Love You More - Lisa Gardner [105]
30
Who do you love?
That was the question, of course. Had been from the very beginning—but, of course, Detective D.D. didn’t know that. She thought she was dealing with a typical case of child abuse and homicide. Can’t say that I blame her. God knows, I was called out to enough houses where wan-faced five-year-olds tended their passed-out mothers. I’ve watched a mother slap her son with no more expression than swatting a fly. Seen children bandage their own scrapes because they already knew their mothers didn’t care enough to do it for them.
But I’d tried to warn D.D. I’d rebuilt my life for Sophie. She wasn’t just my daughter, she was the love that finally saved me. She was giggles and joy and pure, distilled enthusiasm. She was anything that was good in my world, and everything worth coming home to.
Who do you love?
Sophie. It has always been Sophie.
D.D. assumed she was seeing the worst a mother could do. She hadn’t realized yet that she was actually witnessing the true lengths a mother would go to for love.
What can I tell you? Mistakes in this business are costly.
I’d returned to Officer Fiske’s police cruiser. Hands shackled at my waist, but legs still free. He seemed to have forgotten that detail, and I didn’t feel compelled to remind him. I sat in the back, working on keeping my body language perfectly still, nonthreatening.
Both doors were open, his and mine. I needed air, I’d told him. I felt sick, like I might vomit. Officer Fiske had given me a look, but had consented, even helped unzip the heavy BPD coat that pinned my arms to my torso.
Now, he sat in the front seat, obviously frustrated and bored. People became cops because they wanted to play ball, not sit on the bench. But here he was, relegated to listening to the game in the distance. The echoing whines of the search dogs, the faint hum of voices in the woods.
“Drew the short straw,” I commented.
Officer Fiske kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Ever done a cadaver recovery?”
He refused to speak; no consorting with the enemy.
“I did a couple,” I continued. “Meticulous work, holding the line. Inch by inch, foot by foot, clearing each area of the grid before moving to the next, then moving to the next. Rescue work is better. I got called up to help locate a three-year-old boy lost by Walden’s Pond. A pair of volunteers finally found him. Unbelievable moment. Everyone cried, except the boy. He just wanted another chocolate bar.”
Officer Fiske still didn’t say anything.
I shifted on the hard plastic bench, straining my ears. Did I hear it yet? Not yet.
“Got kids?” I asked.
“Shut up,” Officer Fiske growled.
“Wrong strategy,” I informed him. “As long as you’re stuck with me, you should engage in conversation. Maybe you’re the lucky one who will finally earn my trust. Next thing you know, I’ll confide to you what actually happened to my husband and child, turning you into an overnight hero. Something to think about.”
Officer Fiske finally looked at me.
“I hope they bring back the death penalty, just for you,” he said.
I smiled at him. “Then you’re an idiot, because death, at this point, would be the easy way out.”
He twisted around till he was staring out the front of the parked cruiser, falling silent once more.
I started humming. Couldn’t help myself. Bad Tessa rising.
“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.”
“Shut up,” Officer Fiske snapped again.
Then we both heard it: The sudden excited barks of a dog catching scent. The cry of the handler, the corresponding rush of the search team, closing in on target. Officer Fiske sat up straighter, leaned over the steering wheel.
I could feel his tension, the barely repressed urge to abandon the cruiser and join the fray.
“You should thank me,” I said from the back.
“Shut up.”
The dog, barking even louder now, honing in. I could picture Quizo’s path, across the small clearing, circling the gentle rise of snow. The fallen tree had created a natural hollow, filled with lighter, fluffier flakes, not too big, not too small. I’d been