Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [132]
“He only cares about my family history—”
“No he doesn’t.” Greg this time, voice curt.
Danielle turned to him. “What the hell?”
“He wants you. Always has. Anyone can tell by watching him watch you. What I don’t understand is why you don’t want him.”
“Because he’s an asshole?” Danielle offered.
“An asshole with money.”
“You do have issues,” she informed him, eyes blazing.
“Don’t we all.”
“Look, I had one dinner with Andrew, that was enough. Like I’m some commodity for guys to buy and sell.”
“You never had dinner with me,” Greg retorted. “How many times have I asked? One dozen? Two? Three? In your own words, you gave more consideration to the ‘asshole’ than you did to me.”
Danielle flushed. She slunk down in her chair, looked away. “Well, I honestly like you,” she muttered. “That makes a difference.”
“Assholes get dinner. Likable guys get squat.”
“As you said, we’ve all got issues.”
“Well, now I’m an asshole who milks desperate parents for money. Does that mean I can buy you dinner?”
“Excuse me,” D.D. interjected. “Hate to intrude, but forget dinner: Next place Gym Coach here is heading is jail. You knew all the families. You had opportunity to hang Lucy and poison Lightfoot. You’re also obviously familiar with the more deadly uses of strychnine, plus have a history with family annihilations—”
“Technically, no.” Greg interrupted. “I have a family history of patricide. My sister killed my parents. That’s not family annihilation.”
“He’s correct,” Alex spoke up.
D.D. glared at him.
“And I have an alibi,” Greg continued. “Thursday night, the Harringtons, right? I was working, watching Evan Oliver, the boy who was brought in this afternoon.”
“Wait a minute.” Alex leaned forward. “The boy who was admitted today. That’s the one who stabbed his mother, right?”
“Evan Oliver, yes. I work for his mom once a week.”
“You met the family outside the unit?”
Greg nodded.
“What about Lightfoot? Did he work with the boy, too?”
“I might have referred him. He might have paid me fifty bucks.”
Alex leaned back. Looked at D.D. Looked at Greg. “Experienced with firearms, Greg?”
“Hardly.”
“What about Tasers?”
“What? Come on, look at me: I don’t have to resort to toys.”
“Not even a pillow, maybe to suffocate a baby?”
“What?” Greg appeared horrified.
D.D. turned back to Alex. “You think?” she asked.
“I’d like to ask Healer Boy a few questions,” Alex agreed. “Including why he lied about not knowing the Laraquette-Solis family, when he decided to start billing for his ‘gift,’ and what kind of alibi might he have for Thursday or Friday night.”
“Then it’s a good thing we know where he’s at.” D.D. pushed back her chair. Alex followed suit. “You two,” she addressed Danielle and Greg, “stay put. If you’re lucky, when I return I’ll decide not to arrest you. But I make no promises.”
She smiled at them wolfishly. Then she and Alex were on the hunt again.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
VICTORIA
A rumbling sound from the hallway wakes me up. My eyes pop open. I feel a moment of intense, overwhelming nausea, and roll onto my right side to vomit.
Then the queasiness passes, and I’m left disoriented and shaken. Slowly, I return to my back. I stare at the blank ceiling of my hospital room and give myself a moment to adjust.
Playing with my son. Speaking with my ex-husband. And then … this.
Should I cry? I want to. I think if your child stabs you, crying is probably a logical thing to do. But I can’t summon any tears. I feel stark, hollowed out. For years I’ve fought a war. Then, in thirty seconds, I lost it.
Now there’s no going back. This is the new reality. My son is a violent offender and I’m his first victim.
At least it wasn’t Chelsea, I think, and then I do cry, low, muffled sobs of relief, because Michael wasn’t the only one who’d spent years terrified that one day he’d have to harm his son to save his daughter. At least it didn’t come to that. At least not that.
Then I picture Evan again, his bright blue eyes and infectious giggle as we raced around the backyard, and I cry harder.
I will always look at