Abigail remained in my mind, a beaming, brown-eyed, chubby, gurgling baby. My little sister, whom I’d loved with all my heart. And lost. Died, I had believed. Except, of course, if she’d died, I should’ve absorbed her name, as I’d done with the others. Charlene Rosalind Carter Abigail Grant.
In Detective Warren’s mind, that was further proof that Abigail still lived and, in some way we didn’t yet understand, had become Boston sex crimes Detective O. Brown hair, brown eyes, just like the baby in my dream.
Except I truly only remembered an infant, maybe nine months old at best. Not a beautiful exotic creature with that hair and those curves, and a solid career as an up-and-coming sex crimes investigator. A young, astute detective who, from the very beginning, didn’t seem to like me.
Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.
Those words, I recognized. Those words, I understood on a level that chilled my spine, set my shoulders, and raised my chin.
My mother’s favorite expression. That, more than anything, proved Detective Warren’s argument. Abigail lived.
But my baby sister didn’t love me anymore.
“Raid the fridge?” Tom asked now, standing just inside the door. His features were drawn, tired. He’d been up at least eighteen hours by now. We both had. He appeared self-conscious as he took me in from across the room, then seemed to shake it off.
“Drank your OJ,” I said.
“Find any unexpired food?”
“The dill pickles were pretty good.”
“How about the gun safe?”
“Twelve months together, and I still don’t know your birthday, favorite pet, or mother’s maiden name. Totally screwed me with guessing the combo.”
“Figured as much. Calls?”
“One. Talked to Detective D. D. Warren. Good news. I think she believes me.”
Tom drew up short. He stood on one side of the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. I stood on the other.
“She didn’t pull the warrant,” he said.
“I said she believes me. Not that she trusts me.” I had my hands down at my side, hidden behind the counter. I didn’t want him to see that they were shaking. That, in fact, I was trembling with nerves over what was about to come.
Everybody has to die sometime. Be brave.
“So, why does this other detective, O, have it in for you?”
“D.D. believes she’s my long-lost sister. Out for revenge.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s why she’s going to kill you?”
“D.D. thinks so.” I took the first sideways step toward the end of the counter, putting my right hand into my pocket, fiddling around until I found what I needed to find. “I disagree.”
“You don’t think she’s your sister?”
“No, I’m pretty sure D.D.’s right about that. But I don’t think Abigail, O, is going to kill me. I’ve been wrong all along. I’m not the third target.”
“That’s good news.”
“Quincy, the profiler, kept warning me we didn’t have enough data points. Our victim pool, so to speak, was too small. I kept seeing best friends, two out of three, making me the next logical target. But Randi and Jackie weren’t killed because they were my best friends. They were killed because I loved them.”
From the other side of the counter, Tom frowned at me. “Isn’t that a matter of semantics?”
“No, it’s a broader category. I had two best friends. But there are three people I love.”
“Aunt Nancy.”
“I think so. I’ve tried calling her hotel twice, but there’s no answer. Detective O was supposed to interview her sometime today. Of course, Detective Warren gave those orders before she knew O’s true identity.” I made another sideways move. Almost at the end of the counter, where in two steps, I could lunge around, reach him where he stood in the kitchen.
My hands, shaking harder. My throat tightening, forcing me to swallow, take deep breaths.
Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.
All these years later, my mother was coming for me. That’s how it felt on some level. In a way I didn’t understand yet, she had won, and I had lost, and twenty years later she was still making me pay.
Except I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I wasn’t going quietly into that good night.