There wasn’t much even Epps could do about the news reports that had already gone out regarding my father, or the opinions that had been formed from his own damning statement on TV, which I’d seen at the gym with Nick that day. It seemed a long time ago. But without any ongoing charges to propel the story forwards, it was already old news.
Now, too restless to sit, I jumped up, stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and paced to the window.
It was edging towards November, early evening. A wet day, where a sneaky wind had surfed between the skyscrapers to tug at hats and umbrellas down at street level. It had driven the rain down the back of my bike jacket and penetrated the fingers of my gloves as I’d ridden the Buell home through traffic. And I hadn’t cared.
I loved my job. More than that, it fitted me, gave me a unique sense of place, of belonging. I didn’t have to explain to these people who I was, or excuse what I could do. They already knew and they accepted me in spite or maybe because of it.
I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Madeleine when Sean and I had gone to Cheshire to retrieve my mother, and I realized that I could finally tell her yes, at last, I had the respect for which I’d been searching.
And maybe it was better not to think about the price.
When we’d got back from Houston, Parker had put me straight back into the field without hesitation, even before I’d passed the Stress Under Fire course in Minneapolis. I’d returned from that the week before, to find Sean on assignment in Mexico City. He’d be gone another week, maybe two.
More than long enough to formulate a way to tell him … whatever I needed to.
I turned away from the sliding pattern of rain on the outside of the glass and looked across the room to where that damned white box lay, taunting me. Even buying the bloody pregnancy home testing kit was a form of defeat, I considered. It gave credence to Vondie’s invention. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard her laughing at me still.
But I was late. Nothing unusual in that. My body clock had always been skewed and the slightest stress or trauma tended to knock it off its stride. Taking a hit from a TASER, an armful of dope, a life—it was enough to put a crimp in anyone’s day. But it meant I could no longer pretend this might not be a real possibility.
I took a deep breath, snatched up the box as I passed the coffee table and locked myself in the bathroom, even though I was on my own in the apartment.
I had to read the instructions three times before they sank in, followed them to the letter, and set the plastic stick on the vanity, next to the Tag watch Sean had given me. The packaging on the kit boasted 99 percent accurate results in less than a minute.
Sixty seconds, and then you’ll know … .
I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my arms wrapped round my body as if to ward off pain, and stared at the second hand as it made its stately sweep.
And, quite unbidden, an image of Ella came into my mind. The little girl whose mother’s life I’d failed to protect in a frozen New Hampshire forest the winter before. Four-year-old Ella had sneaked under my skin and made off with my heart when I wasn’t looking. I’d nearly died trying to save her mother. I’d been fully prepared to do so in order to save the child.
But to do it, I’d had to let the monster out. The cold-blooded monster inside me that could kill without pause or pity. She’d glimpsed it, and been so terrified I’d been ordered to sever all contact with her, permanently. I’d missed her, I realized, more than I’d allowed myself to admit.
And, riding in on the back of that revelation came a bubbling excitement, a dreadful kind of secret joy, that the kind of love I’d felt for that child, and set aside, might be mine again.
Thirty seconds. Come on, come on!
I thought of my father. Would he forgive me, finally, if I presented him with a grandchild—a grandson, to make up for the disappointment of a daughter in the first place? We’d had brief moments of connection along the way, but the greatest of them had been the one that had ultimately driven us furthest apart.
Now, he couldn’t even bring himself to speak to me. Did he look at me and see what he’d become, I wondered. Did he blame me for that?
Forty-five seconds. Did that damn watch stop?
I wavered. The fear drenched me in a cold wash. A child. How the hell could I bring up a child to know right from wrong, when I spent each working day with a gun on my hip and had a body count in double figures? How could I be trusted, if I was tired, sleep-deprived, pushed beyond endurance, not to snap and do something even I would find abominable?
And, disregarding Vondie’s gleefully dismal predictions, how would Sean really react to the news he was going to be a father?
It won’t happen. False alarm. She was lying. It’ll be fine … .
I checked my watch again, to find my minute was up, reached for the plastic stick with hands that were slick and not quite steady. For some time after that, I stared dumbly at the indicator, reread the instructions even though I knew there was no room for doubt about the result. It was indisputably, definitely, positive.
So, Vondie hadn’t been lying after all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a novel is supposed to be a solitary occupation, but we know it isn’t. As always, many people came to my assistance with the writing of this book, generously providing encouragement, help, advice, and information. I’m humbly grateful, therefore, to—in no particular order—fellow mystery authors Reed Farrel Coleman, for details on the seedier areas of Brooklyn; Shane Gericke and Fred Rea, for firearms info; Libby Fischer Hellmann, for casting her eye over my accidental Britishisms; and D. P. Lyle, M.D., for his superb detailed medical input. If you want to know how to tie off an artery by the side of the road or break into a hospital, Doug Lyle’s your man.
How can I not also mention other great writers who gave encouragement with this one—Ken Bruen, Lee Child, Jeffrey Deaver, and Stuart MacBride, as well as other enthusiasts within the industry—Jon and Ruth Jordan at Crimespree magazine and Ali Karim and Mike Stotter at Shots Ezine. Keep wiffling, boys.
McKenna Jordan and David Thompson, from the independent mystery bookstore, Murder by the Book in Houston, added geographical detail, as did Terry Farmer. Thank you to the staff at the Deerfield Pistol & Archery Center in Deerfield, Wisconsin, for letting me play with some cool stuff.
My test readers stood firm, as always—Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison, Iris Rogers, Tim Winfield, and Shell Willbye (who also knows one end of a knitting needle from the other).
Of course, my biggest debts go to my agent, the incomparable Jane Gregory, her editor, Emma Dunford, and all the staff at Gregory & Company Authors’ Agents, for their patience, faith, and understanding.
Also to my UK publisher, Susie Dunlop, and my editor, Lara Swift, and all the incredibly enthusiastic and hardworking staff at Allison & Busby. And to my U.S. publisher, St. Martin’s Minotaur—in particular my editor, Marcia Markland, who also provided New York info; Diana Szu; and all the sales and marketing people who work so hard to make this book a reality in the United States.
Of course, without the constant encouragement of my husband, Andy, nothing would ever get done. Again, thank you.
And finally, I’d like to mention Terry O’Loughlin, who made the winning bid at the charity auction at Bouchercon in Madison, Wisconsin, in 2006, in aid of the Wisconsin Literacy, Inc., charity, to become a character in this book and whom it was enormous fun to include.