CATCH ME

Christine Grant. One dead mother.

Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. Aka Abigail. The woman at the epicenter of the storm.

D.D.’s brain went back to churning.

Nine A.M., she, Alex, and Jack were all clean and had been fed. They were as ready as they were going to get. Last check of voice mail. Nothing. Last check of cell phone. Nothing.

D.D. finally caved, calling her parents and inviting them over. Alex agreed to pick them up at their hotel as they hadn’t rented a car, not wanting to drive in Boston traffic. They were in Waltham, D.D. had wanted to say, not Boston. Boston driving was a spectator sport, like sumo wrestling, where the largest, most aggressive vehicle won. Waltham, on the other hand, toodling around the burbs…She sighed and promised herself for the umpteenth time she would not be this annoying to Jack when she grew old. Come to think of it, she’d probably be worse.

While D.D. waited, she loaded Jack into the BabyBj?rn, cradling him against her chest as she vacuumed the entryway rug, tidied up the living room.

The room could use a fresh coat of paint. While they were at it, they should probably recover Alex’s faded blue bachelor sofa, buff the hardwood floors. Maybe a braided rug to soften the space, a potted plant for a touch of green. Or better yet, window treatments.

D.D. caught herself actually contemplating wallpaper, then came to her senses, snapping off the vacuum cleaner and giving herself a firm mental shake. Forget the fucking decor. She was Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren for heaven’s sake. She didn’t slipcover. She handled homicides.

Nine forty-five A.M. She gave up on checking messages and called the lab directly. Jon Cassir in ballistics did not pick up, so she left him a voice mail. Then she and baby Jack paced some more.

Detective O believed Charlie was their vigilante killer. Charlie was targeting pedophiles to make up for the powerlessness of her own abuse-filled youth, the mother who hurt her, the baby siblings she never saved. Plus, being a dead woman walking, what did she have to lose?

But Detective O also believed Charlene wasn’t a target for January 21. In fact, Charlie had probably set the whole thing up.

D.D. frowned. Those two theories were mutually exclusive. Charlene had either orchestrated the January 21 murders, meaning she wasn’t a dead woman walking, or she honestly perceived herself as doomed, hence it was okay to shoot sex offenders.

D.D. paced the length of the family room.

Charlene believed she was going to die today. Right or wrong, D.D. felt that in her bones. The girl’s gaunt appearance, her battered knuckles, the bruises around her throat. No one trained that hard without the threat of real and imminent danger hanging over her head.

Meaning D.D. had two serial crimes to analyze. The double murder of two childhood friends, making Charlene the logical next victim. Plus the serial shooting of three pedophiles, perhaps targeted by Charlene in a misguided attempt to administer justice during her last days on earth.

Except, at the scene of the third shooting, Charlene had introduced herself to the young, traumatized witness as Abigail. This, from a woman who was already carrying around the baggage of her dead siblings’ names. Assuming she felt a need to provide a name, why not Rosalind, or Carter, or, as she was prone to do, the whole enchilada, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant? For that matter, what kind of murderer pulled the trigger, then turned around and introduced herself to the audience?

A crazy one, she could practically hear Detective O counter in her head. One that wasn’t a person at all, but a “split personality.” A woman who clearly hadn’t come to terms with her past.

Front door opened. Alex ushered in her parents.

“Where’s my grandson?” D.D.’s mom gushed, walking into the house, arms wide open. “It’s time to make some memories!”

Memories, D.D. thought dryly. All in the eye of the beholder.

In that instant, she had a very interesting idea.





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