Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [59]
“Siblings?”
“One sister. Younger, of course. I terrorized her for most of our childhood. On the other hand, every time I fell asleep in the family room, she put makeup on my face and took pictures. So I guess it evens itself out. Plus, I’m the only man you’ll ever meet who understands just how hard it is to remove waterproof mascara. And I guess I’ll never run for political office. The photos alone would ruin me.”
“What does she do now?”
“Marybeth’s a kindergarten teacher, so in other words, she’s tougher than most cops. Has gotta be to keep all those little critters in line. Maybe when they fall asleep, she puts makeup on their faces, too. I’m too scared to ask.”
“You’re the only police officer in your family.”
“I have a cuz who’s a fireman. That’s pretty close.”
She smiled again. “They sound like fun.”
“They are,” he agreed, and she heard the genuine affection in his voice. “I mean, they could still use some good training and all. But as families go, they’re keepers. Do you miss your mother and sister?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Should I shut up?”
“Would you obey me if I said yes?”
“No. I suppose I need some training, too. Besides, the stars are out. You should always talk when you’re lying beneath the stars.”
“I hadn’t heard that before,” Kimberly said, but she turned her face up toward the night sky, feeling the hot air against her face, and it did make it easier. “My family wasn’t happy. Not in the typical way. But we tried. I give us credit for that. We wanted to be happy, so we tried. I guess you could say we were earnest.”
“Your parents divorced?”
“Eventually. When we were teens. But the problems were way before that. The usual cop stuff. My father had a demanding job, worked long hours. And my mom . . . She’d been raised expecting something different. She would’ve done well with a banker, I think. Or even a doctor; the hours would’ve been just as bad, but at least her husband would’ve held a title with a certain level of decorum. My father, on the other hand, was an FBI profiler. He dealt in death, extreme violent death each and every day. I don’t think she ever got used to that. I don’t think she ever stopped finding it distasteful.”
“It’s a good job,” Mac said quietly.
She turned toward him, finding herself surprisingly serious. “I think so. I was always proud of him. Even when he had to leave in the middle of birthday parties or missed them altogether. His job sounded so larger-than-life to me. Like something a superhero would do. People got hurt. And my father went to save the day. I missed him, I’m sure I had tantrums, but mostly I remember feeling proud. My daddy was cool. For my sister, however, it was another story.”
“Older or younger?”
“Mandy was older. She was also . . . different. High-strung. Sensitive. A little wild. I think my first memory of her is her being yelled at for breaking something. She struggled with our parents. I mean, really, truly struggled. They were so by-the-book and she was so color-outside-the-lines. And life was harder for her in other ways. She took things to heart too much. One harsh word and she was wounded for days. One wrong look and she’d be devastated. She had nightmares, was prone to crying jags and had genuine fits. My father’s job terrified her. My parents’ divorce shattered her. And adulthood didn’t get much easier.”
“She sounds intense.”
“She was.” For a moment, Kimberly was silent. “You know what gets to me, though? You know what’s truly ironic?”
“What?”
“She needed us. She was exactly the kind of person that my father and I have sworn our lives to protect. She wasn’t tough. She made bad choices. She drank too much, she dated the wrong men, she believed anyone’s pack of lies. God, she desperately needed someone to save her from herself. And we didn’t do it. I spent so much of my childhood resenting her. Crying, complaining Mandy who was always upset about something. Now, I just wonder why we didn’t take better care of her. She was in our own family. How could we fail her so completely?”
Mac didn’t say anything. He touched her