“Crazy eyes,” Jesse breathed softly. “Creepy, like blue cat eyes.” He looked up at them. “I think she’s an alien or maybe a robot or a monster. She…she hurt him. And…and I was happy.”
His gaze dropped again, and he buried himself suddenly, tightly, into his mother’s embrace.
“I’m sorry,” the little boy moaned, voice muffled against his mother’s coat. “I was bad. And there was this noise, and he’s dead. And I was bad and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mommy, I won’t ever do it again. I promise, I promise, I promise.”
D.D. looked away. She didn’t know what hurt worse, the boy’s obvious pain, or his mother’s, as she put her other arm around him and rocked him against her, trying to soothe, clearly knowing it wasn’t enough.
“I would like to take him home,” the woman said. “It’s late.” She added as an afterthought, “He has school tomorrow.”
Then her face suddenly crumpled, as if understanding for the first time that school in the morning probably wasn’t going to happen. That tonight had been bigger than that. That this was one of those things that would take more than a good night’s sleep to recover from.
Detective O stepped forward to explain about the interview with the forensic specialist, which needed to happen sooner versus later, as children’s memories were highly pliable.
Jesse’s mom shook her head, clearly becoming as overwhelmed and shell-shocked as her son.
D.D. reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand. “Just another hour,” she said encouragingly to the woman. “Then you can both go home. And tomorrow will be better than today, and the next day will be better than that. It will get better.”
The woman looked at her. “I love him so much.”
“I know.”
“I would do anything for him. I would give my life for him. I was just looking up a school assignment. Fifteen minutes we’d be apart. We’d done it before and he’s at that age. He doesn’t always want his mother around anymore. And I want him to feel strong. I want him to feel safe.”
“I know.”
“I would do anything for him.”
“The interview will help,” D.D. assured her. “I know it sounds scary, but telling his story will allow Jesse to own it. It will become less and less something that happened to him, and more and more something he can narrate, take control over. We’ve seen it with other kids. Talking helps them. Holding it inside, not so good.”
Jenny sighed, rested her cheek on top of her son’s head. “Jenny and Jesse against the world,” she murmured.
“You’re a good mom.”
“I should’ve done more.”
“Story of a mother’s life.”
“Do you have a child?”
“Ten weeks old, already the love of my life.”
“What would you do?”
“I hope I never have to find out.”
“Please…”
D.D. hesitated, then answered as honestly as she could: “I would try to help him find his strength. The bad part already happened. Now it’s about helping Jesse find his way to the other side. Where he’s no longer the victim, but the one in control. Where he can feel strong. Where he can feel safe.”
The woman stared at her, seemed to be studying her face. “We’ll go to headquarters,” she said at last. “We’ll meet with the interview…expert.”
“We’ll have a victim’s advocate meet you there as well,” D.D. told her. “There are resources for you and your son. Please don’t be afraid to use them.”
D.D. handed over her card, then straightened, jamming her freezing cold gloved hands back into her coat pockets.
“Thank you for your help, Jesse,” D.D. said. “I appreciate you answering my questions.”
The boy didn’t look up, didn’t respond.
She said to his mother: “Take care of your son.”
“Oh, I will, Detective. I will.”
D.D. stepped away, heading over to O. She’d just paused beside the sex crimes detective when a startled cry went up. Both investigators turned to see a uniformed officer waving for them furiously from the first patrol car.
“Detectives,” he called. “Quick! You gotta see this!”
D.D. and O exchanged glances, then made their way precariously down the icy sidewalk. The uniformed patrol officer had the passenger-side door open and was gesturing inside excitedly.
“On the dashboard,” he said urgently. “Don’t move it. I’d just set it there, you know, to deliver to the evidence room later. Course, I got the heat running, then when I looked in…”
It appeared to be the shooter’s note, now encased in clear plastic. A full sheet, the letters scripted in the familiar precisely formed, elegantly rounded letters. Except, as D.D. looked closer, she suddenly spotted other letters so small and jumbled together, they first appeared as a blemish or blur.
She looked up abruptly, glancing at the uniformed officer. “Did you touch this, mess with it in any way?”
She stood back, allowed O to take a look.
“No, no, no,” Officer Piotrow assured her hastily. “It’s the heat. When I saw that something seemed to have happened, I picked up the note, and I’ll be damned if the letters didn’t immediately disappear. But then I set the paper back down on the hot dash…”
D.D. felt her heart quicken.
“I think it’s lemon juice,” the officer was saying. “My kid did this experiment once in grade school. You can write secret notes with lemon juice-the words will disappear when the lemon juice dries, but reappear when you hold the note over a hot lightbulb. I think my dash is the lightbulb.”
“A note within a note,” Detective O murmured, still leaning over the paper. “Different penmanship.”
“Different sentiment,” D.D. replied tersely, chewing her lower lip.
The first note,
In contrast, the hidden message was much smaller, jumbled letters hastily scrawled and crammed into a space smaller than a dime.
An order. A taunt. Or maybe even a plea:
Two simple words:
Chapter 26
HELLO. My name is Abigail.
Don’t worry, we’ve met.
Trust me, and I will take care of you.
Don’t you trust me?
Hello. My name is Abigail.
Chapter 27
IT FELT GOOD TO HIT.
I liked the satisfying thwack of my gloved fist making hard contact with the heavy bag. I liked the feel of my front leg pivoting, my hips rotating, and my shoulder rolling as I snapped my entire body behind the blow. Jab, jab, jab, uppercut, roundhouse, feint left, left hook downstairs, left hook upstairs, second roundhouse, V-step right, jab
