by Matthew Iden
Elliott reached out, squeezed the other man’s arm. “Don’t ponder the what-ifs. Deal in the moment.”
“The inside of my head is no playground,” Dave said, his voice husky, “but how did I turn out the way I did? Why couldn’t Kim get past what our mother did and I could?”
“There’s no way to know. How do you measure intent against action? Kim did all the wrong things for what she thought were the right reasons. If we could talk to her now, I think she’d still say everything she did was for the children.”
“My god. Mother used to say that.”
“I’m rusty, but I have some time slots open if you need help working through that. People tell me I used to be a pretty good psychologist, once.”
Dave gave him a look, then they both laughed ruefully.
Dave buttoned his peacoat to the neck. “Can I . . . drop you off somewhere?”
Elliott shook his head. “I’m good.”
“Good. ’Night, Elliott.”
“Good night, Dave. Thank you.”
Dave threw him a wave as he trotted down the steps to his car. Elliott watched him leave, then went back inside and lowered himself onto a milk crate across from Lacey and Amy.
“I’m so embarrassed,” Amy said, looking at him balancing precariously on the plastic bin. “I can’t believe I made you sit on that thing.”
“I can handle it. Dave, on the other hand, must’ve gained forty pounds since I worked with him. He’s as big as a beach ball.”
Lacey laughed, surprising them, then covered her mouth to smother the sound. Gently, Amy reached out and peeled the little hand away. “You don’t have to do that anymore, baby. You make as much noise as you want.”
“I will.” Lacey turned her face toward Elliott. “Did I hear you say Jay was doing better?”
Elliott smiled at her. “He is. Detective Cargill and I were talking about maybe getting you up there for a visit if it’s okay with your mom. And Jay’s parents, of course. We might even be able to get some of the others there, so you can see you’re all safe now.”
The girl’s face, a younger version of Amy’s, screwed up with uncertainty. “I don’t know if I can. I wasn’t very . . . nice to any of them.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I—I wanted to make Sister happy, to please her, and didn’t know any other way to . . . to . . .”
Amy reached over and pulled Lacey close, and this time her daughter collapsed in on her mother and they held each other tight. Elliott made a motion to get up again, but Amy stopped him with a wave. He sat in silence until Lacey’s sobs slowed to a sniffle. She had a lot of trauma to get past—they both did—but, looking at the two of them, Elliott knew that if any mother could save her child twice, it was the one he was looking at now.
Amy cleared her throat, then asked Lacey, now that they’d had Chinese, what would she rather have for her first real night out, her birthday night: tacos or pizza? The question sparked a long debate on the merits of both and whether there was a third kind of food that should be included. Elliott tossed in a comment from time to time but let the other two do most of the talking, content to observe a normal conversation, the kind that could be held in any living room anywhere.
The final decision was that pizza was easier to eat than tacos, which broke apart and got all over your hand, so overall pizza was the superior food and would be the choice on their big night out.
Lacey turned to Elliott. “You’ll come with us, won’t you, Mr. Elliott?”
He traded glances with Amy, who smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t miss it. Just let me know when we’re going.”
The two talked about all the things they were going to do together to make up for the lost time. A strange falling feeling blossomed in his chest as he listened to himself being included in their plans. Amy shot him a look as he stood and headed for the door again. “I’ll be back. Just need a minute.”
He stepped outside onto the tiny concrete porch and leaned against the railing. It sagged against his weight, but held. The sky was a cloudless, blue-black winter arc. Stars like pinpricks in a black curtain sparkled and the night was still. Someone had warned them of an impending snowstorm, but he couldn’t see it yet.
Elliott dropped his eyes to the street and watched a light breeze lift the leaves in a patch of cyclone-fenced yard, then pass, letting them drop back to the ground. A shiver ran through him and he shook his head. If he thought this was cold, he’d never make it on the streets this January. If that’s where he was going to be.
Earlier in the night, Amy had told him he had a place with them, if he wanted it. I don’t know what that means, he said. It’s whatever you need it to mean, she’d told him. He had no answer for her, but they’d embraced. Feeling clumsy and self-conscious, he’d tried to pull away after a quick hug, but Amy had held him tightly and refused to let go until he’d said he’d think about it.
Even when they’d separated, she’d held on to him and looked into his eyes. “You know, what we did . . . we saved those kids’ lives. Theirs and more to come. It means something, Elliott.”
“It better,” he’d quipped. “I almost drowned.”
“You know what I’m saying.” She’d grabbed him by the arms and squeezed, hard. “I got my do-over, and I’m not going to blow it this time. You could turn this into your own second chance.”
He paused. “I know.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t know,” Elliott said, looking away. “All I know is that I was supposed to help you find Lacey. We did it. But what does it mean? Nothing will change what happened to me or my little girl. What’s done is done.”
Amy had placed a cool hand on his face. “It’s not about the past, Elliott. It never was.”
And, now, he stared into the sky, watching the unmoving stars wink back at him. Another errant breeze, stronger than the first, blew through, pushing sticks and leaves down the street. It passed, and he was left gazing overhead, looking for answers. They’re not up there, he thought. All our answers are inside.
He rubbed his eyes with a quiet groan. He’d been holding on for so long, he’d almost forgotten how to let go. Maybe all there was left was . . . to do it. He looked up at the sky one last time.
“Good night, Cee Cee,” he whispered. “I love you, honey. I always will.”
Head tilted, he waited. Minutes passed; his fingers and toes went numb and the breeze slid an icy hand down the back of his neck. A shudder rippled through his body. But, at last, the answer came. He let out the breath he’d held in a long, slow sigh, smiled, then turned and went inside, ready to try again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the following people for making Birthday Girl possible.
My wife, Rene, provided the support that—amazingly—seems to come with the territory, but also spent countless hours kicking around various permutations of the book with me during walks around the neighborhood. Thank you, honey.
My extended family at Thomas & Mercer not only brought this particular book into being; they made this phase of my career possible. Endless thanks to Jessica Tribble, Sarah Shaw, Tara de Nicolas-Duckworth, and the entire team at T&M, as well as Amazon Publishing at large.
I owe my developmental editor Caitlin Alexander a byline. Without her help on and belief in the project, Birthday Girl would’ve been just another wreck on the Boulevard of Broken Books. Jon Ford, my copyeditor, saved me from making some colossal mistakes and added immeasurably to the whole. Thank you, Caitlin and Jon, for all your help.
Jacque Ben-Zekry was the first person to see the idea that lurked behind the book and offered me wise counsel on where and how far to push the story, not to mention the key insight that got Sister her job in the court system. Thank you, Jacque, for your help and friendship.
Fellow mystery author, forensic psychologist, and professor Rick Helms was kind enough to give me the benefit of his technical expertise on the psychological results of Sister’s trauma and provided great overall advice besides.
You should read his award-winning books (www.richardhelms.net) and buy him a drink if you see him at a conference. Thank you, Rick.
Jil Simon and Chris Day offered their friendship and several needed conversational distractions from writing, but, most importantly, they dispensed advice on the legal front that proved critical to the book.
Dekey Y. Tenpa and Mike Graham didn’t hesitate to share their experiences in nursing and medicine, which gave me the insight I needed for several key moments in the book. Dave Green of the Arlington PD did likewise on the law enforcement front, as he has for damn near a decade on the weird and wide variety of subjects that only a crime writer can ask.
Dave Jacobstein and Joe Hart read early drafts that helped shape the final outcome and have provided immense help in other ways, as well. Pete Talbot, Amy Talbot, Frank Gallian, and Carie Rothenbacher provided constant friendship and were sounding boards for whole swaths of the book, as they’ve done for years, now. Thank you, dear friends.
I used several sources to research Elliott’s life as a homeless person, but Mike Yankoski’s Under the Overpass: A Journey of Faith on the Streets of America was exceedingly helpful.
For musical inspiration, I can’t recommend the moody and evocative works of Roque Baños and Gustavo Santaolalla enough.
I’ve never thanked the mystery writer community at large before, but this past year has pulled me into the orbit of many writers and fans who are also just wonderful people. Make the time to attend a local or national mystery fiction conference and find out for yourself how open and welcoming this group of people can be.
Lastly, thank you to the readers who’ve made this career possible. Your support means the world to me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Readers who know the area around Washington, DC, may recognize that several landmarks may seem familiar—St. Andrews’ School, Mercy General Hospital, Washington Center Mall, for instance—but they aren’t actually where they’re supposed to be or are slightly off in description or name. This was done intentionally to allow myself some poetic license in where and how I got to represent them in the novel. Please don’t tie yourself in knots trying to place these locales on a map or in your memory; they either don’t exist or not in the way they are in real life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 by Sally Iden
Matthew Iden is the author of the suspense novel The Winter Over, a half dozen books in the Marty Singer detective series, and several acclaimed stand-alone novels. He has visited seven continents, and written on several of them, but lives in Alexandria, Virginia.
Visit him at www.matthew-iden.com, on Facebook at facebook.com/matthew.iden, or on Twitter @CrimeRighter.