old movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
D.D.’s hands spasmed on the coffee mug. Okay, no popcorn.
D.D. counted to eighteen, nineteen, twent—
Alex finished with his gloves, picked up his battered black leather tote, and crossed to her.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he said.
He kissed her on the forehead. D.D. closed her eyes, mentally recited the number twenty, then started counting back down to zero.
“I’ll write you love letters all day, with little hearts over the ‘i’s,” she said.
“In your high school binder?”
“Something like that.”
Alex stepped back. D.D. hit fourteen. Her mug trembled, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. She took a deep breath and soldiered on. Thirteen, twelve, eleven …
She and Alex had been dating a little over six months. At that point where she had a whole drawer to call her own in his tiny ranch, and he had a sliver of closet space in her North End condo. When he was teaching, it was easier for them to be here. When she was working, it was easier to be in Boston. They didn’t have a set schedule. That would imply planning and further solidify a relationship they were both careful to not overly define.
They enjoyed each other’s company. Alex respected her crazy schedule as a homicide detective. She respected his culinary skills as a third-generation Italian. From what she could tell, they looked forward to the nights when they could get together, but survived the nights when they didn’t. They were two independent-minded adults. She’d just hit forty, Alex had crossed that line a few years back. Hardly blushing teens whose every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of each other. Alex had been married before. D.D. simply knew better.
She lived to work, which other people found unhealthy, but what the hell. It had gotten her this far.
Nine, eight, seven …
Alex opened the front door, squaring his shoulders against the bitter morning. A blast of chilled air shot across the small foyer, hitting D.D.’s cheeks. She shivered, clutched the mug more tightly.
“Love you,” Alex said, stepping across the threshold.
“Love you, too.”
Alex closed the door. D.D. made it down the hall just in time to vomit.
Ten minutes later, she remained sprawled on the bathroom floor. The decorative tiles were from the seventies, dozens and dozens of tiny beige, brown, and harvest gold squares. Looking at them made her want to puke all over again. Counting them, however, was a pretty decent meditative exercise. She inventoried tiles while she waited for her flushed cheeks to cool and her cramped stomach to untangle.
Her cellphone rang. She eyed it on the floor, not terribly interested, given the circumstances. But then she noted the caller and decided to take pity on him.
“What?” she demanded, her usual greeting for former lover and currently married Massachusetts State Police Detective Bobby Dodge.
“I don’t have much time. Listen sharp.”
“I’m not on deck,” she said automatically. “New cases go to Jim Dunwell. Pester him.” Then she frowned. Bobby couldn’t be calling her about a case. As a city cop, she took her orders from the Boston turret, not state police detectives.
Bobby continued as if she’d never spoken: “It’s a fuckup, but I’m pretty sure it’s our fuckup
, so I need you to listen. Stars and stripes are next door, media across the street. Come in from the back street. Take your time, notice everything. I’ve already lost vantage point, and trust me, D.D., on this one, you and I can’t afford to miss a thing.”
D.D.’s frown deepened. “What the hell, Bobby? I have no idea what you’re talking about, not to mention it’s my day off.”
“Not anymore. BPD is gonna want a woman to front this one, while the state is gonna demand their own skin in the game, preferably a former trooper. The brass’s call, our heads on the block.”
She heard a fresh noise now, from the bedroom. Her pager, chiming away. Crap. She was being called in, meaning whatever Bobby was babbling about had merit. She pulled herself to standing, though her legs trembled and she thought she might puke again. She took the first step through sheer force of will and the rest was easier after that. She headed for the bedroom, a detective who’d lost days off before and would again.
“What do I need to know?” she asked, voice crisper now, phone tucked against her shoulder.
“Snow,” Bobby muttered. “On the ground, trees, windows … hell. We got cops tramping everywhere—”
“Get ’em out! If it’s my fucking scene, get ’em all away.”
She found her pager on the bedside table—yep, call out from Boston operations—and began shucking her gray sweatpants.
“They’re out of the house. Trust me, even the bosses know better than to contaminate a homicide scene. But we didn’t know the girl was missing. The uniforms sealed off the house, but left the yard fair play. And now the grounds are trampled, and I can’t get vantage point. We need vantage point.”