Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [21]
He has it. I know he has it.
He’s outsmarted me.
The sun will be up soon. I can see the edge of the night sky beginning to lighten, and for a moment, I’m so tired, I want to cry.
“Mommy.”
I whirl around. Evan’s standing behind me. He wears his favorite Star Wars pajamas, his hands clasped behind his back.
I’m breathing too hard. I have the flashlight in my hands, so I beam it into his pale face. I don’t want him to see how badly he’s scared me.
“Evan. Show me your hands.”
“I want to see Chelsea.”
“Not right now.”
“Is it morning, Mommy?”
“No, honey, it’s still nighttime. What’s behind your back, darling?”
“Can we see Chelsea?” he asks again.
“Not right now,” I repeat steadily, still eyeing his hands, still waiting to see what he’ll do next.
“I want to go to the park,” he says.
“In the morning, honey.”
“I want to make a new friend today.”
“Evan, turn around now. It’s time for bed.”
Evan abruptly sticks out his hands. He turns them palm up, so I can see that they’re empty, that he hasn’t been holding anything. The expression on his face is guileless, but then, as I watch, I can see it. A shadow moving in the back of his eyes. A faint smile curving one corner of his mouth.
He knows what I am looking for.
He knows he has it, and that I don’t know what to do.
The shadow in his eyes moves again, and I fight the chill creeping up my spine. Evan isn’t the only one in this house who’s afraid of the phantom.
I take a deep breath, snapping off the flashlight and putting my hand on my son’s shoulder. His body is relaxed beneath my touch. He lets me lead him to the foyer, up the stairs. We follow the bright glow to his bedroom, where I tuck him back into bed. He’s already half-asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded as I brush a few blonde wisps from his forehead.
“I love you to the moon and the stars and back again,” he murmurs, a line from our favorite book. I caress his cheek.
“I love you, too.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says dreamily, already drifting off. His blue eyes open. “But I do.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
D.D. slept until seven the next morning, an unusual luxury when working a high-burn case. She needed the two extra hours of shut-eye, given the late-night trip to the hospital. More to the point, today would be about interviewing friends and family, and they generally didn’t care for detectives knocking on their doors before nine.
She showered, downed two shots of espresso, and considered the morning. Neil had agreed to spend the day with the ME, attending the autopsies. That left her and Phil to follow up on the initial canvass of the Harringtons’ neighbors.
D.D. swung by HQ long enough to skim the pile of reports on her desk, including the transcripts from interviews conducted last night with available neighbors. Two individuals stood out: a Mrs. Patricia Bruni and a Mr. Dexter Harding. Both claimed to know the Harringtons well: Mrs. Bruni attended the same church; Mr. Dexter hosted poker night with the father.
As good a starting point as any, D.D. decided. She took the transcripts with her, then headed into Dorchester, where Phil had promised to meet her outside of the Harringtons’ sealed-off home.
Neighborhood was quiet this morning, maybe even somber, but that could’ve been D.D.’s imagination. She always found it eerie to visit a scene the day after. The blood was no longer fresh, the sounds and smells had faded into memory. The house became a shell of what used to be. Once a family had lived here. Maybe they’d laughed and loved and been happy. Maybe not. But one way or another, they’d been carving out a life. And now they weren’t. Just like that.
D.D. pulled in behind a Chevy Tahoe. She spotted Phil up ahead, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Beside him was his new shadow, Police Academy professor Alex Wilson.
D.D. frowned, already aggravated, though she couldn’t say why. She opened her car door, felt the ripe August heat slap against her face, and scowled harder.