Love You More: A Novel

D.D. wanted a family.

She had to wait ten hours. Bobby couldn’t work—having used deadly force, he was forced to sit on the sidelines and await the arrival of the firearms discharge investigation team, which would formally investigate the incident. Meaning D.D. was on her own as she notified her boss of the latest developments, then secured the scene and began processing the outer fringes, while waiting for the last embers of the fire to cool. More officers and evidence techs arrived. More questions to answer, more bodies to manage.

She worked through breakfast. Bobby brought her yogurt and a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. She worked. She smelled of smoke and sweat, of blood and ash.

Dinner came and went. Sun set again. The life of a homicide detective.

She did what she had to do. She tended what needed tending.

And then, finally, she was done.

Scene was secured, Tessa had been airlifted to a Boston hospital, and Sophie remained safely at her mother’s side.

D.D. got in her car and headed back to the Mass Pike.

She phoned Alex just as she reached Springfield. He was cooking chicken parm and delighted to hear she was finally coming home.

She asked if he could change the chicken parm to an eggplant parm.

He wanted to know why.

Which made her laugh, then made her cry, and she couldn’t get the words out. So she told him she missed him and he promised her all the eggplant parm in the world, and that, D.D. thought, was love. His love. Her love. Their love.

“Alex,” she finally managed to gasp. “Hey, Alex. Forget dinner. I’ve got something I need to tell you.…”


I was in the hospital for nearly two weeks. I got lucky. Hamilton’s shot was a through and through that missed most major organs. Hit man Purcell, however, had been a pro to the bitter end. He’d shattered my rotator cuff, resulting in numerous surgeries and endless months of PT. I’m told I’ll never regain full range of movement in my right shoulder, but I should get finger function back once the swelling goes down.

I guess we’ll find out.

Sophie stayed with me in the hospital. She wasn’t supposed to. Hospital policy said children should only be there during visiting hours. Within hours of my arrival, Mrs. Ennis had received word and shown up to assist. But she couldn’t peel Sophie off me, and after another ten minutes, the head nurse waved her off.

Sophie needed her mother. I needed Sophie.

So they let us be, two girls in our private room, an unbelievable luxury. We slept together, ate together, and watched SpongeBob Squarepants together. Our own little form of therapy.

Day nine or so, we took a little walk to my former hospital room, where lo and behold, tucked in the back of the bottom drawer, we found Gertrude’s missing button eye.

I sewed it on that afternoon with surgical thread, and Sophie made Gertrude her own hospital bed for recovery.

Gertrude would be okay, she informed me solemnly. Gertrude had been a very brave girl.

We watched more SpongeBob after that, and I kept my arm around my little girl and her head upon my shoulder even though it ached.

The hospital arranged for a pediatric psych specialist to visit with Sophie. She wouldn’t talk about her captivity and hadn’t mentioned Brian’s name at all. The doctor advised me to keep “the channels of communication open” and to let Sophie come to me. When she was ready, the doctor said, she would talk. And when she did, I must keep my face neutral and my comments nonjudgmental.

I thought this was funny advice to give a woman who’d committed three murders to save her daughter, but I didn’t volunteer that.

I held Sophie. We slept, by mutual consent, with the lights on, and when she drew pictures filled with black night, red flames, and exploding guns, I complimented her level of detail and promised to teach her how to shoot the moment my arm healed.

Sophie liked that idea very much.

Detectives D. D. Warren and Bobby Dodge returned. They brought Mrs. Ennis with them, who took Sophie to the hospital cafeteria so I could answer the last of their questions.

No, Brian had never hit me. My bruised ribs were because I had fallen down icy steps, and, being late for patrol, tended the injury myself. Shane, however, had beat me on Sunday morning, in an attempt to make it look like Brian’s death was self-defense.

No, I didn’t know Trooper Lyons had been shot. What a terrible tragedy for his family. Did they have any leads at this time?

They showed me photos of a thin-faced man with blazing dark eyes and thick brown hair. Yes, I recognized the man as the one I’d discovered in my kitchen on Saturday morning, holding my husband at gunpoint. He’d told me that if I would cooperate, no one would get hurt. So I had taken off my duty belt; at which time, he’d pulled my Sig Sauer and shot my husband three times in the chest.