“All right.” Putting a hand on my shoulder, Holmes levers herself to standing. “I’ll let you know if we learn anything.”
My cozy little home looks the same, which feels odd. It should feel different, shouldn’t it, knowing what happened the other night? Everything is just slightly out of place, moved and moved back by officers looking to see if the killer entered and left something behind, but it doesn’t really account for the sense of change that isn’t. There’s probably a word for that, German or Portuguese or Japanese or something. Not English or Spanish, anyway, or what little is left from my high school Italian. How can you be homesick when you’re home?
But that’s what it feels like, a longing for the moment just before, when this was still my sanctuary, the place that was mine and mine alone unless I specifically invited someone over. The place I could lock out the rest of the world for a few hours, my little paradise with its green open spaces and no woods till several streets over.
By the time I’ve marched myself through a succession of chores and repacked my bags, I am beyond ready to leave again. I’ve sometimes run to work, or to Siobhan’s or Vic’s or a date, but it’s always been running to, not running from. I can’t stand feeling like I need to run away from my home.
Picking up the bear on the nightstand, I run my thumbs over his worn, fading velvet nap, the nubby bow tie, the plastic eyes that have been sewn back on many times. I remember when he was given to me, and by whom, and all the comfort I’ve gained from him over the years. What kind of comfort is Ronnie going to get from the bear the killing angel brought him? After a minute, I put him back down and walk away, locking the handful of locks behind me.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was scared of doctors.
It wasn’t the shots that worried her, unlike most of the kids in the waiting room. She was in so much pain every day she barely noticed the pinprick of the clean slide of the needle into her arm.
No, she was scared of doctors because they lied.
They told her she was perfectly healthy, that everything was wonderful. Daddy was more careful about leaving marks if she had an appointment coming up, but she wasn’t sure it mattered. Even when there were bruises, the doctors would just cluck and tell her to be more careful when she was playing. They asked how she felt but didn’t listen when she told them everything hurt.
Her left arm, all the way up near the shoulder, had a bruise that refused to heal, because her daddy grabbed her there and squeezed, over and over and over. They told her mama to be careful of shirts with elastic bands in the sleeves while she was growing, that they could cut off circulation and leave lasting bruises.
Once, and only once, she decided to be brave and tell the whole truth. The doctor was young and pretty, and had the kindest eyes. She wanted to trust eyes that kind. So she told the doctor everything, or tried to—until her mama cut her off and scolded her for watching the wrong kinds of TV and getting confused. The doctor nodded along and laughed about fertile imaginations.
Mama told Daddy as soon as he got home.
For two weeks, his temper prowled like a tiger through the house, but he didn’t touch either of them, just in case someone was coming. The little girl was scared out of her mind, but they were the best two weeks. Even her arm started to heal.
But no one came. No one was coming.
6
I stay at Eddison’s on Tuesday because my house still feels unsettling, and Siobhan still isn’t talking to me. For all our fights over the past three years, and there have been many, we’ve never had this cold silence.
I stay at Eddison’s again on Wednesday because we have to be on our way to the airport at half past fuck it’s morning. Sterling joins us for the second sleepover, stretching out on the couch in leggings and a giant navy blue T-shirt that says “Female Body Inspector” in tall yellow blocks. Eddison stares at the lettering, blinks, opens his mouth . . . and then buries his face in his hands with a pained groan before disappearing back into his bedroom.
Sterling and I look at each other, and she shrugs before digging out five dollars from her purse. “You win. I thought for sure he’d say you should be wearing it,” she admits, handing me the bill.
“Until he accidentally tells you to calm your tits, he isn’t going to make any other sex-adjacent commentaries,” I tell her, tucking the money behind my credentials and dropping the case back on top of my bag. “He’s still feeling out boundaries, so to speak, and he’s under pretty strict orders not to break you.”
“Vic?”
“Priya.”
She grins and shakes the ponytail kink from her hair. “She’s a good kid.”
“Need anything?”
“Nah, should be good.”
I’ve already brushed my teeth and scrubbed off my makeup, so I crawl in next to Eddison, flick out the lights, and shift until I’ve found a comfortable position. Several minutes later, he turns onto his side. “We should both get that shirt,” he says.
“I have that shirt.”
“Really?”
“The mothers gave it to me for my birthday a few years back. I wear it running.”
“I need that shirt.”
“You don’t need that shirt.”
“But—”
“You have never seen you in a bar. You don’t need that shirt.”
The sound of giggling seeps through the closed door, followed by a thump and more giggling, which I’m pretty sure was Sterling laughing herself off the couch.
“I always forget the door is that thin,” Eddison sighs.
“I don’t.”
The sheets rustle as he brings up one leg, plants his foot firmly against my ass, and shoves me off the bed.
Sterling’s giggling gains some hiccups.
The flights out to California pass mostly in a stupor of sleepiness and paperwork, as much as we can manage on our tiny trays, at any rate. The three-day conference is focused on making sure local police departments know when and how they can avail themselves of federal resources, and which agency they should call for which kinds of problems. In between presentations, there’s a lot of reassuring worried or belligerent local cops from across the country and shit-talking with reps from other agencies. It’s the closest thing to a working vacation we’ll ever have.
We get back to Eddison’s apartment a little past three on Sunday morning, because God knows the Bureau isn’t going to pay for hotel rooms one more night than absolutely necessary, and Eddison ends up on the couch this time. There may have been some collapsing involved, the inevitable crash that comes of cramming him full of sugar on the second half of the second flight to make sure he was hyper enough to drive us safely back from the airport. Between the two of us, Sterling and I manage to strip him down to boxers and undershirt and get him tucked into the couch in a way that should keep him from falling off but will probably confuse him in the morning.
“Go on in,” I tell Sterling, hip checking her toward the bedroom. “I just have to dig clothes out.”
After she closes the door to change, Eddison makes a remarkable recovery and looks up at me. “You’ve got her?”
“I’ve got her.”
Because today was supposed to be Eliza Sterling’s wedding day, and being a team—being family—means she’ll be lucky to piss in peace because we’re not leaving her alone. I turn off her personal cell and switch her work cell to silent, leaving both with Eddison. Having a grumpy bastard screen calls is remarkably effective, really. After changing into pajamas, I brush my teeth and scrub off my makeup at the kitchen sink, then check the locks and turn off all the lights on my way into the bedroom.