*
Liz was on her second cup of coffee when the banging started. Beckett had left two messages, so she knew it was coming. Another day. Decisions. She opened the door after about the twentieth knock. She was in faded jeans and an old red sweatshirt, her face still pale from sleep, the hair loose and wild on her head. “It’s a little early, Charlie. What’s the problem? No coffee at the precinct?”
Beckett pushed inside, ignoring the sarcasm entirely. “Coffee sounds good, thanks.”
“Okay, then.” She closed the door. “Come on in.”
Elizabeth poured a cup of coffee and added milk the way he liked it. Beckett sat at the table and watched her. “Hamilton and Marsh got their subpoena. The girl will have to answer their questions about the basement. She’ll have to do it under oath.”
Liz didn’t blink. “Take this.” She handed him a cup and saucer and sat across the table.
“They tried to serve it this morning, but Channing was gone. Her parents don’t know where she is. She sent a text, though.”
“That was considerate of her.”
“They say that’s not her normal behavior. Sneaking out, yes. Not the texting.”
“Hmm.” Elizabeth sipped from her own coffee. “How odd.”
“Where is she, Liz?”
Elizabeth put the coffee down. “I’ve told you how I feel about you and this girl.”
“She doesn’t exist. I remember. Things are bigger, now. You can’t protect her. You shouldn’t.”
“Are you saying it’s wrong to try?”
“She’s a victim. You’re a cop. Cops don’t have relationships with victims. It’s a rule designed for your own protection.”
Elizabeth looked at her fingers on the china cup. They were long and tapered. The fingers of a pianist, her mother once said. If Elizabeth closed her eyes, though, she’d see them bloody and red and shaking. “I’m not sure about rules, anymore.” She said it softly and left out the rest. That she wasn’t sure about being a cop, either, that maybe—like Crybaby—she’d lost something vital. Why was she doing it if not for the victims? What did it mean if she became one? They were hard questions, but she wasn’t upset. The feelings were more of calm and quiet, a strange, still acceptance that Beckett—for all his abilities—didn’t seem to notice.
“If I take Channing in, I can keep your name out of it. No obstruction charges. Nice and clean.” He reached for her hand, and she watched his fingers on hers. “She can tell the truth, and this can end. The state investigation. The risk of prison. You can have your life back, Liz, but it has to be now. If they find her here…” He let that hang between them, but his eyes were deadly serious.
“I can’t give you what you want,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“And if I force you?”
“I’d say that’s a dangerous road to walk.”
“I’m sorry, Liz. I have to walk it.”
Beckett rose before the last word died. He moved down the short hallway, surprised when she didn’t try to stop him. He opened one door and then another, and at the second stared for a long time at tousled hair and pale skin and tangled sheets. When he returned, he sat in the same chair, his features still. “She’s asleep in your bed.”
“I know.”
“Not even the guest room. Your bed. Your room.”
Elizabeth sipped coffee, placed the cup on its saucer. “I won’t explain because you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re harboring a material witness and obstructing a state police investigation.”
“I don’t owe the state cops anything.”
“What about the truth?”
“Truth.”
She laughed darkly, and Beckett leaned across the table. “What will the girl say if they find her? That she was wired on the mattress when it happened? That you shot them in the dark?”
Elizabeth looked away, but Beckett wasn’t fooled.
“It won’t work this time, Liz, not with autopsy results, ballistics, spatter analysis. They were shot in different rooms. Most of the bullets went through and through. There are fourteen bullet holes in the floor. You know how that plays.”
“I imagine I do.”
“Say it, then.”
“It plays as if they were on the ground, and no threat at all.”
“So, torture and murder.”
“Charlie—”
“I can’t have you in prison.” Beckett struggled, found the right words. “You’re too … necessary.”
“Thank you for that.” She squeezed his hand and meant it. “I love you for caring.”
“Do you?”
He tightened his grip enough to show the strength in his wide palm and in fingers that stopped an inch from her cuff. Their eyes met in a pregnant moment, and her voice caught like a child’s. “Don’t.”
“Do you trust me or not?”