Love You More: A Novel

“I won’t hurt you,” she whispered in the quiet of the bathroom. “I’m not mommy material. I’m gonna suck at this. But I won’t hurt you. I’d never intentionally hurt you.”


She paused, sighed heavily, felt her denial take the first delicate step toward acceptance.

“But you’re gonna have to work with me on this. Okay? You’re not winning the mommy lottery here. So it’s gonna take some compromise on both our parts. Like maybe you could start letting me eat again, and in return, I’ll try to get to bed before midnight. It’s the best I can do. If you want a better offer, you need to return to the procreation pot and start over.

“Your mommy’s trying to find a little girl. And maybe you don’t care about that, but I do. Can’t help myself. This job’s in my blood.”

Another pause. She sighed heavily again, her fingers still stroking her stomach. “So I gotta do what I gotta do,” she whispered. “Because the world is a mess, and someone has to clean it up. Or girls like Sophie Leoni will never stand a chance. I don’t want to live in a world like that. And I don’t want you to grow up in a world like that. So let’s do this together. I’m going to shower, then I’m going to eat. How about some cereal?”

Her stomach didn’t immediately sour, which she took as a yes. “Cereal it is. Then back to work for both of us. Sooner we find Sophie, sooner I can take you home to your daddy. Who, at least once upon a time, mentioned wanting kids. Hope that’s still true. Ah geez. We’re all gonna need a little faith here. All right, let’s get this done.”

D.D. turned on the shower spray.

Later, she ate Cheerios, then left her condo without throwing up

Good enough, she decided. Good enough.


Detective Butch Walthers lived up to his name. Heavyset face, massive shoulders, barrel gut of a former linebacker now gone to seed. He agreed to meet Bobby and D.D. at a small breakfast spot around the corner from his house, because it was his day off and as long as he was talking shop, he wanted a meal out of it.

D.D. walked in, hit a solid wall of cooked eggs and fried bacon and nearly walked back out. She’d always loved diners. She’d always loved eggs and bacon. To be reduced to instant nausea now was beyond cruel.

She took several steadying breaths through her open mouth. Then in a fit of inspiration, she fished peppermint gum out of her shoulder bag. Old trick learned from working countless homicide scenes—chewing minty gum overwhelms one’s sense of smell. She stuck three sticks into her mouth, felt the sharp peppermint flavor flood the back of her throat, and managed to make it to the rear of the diner, where Bobby was already sitting across from Detective Walthers in a side booth.

Both men stood as she approached. She introduced herself to Walthers, nodded at Bobby, then slid into the booth first, so she could be closest to the window. She was in luck, the double-hung appeared to actually open. She immediately went to work on the latches.

“Little hot,” she commented. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Both men watched her curiously, but said nothing. The diner was hot, D.D. thought defensively, and the rush of crisp March air smelled of snow and nothing else. She leaned closer to the narrow opening.

“Coffee?” Bobby asked.

“Water,” D.D. said.

He arched a brow.

“Already had java,” she lied. “Don’t want the jitters.”

Bobby wasn’t buying it. She should’ve known. She turned to Walthers before Bobby could ask about breakfast. D.D. turning down a meal probably signaled the end of the universe as he knew it.

“Thanks for meeting with us,” D.D. said. “Especially on your day off.”

Walthers nodded accommodatingly. His bulbous nose was lined with broken red capillaries. Drinker, D.D. deduced. One of the old-time veterans nearing the end of his policing career. If he thought life was hard now, she thought with a trace of sympathy, wait till he tried retirement. So many empty hours to fill with memories of the good old days, and regrets over the ones that got away.

“Surprised to get a call ’bout the Howe shooting,” Walthers said now. “Worked a lotta cases in my time. Never considered that investigation to be an interesting one.”

“Seemed pretty clear-cut?”

Walthers shrugged. “Yes and no. Physical evidence was FUBAR, but background on Tommy Howe was straightforward—Tessa Leoni wasn’t the first girl he’d attacked; just the first who’d fought back.”

“Really?” D.D. was intrigued.

The waitress appeared, gazing at them expectantly. Walthers ordered the Trailblazer Special with four links of sausage, two fried eggs, and half a plate of home fries. Bobby seconded the order. D.D., feeling brave, went with orange juice.

Now Bobby was definitely staring at her.