‘Meredith, wait.’ He ran after her, catching up in the TV room. Grabbing her shoulder, he spun her around. She glared up at him, but there were tears in her eyes. Shit. He’d done it again. Made her cry even when he was trying to do the right thing. ‘You think that I’ve done all this as part of my atonement? That I kissed you because you’re a . . .’ He sputtered wishing he had the words. ‘God, I don’t even know what.’ She said nothing, but her lip trembled. ‘Dammit, Meredith, you are not an atonement. You are not some charity case or a project. You are . . .’ He closed his eyes, trying to slow his racing heart. ‘You are what’s kept me going for the last godawful year.’
He opened his eyes to see hers narrowing in confusion. In disbelief. ‘I don’t know what that even means,’ she said tightly, her jaw rigid, tears balancing on her lower lashes.
Frustrated, he released his hold on her and raked his shaking hands through his hair. He held them there, clenching, pulling his hair hard enough to make himself wince. But the pain centered him. Helped him find the words in the chaos of his mind.
‘It means that I’m an alcoholic.’
He’d gritted out the words from behind clenched teeth, he realized belatedly. Not the way he’d wanted them to come out.
But at least they were out, he thought as he dropped his hands to his sides. He felt relieved . . . yet defeated. But mostly honest. Finally. And now he just waited.
Her mouth fell open, her expression one of bald shock. A single blink sent those tears racing down her cheeks. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘Yeah.’ He wanted to look away. He wanted to bolt. To run so far that no one would ever be able to find him.
God. His mouth was as dry as it had ever been. He wanted a drink so goddamn bad that he was shaking, head to toe. But he forced himself to remain where he stood. Forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. And out. He forced himself to wait for her reaction, no matter what it was. At least she knew the truth.
‘But . . .’ She shook her head, still stunned. ‘How long?’
He swallowed hard. ‘How long what? How long have I been an alcoholic or how long have I been sober?’
‘How long have you been sober?’ she whispered.
‘Eleven months,’ he heard himself say, voice like gravel. ‘And fourteen days.’
She opened her mouth, but no more words came out.
Huh. He’d never expected her to be wordless too. She always knew the right thing to say. They stood in silence, staring at each other.
And then Darth Vader screamed out of his phone, shattering that silence. Isenberg. Again. Adam answered it, never looking away from Meredith’s shocked face. ‘Yeah, Loo?’
‘I’ve got Mr Baird in Interview Three. What’s your ETA?’
‘Ten.’
‘Hurry, Adam. This kid looks like he’ll break into pieces any minute.’
Join the motherfucking club. ‘On my way.’ He ended the call, dropped the phone in his pocket, and gathered the plastic bags with his clothing and shoes. ‘We’ll have to finish this later. You need to wait a minute while I get a vest for you out of my Jeep. Once you’re protected, we need to go.’
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Sunday 20 December, 4.15 A.M.
Sitting a block away from the burned-out house, he sipped bad coffee and tried to stay awake. Shane and his friend would have to drive this way to get to Andy Gold’s former residence.
Which was gutted. He blew out a breath that hung in the cold air of his car. Four people had died. Which sucked, because now the cops would be even more dedicated to finding the arsonist.
The family should have had plenty of time to get out. That they hadn’t . . . well, he couldn’t be blamed for that. He hadn’t meant for them to die too.
At least anything that might have given a hint into Andy’s background – including photos of Linnea – was gone. Nothing had survived the blaze. And once he had Shane, Linnea would come to heel. He’d get rid of them both and those ends would be snipped.
Then he could refocus his efforts on his original goal. Fuck Meredith Fallon and her concealed weapon. He growled quietly. Fuck Mike’s bomb that hadn’t fucking worked.
He frowned, wondering why that was. It should have worked. Mike’s devices had never let him down. He’d have to use his resources to get at the results of the Feds’ investigation, since they’d been the one to remove the device from Andy’s body.
As if summoned, his cell buzzed with a text from his uncle. Done.
A photo followed, Voss sprawled in a chair, rubber strap still tied around his arm, the needle still in his vein. TOD 2.50am, Mike’s next text read.
What about cops outside the gate? he replied.
Sleeping. Offering from St Mickey.
It was a simple ploy, but it worked almost every time. The cops would know they’d been slipped a Mickey when they woke up, but Mike had already finished by then. Mike had shown him how to use the technique on his father during his teens, except they’d slipped the Mickey into his evening whiskey so that he’d go to sleep earlier and sleep soundly through the night. Those had been the hours Mike tutored him. Showed him the ropes. Taught him how to take whatever he wanted from whoever happened to have it without getting caught. All in all, hours well spent. And his dad had never been the wiser.
Good, he texted. Thx.
Going home to sleep. Don’t bother me again.
He chuckled. Sweet dreams old man. He added an emoji of a happy face with z’s.
A photo of his uncle’s middle finger popped up on his screen.
Smiling, he went back to sipping his coffee. One thread snipped. A few more to go.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Sunday 20 December, 4.20 A.M.
Oh my God. Oh my God. It was all Meredith could think as Adam sped across town. He was using his flashers to cut through what little traffic there was at this time of night.
How did I not see this? What is wrong with me that I didn’t see?
All those months. All the pictures he’d colored. That first picture, the stained glass window, solid red. Then those that followed, becoming progressively balanced as the weeks and months passed. Progressively more beautiful.
Eleven months and fourteen days sober. She focused on doing the calendar math in her head, if only for the temporary respite for her aching heart.
‘January sixth,’ she murmured and heard the sharp intake of his breath in the otherwise silent Jeep. ‘What happened on January sixth?’ Because that the date was just a few days after her birthday seemed too much of a coincidence.
When he said nothing, she turned to study his profile. His jaw was like rock, his lips were pursed in a straight, hard line. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He wasn’t wearing gloves. Or the parka her grandfather had loaned him.
He slowed the Jeep and turned in to the parking garage under the police station. He parked, then closed his eyes. ‘I can’t talk about this right now,’ he finally said. ‘I have to talk to Shane Baird, who, according to my boss, is minutes away from losing his shit.’
But he didn’t move, his hands maintaining their death grip on the steering wheel.
You are what’s kept me going for the last godawful year.
She’d known what those colored pictures meant. She’d known he was asking for more time, for her patience. She’d known that.
But she’d let her emotions tangle her up. Loneliness, regret, and depression were bitter bedmates. She’d let her focus wander and . . . she’d missed seeing his pain. God. I’m the worst therapist ever.
She gave her head a hard shake. I am not his therapist. And this is not about me.
Operating on instinct, she pulled off her glove and reached across the console to cover one of his white-knuckled hands with hers. Carefully she peeled his fingers off the wheel and brought his hand to her lips.
He still didn’t look at her, but his throat worked convulsively as he tried to swallow. She kissed each of his fingers, then pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. His stiff shoulders relaxed a fraction as he exhaled on a shudder. ‘When you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be ready to listen,’ she said quietly. ‘For now, let me take a look at Mr Baird.’
She followed him into the police department’s headquarters, a building she’d visited too many times in her role as a therapist, but never as a victim.
A potential target. That’s what I am.