THE PROBLEM WITH BOXING is that it’s a relatively civilized sport.
You face off squarely against your opponent. You use only your fists. You aim only above the waist.
From a self-defense point of view, this strategy is not as effective as say, an all-out brawl. Certainly, there were other disciplines I could’ve studied that might have been more appropriate for fighting off a murderer, while also being more efficient for a girl.
But from the very beginning, I loved boxing.
I think I’ve waited my entire life to stand before my attacker and stare her in the eye.
Fortunately, my boxing coach, Dick, taught self-defense classes for women. He also hinted of a misspent youth, where knocking heads and kicking ass seemed the easiest solution to all of life’s problems. For the past year, after our bouts, he’d shared some of his secrets with me. J.T., my firearms instructor, had done the same. Trust me, if you want to learn how to fight dirty, ask a guy who used to be Marine Force Recon. Apparently, when it comes to warfare, they really do believe the end justifies the means.
I didn’t complain then, and I wasn’t complaining now, as I went through my final preparations.
Three forty-five P.M. Daylight already fading.
Nightfall would bring me cover. I could leave Tom’s apartment, home in on my final target, and start making amends for past mistakes. Assuming I wasn’t already too late.
I started with the easy tricks. Ballpoint pen thrust into the elastic at the base of my ponytail, where it would be easily accessible. From Tom’s bureau, I’d helped myself to one long white athletic sock. Now I stuffed the foot with the four D batteries, tied a knot in the ankle, then whipped it around a few times experimentally. The heavy weight in the toe stretched it out and would pack quite a punch, enabling me to inflict damage, while also staying out of strike range.
I used the duct tape to fashion a sturdy knife sheath, then attached it to my ankle. Into the sheath I thrust a short, serrated kitchen blade. Not optimal, but if I was at the stage where I needed a knife, I was already in trouble. I didn’t have those kinds of skills. Wasn’t even sure I had that kind of stomach. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
I heard footsteps out in the hall and froze. A quiet quick rap.
“It’s me,” came Tom’s low voice, then I heard his key in the lock.
Quickly, I grabbed the remaining items and shoved them in my pants pockets. Already, I was breathing too hard, my heart rate accelerating. At the last minute, I dropped and loosened the laces on both my heavy boots.
I was just straightening up when Tom walked in.
And that quickly, it was game time.
January 21.
I’d like to think that Detective D. D. Warren’s shocking declaration had opened the floodgates of my mind. I magically remembered my long-lost sister Abigail. I magically understood Detective O and the relevance of the twenty-first, and why my best friends had to die. I even understood why a respected sex crime detective had started shooting perverts, leaving the same disturbing note with each body, while framing me for her crimes.
I didn’t.
Abigail remained in my mind, a beaming, brown-eyed, chubby, gurgling baby. My little sister, whom I’d loved with all my heart. And lost. Died, I had believed. Except, of course, if she’d died, I should’ve absorbed her name, as I’d done with the others. Charlene Rosalind Carter Abigail Grant.
In Detective Warren’s mind, that was further proof that Abigail still lived and, in some way we didn’t yet understand, had become Boston sex crimes Detective O. Brown hair, brown eyes, just like the baby in my dream.
Except I truly only remembered an infant, maybe nine months old at best. Not a beautiful exotic creature with that hair and those curves, and a solid career as an up-and-coming sex crimes investigator. A young, astute detective who, from the very beginning, didn’t seem to like me.
Those words, I recognized. Those words, I understood on a level that chilled my spine, set my shoulders, and raised my chin.
My mother’s favorite expression. That, more than anything, proved Detective Warren’s argument. Abigail lived.
But my baby sister didn’t love me anymore.
“Raid the fridge?” Tom asked now, standing just inside the door. His features were drawn, tired. He’d been up at least eighteen hours by now. We both had. He appeared self-conscious as he took me in from across the room, then seemed to shake it off.
“Drank your OJ,” I said.
“Find any unexpired food?”
“The dill pickles were pretty good.”
“How about the gun safe?”
“Twelve months together, and I still don’t know your birthday, favorite pet, or mother’s maiden name. Totally screwed me with guessing the combo.”
“Figured as much. Calls?”
“One. Talked to Detective D. D. Warren. Good news. I think she believes me.”
Tom drew up short. He stood on one side of the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. I stood on the other.
“She didn’t pull the warrant,” he said.
“I said she believes me. Not that she trusts me.” I had my hands down at my side, hidden behind the counter. I didn’t want him to see that they were shaking. That, in fact, I was trembling with nerves over what was about to come.
“So, why does this other detective, O, have it in for you?”
“D.D. believes she’s my long-lost sister. Out for revenge.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s why she’s going to kill you?”
“D.D. thinks so.” I took the first sideways step toward the end of the counter, putting my right hand into my pocket, fiddling around until I found what I needed to find. “I disagree.”
“You don’t think she’s your sister?”
“No, I’m pretty sure D.D.’s right about that. But I don’t think Abigail, O, is going to kill me. I’ve been wrong all along. I’m not the third target.”
“That’s good news.”
“Quincy, the profiler, kept warning me we didn’t have enough data points. Our victim pool, so to speak, was too small. I kept seeing best friends, two out of three, making me the next logical target. But Randi and Jackie weren’t killed because they were my best friends. They were killed because I loved them.”
From the other side of the counter, Tom frowned at me. “Isn’t that a matter of semantics?”
“No, it’s a broader category. I had two best friends. But there are three people I love.”
“Aunt Nancy.”
“I think so. I’ve tried calling her hotel twice, but there’s no answer. Detective O was supposed to interview her sometime today. Of course, Detective Warren gave those orders before she knew O’s true identity.” I made another sideways move. Almost at the end of the counter, where in two steps, I could lunge around, reach him where he stood in the kitchen.
My hands, shaking harder. My throat tightening, forcing me to swallow, take deep breaths.
All these years later, my mother was coming for me. That’s how it felt on some level. In a way I didn’t understand yet, she had won, and I had lost, and twenty years later she was still making me pay.
Except I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I wasn’t going quietly into that good night.
I had learned my lessons. I was prepared to die. But more than that, I was prepared to fight.
“You sure this Abigail is going after your aunt?” Tom was asking now. “Because you still have only two victims
