Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [103]
Then, God help me, I saw Lucy again, her small body hanging from the ceiling, and I broke. Tears welled up. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But it wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. My mother, Natalie, Johnny. Lucy.
I hit Greg again. Weak, this time. Weary. Then I collapsed into the support pillar of his body, my face buried in the salty curve of his neck.
Greg scooped me up. He carried me down the hall. He tucked me into bed.
“Sleep.”
He closed the door. I was pitched into darkness, where I could once again smell cordite and blood. Except this time, I was the one holding the gun, standing beside my mother’s bed.
“You said you’d help me. You said you’d make him stop.”
“Danielle …”
“You said you believed me.”
“Danielle—”
The front door slamming shut. My father’s drunken voice booming up the stairs, “Honey, I’m home!”
Me raising the gun.
“Danielle!”
Cordite and blood. Singing and screaming. Love and hate.
The story of my life.
My eyes snapped open.
I lay on Greg’s mattress, curled up in the cool darkness, and didn’t sleep again.
Phone was ringing. The sound came from the living room and it finally roused me from my post-weeping lethargy. I rolled off the mattress, tested out my legs, and decided they’d hold.
I opened the bedroom door, hearing Greg’s deep baritone in the living room.
“Yeah, I can come in. What time does the kid arrive? What are the protocols?”
There was silence as he listened to the answers. He was talking to Karen. A new child was arriving at the unit and, for some reason, Karen wanted Greg there for the show.
I walked into the living room, waited for him to see me. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower; he was wearing a navy blue towel around his waist and nothing else. I stared at his deeply tanned torso, ridged with muscle, and my mouth went dry.
I retreated to the single bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and tried to regain my bearings. Greg was Greg. Greg had always been Greg.
But I’d never realized before what Greg looked like naked.
I took another minute, then opened the bathroom door to find Greg in the hallway. He’d changed into gym shorts and a white polo shirt. It made it easier for both of us.
“That was Karen,” he announced. “Listen, I gotta go to work. You can stay if you’d like. My roommates probably won’t return until late.”
“What time is it?”
“Four p.m.”
I frowned, surprised by the time. Perhaps I’d dozed off after all.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“New arrival,” he said, already walking down the hall to retrieve his gym bag. I trailed after him.
“Why you?”
“Kid has a history of violence. Karen would feel better with me there.”
“What’d he do?”
“Stabbed his mother.”
“When?”
“Sounds like this morning.”
“Mother okay?”
“Don’t know.”
“How old’s the kid?”
“Eight. Currently catatonic, according to the ER docs. Most likely shock.”
“And once that wears off …” I agreed. The panic would set in, and the explosive child would explode.
“Looks like it’ll be a night.” Greg slipped on a pair of nylon workout pants over his shorts. He slung his bag over his shoulder and, that quickly, he was good to go.
I stared at him. He stared at me. A faint bruise marred the line of his jaw. I took a step forward without thinking. I traced the bruise lightly with my fingertips, then, standing on my tiptoes, I gently kissed the mark I’d left on his skin.
“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.
“Danielle …” he said thickly.
“What?”
“It’s not always about you. Just remember that, okay? It’s not always about you.”
“Okay.”
I kissed his jaw again. I inhaled the fragrance of his freshly showered skin, then I stepped back. He went to work.
I had other business to tend to.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
D.D. got her taskforce. The linking of the Harringtons to the Laraquette-Solis family via the pediatric psych ward, plus the subsequent death of another child in the same unit, all served to catch the superintendent’s attention. D.D. made a step up from being viewed as an extremely paranoid investigator