by Lisa Gardner
“Danielle, I don’t know exactly what happened that night. I can’t tell you who did what to whom and I won’t tell you any of it was fair. But you’re wrong about your mother. She’d had enough. The day before your father … did what he did, Jenny called me. She wanted the name of a good divorce lawyer. She planned on kicking your father out. She’d had enough.”
“What?”
My aunt hesitated, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “She’d met someone. A good man, she told me. A good man who was willing to help her. She just needed to get her ducks in a row. Then she was going to ask your father for a divorce.”
I didn’t say anything, just stared at my aunt, stunned.
“It might be,” she continued now, “that your mother never confronted your father with your accusations. Maybe, after hearing what you had to say, she was angry enough to kick him out that night. Told him she wanted a divorce. And he …”
I could see it in my mind’s eye. The gun, which I’d carried to the bedroom, now lying on my mother’s nightstand. My mother, yelling at my drunken father to get the hell out. My father, caught off guard, enraged by my mother’s sudden defiance, seeing his own handgun, reaching for it …
Natalie, wondering about the noise. Johnny, curious about the loud pop down the hall.
I loved them. All these years later, I still loved them. If I’d known back then that I had to make the choice between my father’s abuse and my family’s love, I would’ve chosen my family. I would’ve chosen them.
“Danielle,” my aunt tried now, “it’s not your fault.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s been twenty-five years. Will everyone stop telling me that?”
“Will you ever start believing it?”
“We were a family. Everyone’s action is someone else’s reaction. If he hadn’t started drinking, if she hadn’t tried to leave him, if I hadn’t found his damn gun. We might as well have been a row of dominoes. I carried the gun to my parents’ bedroom. I told my mom what he was doing. I tipped the first domino, then we all started to fall.”
“Your father is to blame!” my aunt said sharply.
“Because he killed your sister?” I retorted just as sharply. “Or because he saddled you with his kid?”
My aunt crossed the tiny space in three strides and slapped me. The sting of the blow shocked me. I stared at her, startled by her fury.
“Don’t you dare talk about yourself that way! Goddammit, Danielle. I have loved you since the day you were born. Just as I loved Jenny, and Natalie and Johnny. I would’ve taken you all in. I would’ve stuffed my silly condo to the ceiling with all of you if I’d been given the option. But Jenny had a plan. And being a good older sister, I listened to her plan and trusted her to manage her own life. That’s what family does. Her failings aren’t my failings, nor are they your failings. Life sucks. Your father was a bastard. Now cry, dammit. Let yourself bawl it all out, Danielle. Then let yourself heal. Your mother would’ve wanted that. And Natalie and Johnny would’ve wanted it, too.”
Then, just as quickly as my aunt had slapped me, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight. I didn’t pull away. I could only surrender to her, my aunt, my mother. Things got so blurred with the passage of time.
“I love you,” my aunt whispered against my cheek. “Dear God, Danielle, you are the best thing that ever happened to me, even when you break my heart.”
“I want them back.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I can’t picture them anymore. I see only you.”
“You don’t have to see them, Danielle. Just feel them in your heart.”
“I can’t,” I protested. “It hurts too much. Twenty-five years later, it aches.”
“Then feel the pain. No one ever said family didn’t hurt.”
But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Instead I was in the bedroom again, handing the gun over to my mother. Trusting the woman with my aunt’s eyes to make everything all right.
“Go to bed, sweetheart,” she’d whispered. “Quick. Before he sees you. I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
My mother taking the gun. My mother setting it carefully on the nightstand. Where the clock read …
I froze. Caught the scene in my head, forced it to rewind. My mother, placing the gun in front of her digital clock, red numbers glowing 10:23 p.m. Myself, scurrying down the hall toward bed, where I pulled the covers over my head and blocked out the rest.
10:23 p.m. I’d talked to my mother at 10:23 p.m.
But according to the police report, my family didn’t die until after one a.m., at least two and half hours later.
I pulled away from my aunt. “I need to go.”
“Danielle—”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but you’re right. Someday, it will be. I love you, Aunt Helen. Even when I’m a bitch, I know how lucky I am to have you.”
“Tomorrow,” she said, still holding my hands, “we’ll go together.”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed. Now I pulled my hands free and made my way toward the door, frantic to get out of her house.
I hit the driveway, already punching numbers on my cell phone as I ran for my car. All these years later, I didn’t know his number, so I did the sensible thing and dialed the sheriff’s office. Then, the second I got someone on the phone: “I’m looking for Sheriff Wayne. My name is Danielle Burton and I need to speak with him immediately.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Blood. D.D. noticed it first in the common area. It splattered across one table, dotted a nearby wall, then trailed down the carpeted hall.
“Jesus Christ,” D.D. breathed. She’d been wrong. They didn’t have until six p.m. The evildoer had already struck, while she’d been chattering away in Admin. Shit.
“The kids,” Karen exclaimed immediately. “Where are the kids?”
Just then, another rage-filled scream, high and piercing from down the hall: “No, no, no. Get away. I will kill you. I will EAT YOUR EYEBALLS!”
D.D. and Karen bolted toward the sound, making it partly down the hall before drawing up short. A bathroom loomed to the right. The door was open and an older girl with huge dark eyes and lank brown hair stood in front of the sink, holding a pair of scissors and dripping blood. Outside the bathroom, an older MC was positioned with his hands outstretched, as if to block the girl’s escape.
“Don’t fucking touch me! I’ll punch you in the nuts. I’ll rip off your penis!” The shrieks continued farther down the hall. D.D. shook her head in confusion. So far, she heard one extremely pissed-off young boy, and she saw one very bloody young girl. What the hell?
“Come on, Aimee,” the MC was crooning as D.D. and Karen approached. “Time to hand over the scissors. Everything’s all right. Just take a deep breath and put the scissors down. Nothing we can’t handle here, right? You and me, a few of your favorite coloring books—”
“I WILL DRINK YOUR BLOOD!” the distant boy roared.
Aimee held up her left arm and, deliberately, dragged the blade of the scissors down her forearm. A thin line of red bloomed across her skin. She stared at it with rapt fascination. More lines covered both arms, her cheeks, the exposed column of her throat. Her skin looked like a crazy quilt, seamed with stitches of blood.
A violent crash from the end of the hallway. Something heavy and wooden smashing against a wall. “DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME.”
Aimee jerked toward the sound, then promptly sliced open her collarbone.
“Jesus Christ, get the damn scissors,” D.D. commanded. “What are you waiting for?”
Karen, however, placed a quieting hand on her shoulder.
“Ed?” the nurse manager asked softly.
“Aimee didn’t start it,” the MC murmured back. “Not sure what happened. New kid arrived. Greg was escorting him through the unit, when all of a sudden Benny bolted across the common area into a wall. That set off Jimmy, who started tossing chairs, and everything dis
integrated from there. I was trying to get Jamal back to his room. Cecille had Jimmy in a bear hug, Greg was trying to get the new kid tucked away. Andrew came out to see what he could do, and Jorge socked him in the eye.”
“NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOO!”
“Jorge?” Karen asked in shock. “Hit Andrew?”
“Solid right hook. Who knew? Fortunately, Lightfoot is, as his name implies, light on his feet. He started working with Jorge. I returned from tending Jamal and, lo and behold, discovered that during the ruckus, our friend Aimee got her hands on a pair of scissors.”
“How? We keep the craft supplies locked up.”
Ed stopped staring at Aimee long enough to give his boss an exasperated stare. “News flash, Karen, we’re not exactly at the top of our game. Unit’s a little funky, and that was before Benny tried to fly through Sheetrock.”
“BITCH BITCH BITCH. I WILL RIP OFF YOUR EARS. I WILL BEAT YOUR BRAINS. MASH THEM UP. BRAIN SMOOTHIE. ADD BANANAS. YUM YUM YUM.”
“Oh no.” D.D. finally figured out who was screaming. Benny. The small, dark-eyed boy who liked mashing fruit and playing with cars and making airplane noises. She could tell by Karen’s resigned expression that the head nurse already knew, had figured it out way before D.D. A day in the life.
Ed returned his attention to Aimee, whose dark eyes glazed over as she ran the open scissors along a vein in her neck.
“Hey, Aimee,” Ed said, voice sharper now, commanding the girl’s attention. “I know your safety plan requests that you not be touched. You want to be talked through these episodes. But we’re nearing the end of talking here. What are the rules of this unit? We treat ourselves and one another with respect. You’re not showing yourself respect. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re ignoring my orders. You have until the count of ten, Aimee. Then I come in after you.”
More crashing. Fresh screams, not Benny’s but another child’s as the agitation spread from room to room. Aimee calmly lifted her left hand and sliced open her palm. She inspected the wound, then added a second.
“Take her out,” D.D. hissed in Karen’s ear, practically dancing on the balls of her feet with the need for action. “I’ll grab her, you grab the scissors. Come on!”
Karen curled her fingers on D.D.’s forearm and didn’t let go. “The cuts are mostly shallow and will heal. Betray a child’s trust, however, and we lose months of hard work.…”
“She’s filleting her own skin—”
“Five, six, seven …” Ed intoned.
“No, no, no,” another child wailed down the hall. “Won’t do it! Can’t make me, YOU FUCKING CUNT!”
“Shhh, shhh, shhh …”
“¡Diablo, Diablo, Diablo!”
D.D. didn’t think she could take it. She needed to tackle Aimee and grab the scissors. She needed to dash down the hall and take down crazy Benny. So many places to be, so many things to do. More screaming. Fresh cries. A dark-eyed girl making happy with craft scissors …
“Eight, nine, ten,” Ed completed.
The MC squared his shoulders, took a determined step forward. Aimee raised the scissors. She held them aloft, right above her heart, and in that instant of time, D.D. knew exactly what the girl was going to do.
D.D. started to cry, “Stop!” Started to dash forward. Aimee’s white hand flashed down, bloody scissors slicing through the air—
“I WILL GET YOU ALL. I WILL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU. JUST YOU WAIT JUST YOU WAIT JUST YOU WAIT. I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE—”
Ed grabbed Aimee’s wrist. The burly MC twisted the small girl’s arm behind her back as quickly and effectively as any cop. The girl cried out once. The scissors clattered to the floor. Aimee slumped forward, all fight draining from her body.
“I’ll grab bandages,” Karen said.
While down the hall came a fresh burst of screams.
It took an hour to restore the unit. Children were medicated; soothed with music; bribed with Game Boys; placated with small, quiet spaces; and read endless stories. D.D. paced. Banned from the action, treated as the inexperienced outsiders they were, she and her investigative team prowled the classroom end of the unit, trying to read files, but mostly twitching as various screams, crashes, and thuds echoed across the ward.
D.D. couldn’t sit. Neither could Alex. They roamed the lower hallway, feeling as agitated as the kids.
“Negative energy,” Alex told her, hands deep in his front pockets, restlessly jiggling his loose change.
“Fuck you.”
“Just proved my point.”
“Still fuck you.”
“No inner angel?”
“I will strangle you with my bare hands.”
“Again, score one for the shaman. I haven’t felt a vibe this bad since I visited Souza-Baranowski.” The Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center was Massachusetts’s maximum security prison.
“This is what happens at institutions. One person goes crazy, everyone goes crazy.”
“From shared negative energy,” Alex chirped.
“Seriously, I will strangle you.”
“Or we could find a broom closet and have sex.”
D.D. drew up short. Blinked several times. Was genuinely shocked by how instantaneously she wanted to do exactly that. Rip off Alex’s shirt. Dig her fingers into his shoulders. Ride him like a—
Her expression must’ve given her away, because his eyes darkened. “As much as I’d like to take credit for the look on your face, I think it’s score two for the shaman. In the midst of the negative, we are drawn to the positive. Each action calling for an equal level of reaction.”
“Every act of destruction calling for an equal act of creation?”
“Hell yeah. In a broom closet.”
“Deal.”
Or not. The unit doors opened and Danielle Burton strode into the common area. The nurse spotted the blood and stopped short, just as Andrew Lightfoot appeared in the hall.
D.D. motioned to Alex. They drew back quietly and got ready for the show.
“What happened?” Danielle demanded. “Who’s hurt? How bad?”
“Aimee got her hands on a pair of scissors,” Lightfoot provided, walking toward the dark-haired nurse. He came to a halt just a foot away from Danielle, taking a long drink from his water bottle. He studied her intently. She took a noticeable step back.
“Is Aimee okay?” Danielle asked, refusing to meet Lightfoot’s gaze.
“Well enough,” the healer murmured, dropping his water bottle to his side. “The milieu went acute, each child going off like firecrackers. I’d like to say there were many learning opportunities, but I’m not sure. The energy here … it is all wrong. Toxic. I’ve spent hours trying to cleanse the girl’s room. I can’t make headway. I’m too spent for this deep a taint.”
“You were working in Lucy’s room?” Danielle asked sharply.
“At Karen’s request.”
“You didn’t know her.”
“I’ve met her soul on the interplanes. She said to tell you thank you.”
“Stop.” Danielle walked away, setting her bag down on one of the tables. For the first time, she noticed D.D. and Alex, standing at the classroom end of the hallway. “Don’t you have work to do?” Danielle asked them pointedly.
“Doing it,” D.D. replied. She and Alex remained in place.
“How are you feeling, Danielle?” Lightfoot asked.
“Just fine,” she bit out.
“It’s not polite to lie.”
“It’s not polite to pretend you know me better than I do.”
“If you feel that I’m overstepping, then I apologize. It’s never my intention to cause you discomfort.” Lightfoot positioned himself closer to Danielle, sticking one hand in the pocket of his white linen trousers, the other tapping his water bottle against his leg.
Despite his earlier assertion that his interest in Danielle was purely professional, D.D. decided his gaze looked awfully personal. As if he wanted to step closer to the young nurse, savor the scent of he
r skin.
Danielle, on the other hand, clearly didn’t return the sentiment. She marched over to a set of cabinets, unlocked them, and started to pull out cleaning supplies. She snapped on plastic gloves, then grabbed a disinfectant spray.
“Clean or bounce,” she informed Lightfoot. “Those are the choices.” She turned to D.D. and Alex. “That goes for you two, as well. This is a working psych ward, not an after-dinner show. Earn your keep, or get lost.”
D.D. looked at Alex. He shrugged his agreement, so they crossed the common area and helped themselves to cleaning supplies. A small price to pay.
Apparently, Andrew thought the same. He got his hands on a roll of paper towels. “Your father needs to talk to you—” he started, his attention back on Danielle.
“Not interested.”
“Hatred is a negative energy, Danielle. Denying him only hurts yourself.”
“Stop it. We’ve already had this conversation. Your mumbo jumbo is your business. I’m not going there. For God’s sake, didn’t you do enough damage with Ozzie?”
Lightfoot frowned. D.D. perked up.
“Ozzie made remarkable progress,” the healer told Danielle. “His entire family was on the path to becoming more centered and loving—”
“His entire family is dead.”
“I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure it wasn’t Ozzie’s fault.”
“You’re sure? How? Ozzie’s soul tell you that on the interplanes?”
Good question, D.D. thought.
“Unfortunately,” Lightfoot said, “while souls enter this plane to experience the corporal world, once they leave they show little interest in the physical realities encountered here. Ozzie’s soul is not fixated on corporal death. Instead, he’s moved on to the next set of desired experiences. Which is how it should be.”
“Really?” Danielle mocked, starting to scrub the nearest table. “So Ozzie, a young boy who was brutally murdered, has already moved on, but my father, twenty-five years later, still wants to chat.”
Lightfoot shrugged. “Your father’s soul has unfinished business. The lesson has not been learned. The experience isn’t completed.”