“That’s okay.”
“Because Denise isn’t your real name,” the nun said softly, with no accusation.
Linnea shook her head sadly. She could give the woman this much. “No, ma’am.”
“Will you tell me what it is?”
“Yes. When I’ve done what I need to do.” Somebody needed to know. Linnea wanted someone to remember her name. Maybe someone could get word to Shane.
She started to stand, but Sister Angela grabbed her wrist. “Will you come back?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try, anyway.”
Frowning, the nun took out her cell phone and, grasping a stylus in her twisted hand, poked madly at the screen. “It’s Sunday. Library doesn’t open until one o’clock.”
“If I leave to make a phone call, can I come back inside until the library opens?”
“Yes,” Sister Angela said. “And I will walk with you. I’ll give you privacy to make your call, but you don’t have to walk alone.”
Linnea opened her mouth to say thank you, but no words would come.
The nun just patted her hand. “You’re welcome.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 9:35 a.m.
Meredith was trembling in Adam’s arms, her gaze still full of shock, horror, and sorrow. Adam pulled her close, wishing the ugliness in him had never touched her. It was bad enough that he had to remember Paula—her murder and finding her charred body. Now Meredith would have the pictures in her head, too.
He sighed. “A few weeks after I found her body, I asked Isenberg to take me back, to reinstate me to Homicide, and she did. That’s when the drinking began to get really bad.”
Meredith flattened her hand over his still-racing heart. When she spoke, her voice was controlled. Calm. But her body still trembled like a leaf in the wind.
“When we’re faced with trauma, we often fall back into the patterns that are most ingrained, usually during childhood. Yours was drinking. Part of dealing—and healing—is learning new behaviors and practicing them until they become the new fallback position.”
“That’s what my shrink says.”
Her nod against his chest was shaky. “Then he’s smart.”
“She. I see Kate’s doc.”
He felt her smile against his skin, far preferable to her tears, although those had not stopped their constant flow. “Dr. Lane? She’ll do you right.” A hesitation. “So why did you decide to go sober on January sixth?”
“You’re tenacious,” he said mildly, but he kissed her forehead so that she wouldn’t take offense. “Don’t you want to go to sleep now?”
She pulled back to glare at him through her tears. “Yes. My head feels like it’s a soccer ball in play, but I want this done, Adam.”
“Right.” He urged her to snuggle against him again, not wanting eye contact. She complied and he wrapped his arms tight around her. “The morning after that first night when we . . . you know.”
“When we slept together? Yes. I do know. I was there,” she added dryly.
Yes, she had been. There. For me. “I woke up and you were still asleep and so pretty. I just watched you sleep for the longest time, wanting you. You, I mean. Not for sex. Well, yes for sex, because that was amazing, but—” He stopped himself, his cheeks burning hot.
She patted his chest, taking pity on his rambling. “You wanted something more?”
“I wanted everything—to hear your voice telling me it would be okay and to believe that was true. I wanted to deserve it, because I was so messed up, I couldn’t find my way back on my own. But even messed up, I knew that I couldn’t depend on you for my mental health. That’s not fair to you. And it’s not . . . sustainable.”
“Good word.”
“Dr. Lane’s,” he said. “I needed to get my shit together, so I left your bed and went right to Isenberg, took a leave of absence. Which went over real well with my family.”
“Deacon and Dani criticized you?” she asked disbelievingly.
“No. Oh, no. They were great. They’ve always been there for me. I meant my father. He, um, was not supportive.”
“Hmm,” she growled. “I see.”
He wasn’t sure she did, but that wasn’t important now. Just get through this. So they could hopefully go on. “I tried to get it together, but I kept seeing Paula, kept hearing her.”
“Not surprising,” she said gently.
He shrugged. “She was always there. In my sleep, when I was awake. I was useless. I hung around my apartment and . . .” He shrugged again.
“And drank,” she supplied, still gentle.
“Yeah. I missed the holidays. I didn’t even go to my parents’ house on Christmas last year. I was too drunk. And I know it worried my mother and she has a heart condition, so that made me feel guilty. So I drank more. Which made me deserve you even less. It was bad. A vicious cycle. I saw the department shrink and he didn’t help. I couldn’t ask you for any more help. It wasn’t fair to you. You can’t be my therapist or my crutch.”
“No, I can’t,” she agreed. “But I can support you. I can care about you.”
He hoped so. “I got invited to your birthday party by Dani and Deacon, but I couldn’t face them. I’d been horrible to Deacon and . . .” He drew a breath and took the first plunge. “I made Faith lose her job with the bank because I called her boss, introduced myself as a homicide detective, then insinuated she was a suspect. I didn’t think she could forgive me.”
“But she did. She told me all about it.”
It was his turn to rear back in surprise. “She did?”
“Yes. You suspected her of being involved in multiple murders and called her boss at the bank to verify her employment. That was standard operating procedure, wasn’t it?”
He blinked. “Yes, but I thought you’d be mad about the way I did it.”
“Maybe, but I’m not, because we all knew you were hurting then. We didn’t know why, but Adam, you were obviously the walking wounded. Besides, Faith had two job offers by the end of the following week. I’m glad she picked me. She’s an amazing therapist.”
“I thought you offered her a job because . . .” He frowned. “This isn’t gonna come out right. But I figured you felt sorry for her.”
She actually laughed. “I didn’t know she’d been fired when I asked her to work with me. I only had to watch her with the victims. Plus, you know, redhead solidarity.” She sobered. “What else are you afraid I’ll be mad at?”
He squared his jaw. Next plunge. “I drove drunk.”
She met his eyes. “Okay. That’s really bad. Was that the night we slept together?”
“No. That was on your birthday. I’d driven by your house on your birthday and there were cars parked all over the block because of your party. I almost parked and went in. Almost. I was so stressed out at the thought of seeing everyone who knew I was on mental health leave . . . I got a little buzzed before I got there. Just to take off the edge. I drove around the block a couple times, then my cell rang. If it had been my mom’s number, I wouldn’t have answered. She’d texted and called a few times that day but I was avoiding her, too.”
“Because she would have known you were buzzed.”
“Yeah. She’d seen my dad that way for years, after all. But it wasn’t my mom’s number and I guess I was looking for an excuse not to go to your party, so I answered.”
Her expression had grown grave as he’d talked. “Who was it?”
“The hospital. Mom had been texting and calling because she needed me to come over and fix a lightbulb. I figured my dad could do that just as easily, so I let it go. But my father had gone duck hunting and so she’d climbed on a chair and . . .” His throat closed.
“Fell and ended up in the hospital. How badly was she hurt?”
He cleared his throat. “She sprained her arm and
needed stitches in her head. The real damage was from a heart attack she had when she fell. I drove right to the hospital, but they’d called my father and he’d just gotten there, too. He chased me out of her room. Said all the things he always did, but that time . . . He was right on point. I was a loser and I was a mental case. More than that, I was a bad son. I didn’t want to upset my mom with a hallway brawl, so I left.” Tail between his legs. He sighed heavily. “I went straight from the hospital to a bar and drank myself stupid. And then I drove home.”
She frowned at him. “The bartender didn’t take your keys?”
“Nope. I’m a functional drunk, apparently. He’d just come on shift. Didn’t know how much I’d already had. I’m also a pretty decent liar when I’m drunk. He never suspected. On the way home I . . .” He closed his eyes, willing the panic away. Next plunge. Just tell her. “I hit a kid on a bike. A teenager.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Was he okay?”
“Yeah. Because I’m apparently the luckiest bastard alive. When I hit him, he went off the road and tumbled down a hill. He broke his arm.” He let out a slow breath. “I could have killed him, Meredith.”
She gripped his chin, tugging until he opened his eyes and looked at her. “But you didn’t, right?”
“No, I didn’t.” Thank God. He still shuddered at the dread of what might have happened. “I knew the kid. He lives in my neighborhood. Ironically enough, he was as drunk as I was. He grabbed his bike, begged me not to tell his mother he’d been drinking. I was kind of stupefied, you know? In shock and reeling. I said okay and put his bike in the back of my Jeep and drove him home. He said he was just going to tell his mom he fell off his bike. When I got home, I collapsed in my bed and didn’t wake up for almost twenty-four hours.” He’d been a physical mess. His own stench had woken him. And that lovely little detail he was keeping to himself. “I was completely sober, for the first time since Paula. I looked in the mirror and realized what I’d become. My mother might have died. And that kid . . . God. So I gathered all my bottles and poured them all out. Then I found an AA meeting.”
“I’m so glad you did. Shh,” she soothed. “It’s all right.”
Because he was shaking and hadn’t even realized it. “You shouldn’t be looking at me like that.” Softly. With compassion.
Her lips curved sadly. “Then how should I look at you?”
“With contempt.” Like I look at me.
She shook her head. “Adam, you saw something horrific and you self-medicated your trauma. It’s not an unusual reaction. But it wasn’t good for you. You realized that, and now you’re not doing it anymore. You shouldn’t be ashamed. You should be proud. You know how few people can bring themselves back like that.”
“And if I fall off the wagon?”
“Then you get back on. Do you plan to fall off?”
“No.” He shuddered at the pictures his mind always conjured, his mother, on the floor, having died alone, and that kid dead on the side of the road, his bike wheels spinning. That wasn’t what had happened. The kid was just fine.
His mother, though . . . Her arm and head had healed, but her heart was even weaker than it had been. Her next heart attack might be her last. And whenever that happened, he was going to have to live with the fact that he’d hastened it.
“I can’t be that person again,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m not that person.”
And maybe, just maybe, he might believe that someday.
A brush of her thumb over his lips. “Good. I’m glad.”
And that was the worst of it, he realized, briefly stunned. Those were the worst secrets and she was still here, her words, her touch still gentle. “That night last summer, when I came to see you? When we colored?”
“I remember.”
He did, too. He remembered every single second, because he’d been sober as a judge. Leaving her that night had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done and that included giving up the booze. “I left your house and called my sponsor. Found a midnight meeting even though I’d just gone to one that morning. I sat in that midnight meeting and promised myself I wouldn’t have any more contact with you until I’d earned my year chip.”
Her hand cupped his cheek and he turned into her touch. “Were you ever going to tell me all of this?” she asked.
“Yes.” He winced. “Maybe? I don’t know. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I might not have believed the ‘yes.’” She was quiet for a long moment. “If you need to walk away from me until you get that chip, I’ll understand.”
“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered. “I need you too much.”
She sagged into him, shuddering out a relieved breath. “Good. Because I need you, too. I mean, I can get through the next few weeks without you if I must. Papa is here and my cousin Alex is coming from Atlanta for Christmas. Bailey, Hope, and Ryan will be with me, too. I wouldn’t be completely alone.”
And why her family was about to gather ranks around her was a question he wanted answered. But that could wait, at least until they’d slept.
She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “It’s so much nicer to have you, though.”
And suddenly it was that simple. He could get through the next two weeks without her, too. He’d made it eleven months and fourteen days on his own. If he had to, he could finish out the year. But for the next few hours, at least, he wasn’t leaving her alone.
Because she needed him, too.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 9:45 a.m.
Heart thundering, Linnea tugged at the scarf that Sister Angela had wound around her head and face, allowing her to hide in plain sight. The pay phone was outside an old corner store with bars on the windows, but the neighborhood wasn’t all that scary. Linnea had seen far, far worse. Having a nun at her back certainly didn’t hurt.
She lifted the receiver and frowned. “No dial tone,” she said to Sister Angela.
“Try putting a quarter in first. You should get it back once you hang up.”
Linnea obeyed, but wiped the quarter clean first. She’d have to wipe the whole phone clean when she was finished. Inserting the quarter, she was relieved to hear the dial tone. Fingers trembling, she dialed 911.
“This is 911. What is the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked.
Linnea’s throat closed.
“Hello? Are you there?” the operator said.
Linnea’s breath wheezed out of her chest and then she felt a hand on her back. Sister Angela, patting her gently. “You want me to talk to them, child?”
“No,” Linnea managed. “I can do it. I need to do it.” I need to be a nice person. She waited until the nun had stepped far enough away that her whispered words couldn’t be overheard. “I’m, um . . . Can I talk to somebody about the shooting yesterday? The one downtown? I have . . . information.”
“I see.” The operator’s voice gentled. “Let me transfer you.”
“No,” Linnea cried out. That would take a while and she didn’t want to stand out here, a sitting duck if the wrong person saw her. She knew her fear was illogical. He couldn’t be everywhere, but . . . he always seemed to be. She dropped her voice back to a whisper. “Just tell them that the SUV used in the shooting can be found at Clyde’s Place, at 275 and Beechmont. Tell them . . . to be careful. The person who left it there . . . they bled and they’re positive. For, you know, HIV. Tell the cops to wear gloves. That’s all.”
“Wait!” the operator insisted, but Linnea replaced the receiver. The quarter came jingling down and she removed it.
She used her sleeve to wipe down all the parts of the phone that she’d touched, then returned to the nun and handed her the quarter. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, child.” The nun’s smile was . . . sweet. Linnea hadn’t seen sweetness there at first.
 
; But I was wrong. I was wrong about so many things. I have to make them right. “Can we go back now?” She had cramps from hell and all she wanted was to lie down and curl into a fetal position.
“Of course.” In an unexpected move, Sister Angela crooked her elbow, like she wanted Linnea to take it. So she did. And she and the nun walked back to the shelter arm in arm. It was . . . nice. And when they got to the church she didn’t feel quite as much panic as she had the night before. In fact, she felt a spurt of something that felt remarkably like hope. Like maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to sit in one of those pews. Someday.
It was a nice dream, anyway.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 9:45 a.m.
Butch rubbed his huge hands over his face. “Tell me again why we’re doin’ this?” He dropped into the shabby hotel chair. “The girls make us a shit-ton of money. None of them has even seen you. None of the ones still alive, anyway.”
No, none of them had except for Linnea, and it was really eating at him that she was still out there somewhere, presumably alive. It was like she’d vanished into nowhere.
Even if she were dead somewhere, she was still a major liability.
“Because Linnea’s face is all over the news,” he snapped. Luckily, it was her old face, before she’d arrived in Cincinnati. A teenager’s face, round and young. She’d been about fifteen in the photo that the cops had posted all over the Internet as a person of interest.
They couldn’t have gotten the photo from Andy because everything he’d owned was gone, obliterated by the fire. The picture had to have been supplied by Shane Baird. Who, according to his resources inside CPD, had been interviewed, then whisked away to a safe house. Which meant that until either he figured out where that was or Shane was moved elsewhere, he couldn’t get his hands on the kid. Which meant he had nothing with which to draw Linnea out.
Butch shrugged. “She don’t look like that picture no more. She’s used up. Gone hard.” He grimaced. “Haggard. She was comin’ up on her ex-date anyway.”
“Which was why I picked Andy for the job yesterday. He cared for her enough to want to save her, but nobody else wanted her.” Even with her rates drastically discounted. So Linnea had become a liability. “Which doesn’t really matter anymore. Eventually somebody’s going to recognize her and call the cops.”