“Her eyes, her blue, blue demon eyes. I know why she looked like a monster!”
“Why, honey?”
“They’re not real, Mommy. I’ve seen them before. In Halloween catalogues. They make contacts. Like vampire eyes or zombie eyes, but also cat eyes. Blue cat eyes. That’s what she wore. That woman wasn’t really a demon. She’s just some girl all dressed up in disguise!”
Chapter 36
D.D. WOKE WITH A JOLT AT 6 A.M. No baby crying, no alarm blaring, no Alex up and preparing for work. She lay there for a second, conducting a mental review, then it hit her. January 21. The anniversary of two past homicides. The day Charlene Grant had predicted for her own demise.
D.D. got out of bed.
She threw on Alex’s navy blue flannel robe and padded into the kitchen to brew coffee. While there, she checked her cell phone for messages. Nothing.
She retreated to the bathroom to brush her teeth, take fresh inventory of the purple shadows beneath her eyes, the wan color of her sleep-deprived features, and a new but distinct loosening of the skin beneath her chin. She jiggled the suspicious flap, figured this is what happened when you turned forty-one, then scowled unhappily before returning to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee. She phoned in to work and checked voice mail for messages. Nothing.
She should check in with her parents, whom she’d now managed to avoid for nearly twenty-four hours. They wouldn’t be happy about that. Probably had every right not to be happy about that.
Upon further consideration, breakfast first.
She cooked bacon, eggs, and had just started waffles when Alex stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen. He wore a gray FBI Academy sweatshirt over the white T-shirt and turquoise scrubs he favored for bed. His cheeks were shadowed with salt-and-pepper stubble. His sweatshirt bore baby spit-up on the left shoulder.
They were both old, she decided. But all in all, they still looked pretty good.
She poured him a cup of coffee.
“Don’t you have today off?” he mumbled, accepting the mug gratefully.
“Not on deck. But hopefully, a big day in our shooting case. Awaiting a call from ballistics anytime now.” She topped off her cup.
He caught her refilling, raised a brow. “Thought you’d given up the java express.”
“Yeah, but there’s something about homicide that simply demands a good cup of joe.”
Being a man who drank coffee all day long, Alex didn’t argue.
He took a seat at the table. D.D. fed him breakfast, a rare turn of events as the kitchen was generally his domain. Another cozy scene, D.D. thought in the back of her mind. Last night it had been her and Jack, mother and son. Now it was her and Alex, essentially husband and wife.
It was aggravating to think that her mother might be right.
They ate in comfortable silence. Alex read the paper, then worked on the daily crossword puzzle. D.D. puttered around the kitchen, washing dishes, drying them, putting them away. Her mind was churning. She knew herself well enough to know she was working something out. She just wasn’t sure what.
Seven thirty, Jack joined the party. Alex fed him, while she showered. Eight A.M., she decided it was still too early to bother her parents, checking her cell phone and her voice mail for work messages instead. Nothing.
Charlene Grant should be off duty now. Looking for her. 22. Not finding it. Realizing the police were onto her. Or maybe too distracted by the date, the perceived danger to herself, perhaps fresh grief over what had happened to her friends, to home in directly on the police. Maybe she’d just panic instead.
What did you do on your final day alive? Take a nap to be better prepared for the coming showdown? Pick up some hottie for last-day-on-earth sex? Indulge in a final fat-, sugar-, and calorie-laden meal?
Call the people you love and tell them good-bye?
Except Charlene didn’t really have anyone left. Just her aunt Nancy and a stray mutt.
Rosalind Grant. Carter Grant. Two dead siblings.