“Incapacitated. Means he can’t play Candy Land anymore.”
“I have Jolly,” Jack announced, and sure enough, he whipped the gumdrop card from beneath his sweater sleeve.
“Hey,” Alex complained. “I’ve been looking for that.”
“Nuh-uh. You like Gramma Nutt. Everyone knows that.”
“Gramma Nutt advances you further on the board than big blue gumdrops,” Alex muttered. “And saying I want Princess Frostine sounds funny.”
“I’m home just to clean up and eat,” D.D. announced, tone apologetic. Jack’s shoulders sagged, but he didn’t outwardly protest. At least not yet. Jack hadn’t been thrilled when she returned to work after being home for so long with her injury. He was a kid, and kids liked their parents close. In the good-news department, she did get decent time off after working long stretches . . . but it felt like the past few weeks had seen more peaks on the job than lulls, and Jack was struggling with her long absences. Hell, she was still adjusting to the demands of full-time duty as well.
“Saw the news this morning,” Alex commented. “Figured you might be busy. One of the reporters was already speculating you had a fresh lead in the Stacey Summers case.”
“What? How did they . . . how could they? Oh, never mind. Like the press has to be informed to state their opinions. But no, no connection to that case. At least, not at this time.”
Alex smiled. It creased the corners of his deep blue eyes. He was a good-looking guy, she thought, not for the first time. Salt-and-pepper hair, distinguished features. And hers. All hers. Who knew one workaholic detective could get so lucky?
She pried Jack away from her legs with a promise of future grilled cheese. That bought her enough time to shower, then throw on her favorite dark blue Ann Taylor pantsuit, which was her outfit of choice for press conferences.
In the kitchen, she poured two glasses of orange juice, then set to work slicing up a brick of cheddar. Her shoulder twinged again, and she couldn’t completely suppress the wince.
“You overdid it,” Alex said, coming up behind her.
“Just need a little ice.”
“Or some rest, or a good night’s sleep, or a little less stress.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
“Phil’s worried about you. Said you were on scene most of the night. That’s hardly restricted duty.”
“Phil’s secretly a woman. And worries about me more than my own mother.”
“Crime happens,” Alex said. He was already opening the freezer door, bringing out her favorite ice pack, perfectly molded to the shape of her shoulder. “And it will continue to happen, whether you’re working or not.”
“Especially if Flora Dane has her way,” D.D. muttered.
“Who?”
“Guy we found—” She glanced around the kitchen, searched for signs of Jack, who was probably in the family room, stacking Legos. Seeing that they were alone, D.D. continued: “Guy we found dead started his evening abducting Flora Dane. Who turns out to be no stranger to kidnappings. She turned the tables on him. Burned him to death with supplies she found in his trash.”
“No kidding?”
“I don’t like it. Fourth time she’s put herself in a dangerous situation since her return five years ago. What happens next? She takes on the entire Russian mob?”
“Better her than me,” Alex observed. “You think she’s a vigilante?”
“Don’t you? Seeking out predators, time and time again?”
“So says the woman on restricted duty who’s about to go back to work.”
“I’m a workaholic.” D.D. fired up the first grilled cheese sandwich. “What’s her excuse?”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Sit, ice your shoulder. I can flip a sandwich.”
She sat. She iced her shoulder. She relaxed. At least as much as a woman like her could. Then in came Jack for a fresh round of sticky little-boy hugs and a fresh pat-down for hoarded Candy Land character cards.
Normal life. Real life. Her life.
Then, much as her husband predicted and respected, she headed back to work.
Chapter 11
THE FIRST THING THAT HITS ME as I walk up the three flights of stairs to my tiny one-bedroom unit is the scent of freshly baked muffins. My mother. Under stress, she bakes. Cookies, brownies, breads, homemade granola, scones. I’m told during my abduction the entire community, not to mention the victim specialists, put on fifteen pounds.
She has a key to my unit. Three actually, as I’m partial to that many locks. Having opened my front door, however, she has left it unlocked behind her. Now, all I have to do is push it open. I know she doesn’t do these things to consciously spite me, and yet already I can feel my shoulders tense. I’m not looking forward to the conversation to come. Most likely, she isn’t either. Hence, muffins.
She’s in the kitchen, bent over the oven, checking her project when I walk in. The police haven’t given me back my real clothes after the night’s misadventure. Did they even find them? I have no idea. If they did, the items would be kept as evidence. In the meantime, the district detective rustled up oversize gray sweatpants and a navy-blue Boston Police hoodie, most likely extra clothes stashed in the back of some officer’s vehicle. Both items are huge. I have to hold up the elastic waistband of the sweatpants as I walk. My feet remain bare, meaning I don’t make much noise as I pad across the hardwood.
I chose this unit for several reasons. One, being on the third story, it’s harder for an intruder to access. Two, the old brownstones are famous for their high ceilings, bull’s-eye molding, and bay windows. My unit is small but flooded with light from the old windows, and charming with its battered oak floors and beautiful wooden trim. Is there water damage on the ceiling? Sure. Peeling linoleum in the kitchen, not one of the owner’s better renovation ideas? Yep. A shower that only yields hot water after three or four strategic whacks? Well, a girl like me can hardly afford the best.
Besides, I like my unit’s flaws. It’s scarred. Like me. We belong together, not to mention the elderly couple who are my landlords know my story and charge me only a fraction of the going rate for rent. Having turned down the requisite book deal and movie rights, reduced rent is as close to a postabduction perk as I’m going to get. And given that I’ve never returned to college and still have no idea what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, money is an issue. For the past few months, I’ve been working down the street at a pizza parlor popular with college students and local families. My hourly wage is miserly, the tips only slightly better. But the work is mindless, and I appreciate that.
Is this the life I thought I’d be living at twenty-seven? No. But then, when I first left my mother’s farm for college in the big city, what did I know? I enrolled to study French, for God’s sake, mostly because I liked the idea of going to Paris. Maybe I would’ve become a teacher. Or returned to Maine and set up a small farm of my own, involving goats. I’d sell goat milk, goat cheese, maybe even goat-milk lotions and goat-milk soaps. All with labels in French. I was happy enough, naive enough back then, to have those kinds of dreams.
But everyone’s dreams change, not just the dreams of girls who wind up kidnapped for four hundred and seventy-two days.