Megan’s entire body shook with all the emotions she could not contain. Lucy pulled her tighter to her. She wished with all her heart she could somehow squeeze hard enough to return Megan to a time of innocence, that she could protect her daughter from ever knowing the ugly truth of the real world. But that was just as impossible as never breaking a promise, no matter how hard you tried.
“When you were little,” she said, soothing Megan’s hair as she cradled her head against her shoulder, “and you got angry or upset and felt out of control, you used to put yourself in time out.”
Lucy could feel Megan’s smile against her shoulder. “I’d go into my room and tear it apart. Dad used to call me Hurricane Megan.”
They separated, faced each other. Lucy was glad to see Megan’s color return to normal. “Remember that time when I told you to clean up the mess after one of your tantrums?”
“It was the middle of winter but I opened all the windows and threw everything out into the snow.” She said it with a hint of stubborn pride.
“I came in and found you sitting on your naked mattress reading a comic book wearing nothing but your underwear.” Lucy smiled at the memory, although at the time she’d been tempted to resort to her own mother’s tactic of a wooden spoon judiciously applied to a bottom.
“Then Dad came in and said you had no right to complain because I was just like you. Always finding a way around the rules to do what you wanted.”
Lucy smoothed Megan’s hair back away from her face. “Yeah. Some days I think you got the worst of me and the best of him.”
Megan considered that and Lucy braced herself for a rebuttal. But instead of the retort Lucy was expecting, Megan ducked her head down and shrugged. “Guess that’s not so bad,” she said, looking at the ground. “Better than what a lot of kids have.”
She glanced up again, meeting Lucy’s eyes with a challenge. “So what are we going to do to help Mateo?”
Lucy looked past Megan at the parking lot and realized what was bothering her even more than the crime scene and evidence. “Get in the car.”
Megan rolled her eyes—oh, how Lucy hated it when she did that—but plopped down into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
The parking lot was silent. Lucy had worked multi-jurisdiction cases before, some of them in towns smaller and less equipped than Harbinger Cove. They were always a nightmare requiring coordination between agencies that didn’t use the same radio codes, a mountain of paperwork and logistical support, and a command center where the troops could regroup and redeploy.
Yet, now, on the day of what she was certain was the biggest high-profile crime Harbinger Cover had ever seen, the only vehicles here belonged to Lucy, Mateo’s family, Hayden and Gant’s official vehicles, and one nondescript Buick. No representatives from the sheriff’s department or state law enforcement, no crime scene techs securing and documenting evidence—in fact, the evidence had been laid out in the bull pen as if on display for Lucy’s benefit.
What if… everything had been for Lucy’s benefit? Every good crime scene analysis told a story… maybe there was a story behind this one.
Lucy hesitated. Surely her preposterous theory couldn’t be right. She was torn between taking Megan back to the hotel—but no, that facility wasn’t secure and she didn’t want to leave Megan alone—and testing her hypothesis. There was one person who might confirm her crazy idea.
True to his word, Nick had texted Don Burroughs’ number to Megan’s phone. It was Sunday night, hopefully the Pittsburgh detective would be at home with his wife and two sons rather than working a case. Lucy moved to the back of the Subaru as if getting something from the trunk to hide her movements from anyone inside the station as she dialed.
“Burroughs.”
“Don, it’s Lucy Guardino. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Nope, just finished dinner.” Lucy’s stomach grumbled at his words—she wished she’d been able to convince Megan to grab some supper; she was starved. “What’s up?”
“Need some expert advice about insulin pumps.” She filled him in on the case and explained how Fleming’s pump had been found empty. She gave him the manufacturer and model number. “Same as yours, right?“
“Yeah, so?”
“So our victim would have lost it no more than an hour or two before we found it, given our timeline. Shouldn’t it have had insulin left in it? Or would it have all drained out when it was removed from Fleming?”
“Nope, if it’s like mine, it automatically stops when it’s disconnected.”
“So it should have had half a day’s worth of insulin in it, right?”
“Depending on what time of day your victim fills his reservoir. But most folks do it first thing in the morning or before bed, so yeah, it should have had plenty left.” He paused. “You’re not talking like you think this guy really is a victim. Do you think the pump was planted?”