“Mommy,” my child replied calmly from inside the locked trunk. “Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”
I closed my eyes, exhaling my pent-up breath. “Sophie, honey,” I said as firmly as I could. “I need you to listen to Mommy. Don’t touch anything.”
“ ‘Kay.”
“Do you still have the keys?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are they in your hand?”
“No touching!”
“Well, you can touch the keys, honey. Hold the keys, just don’t touch anything else.”
“Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”
“I understand, honey. Would you like to get out?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. Hold the keys. Find a button with your thumb. Push it.”
I heard a click as Sophie did as she was told. I ran to the front door to check. Of course, she’d hit the lock key.
“Sophie, honey,” I called back. “Button next to it! Hit that one!”
Another click, and the front door unlocked. Expelling another breath, I opened the door, found the latch for the trunk and released it. Seconds later, I was standing above my daughter, who was curled up as a pink puddle in the middle of the metal locker holding my backup shotgun and a black duffel bag filled with ammo and additional policing gear.
“Are you all right?” I demanded to know.
My daughter yawned, held out her arms to me. “Hungry!”
I scooped her out of the trunk, placed her on her feet on the sidewalk, where she promptly shivered from the chill.
“Mommy,” she started to whine.
“Sophie!” I interrupted firmly, feeling the first edge of anger now that my child was out of immediate danger. “Listen to me.” I took the keys from her, held them up, shook them hard. “These are
Sophie’s lower lip jutted out. “No touching,” she warbled. The full extent of what she’d done seemed to penetrate. Her face fell, she stared at the sidewalk.
“You do not leave the apartment without telling me! Look me in the eye. Repeat that. Tell Mommy.”
She looked up at me with liquid blue eyes. “No leave. Tell Mommy,” she whispered.
Reprimand delivered, I gave in to the past ten minutes of terror, scooped her back into my arms, and held her tight. “Don’t scare Mommy like that,” I whispered against the top of her head. “Seriously, Sophie. I love you. I never want to lose you. You are my Sophie.”
In response her tiny fingers dug into my shoulders, clutched me back.
After another moment, I set her down. I should’ve set the bolt lock, I reminded myself. And I’d have to move my keys to the top of a cabinet, or perhaps add them to the gun safe. More things to remember. More management in an already overstretched life.
My eyes stung a little, but I didn’t cry. She was my Sophie. And I loved her.
“Weren’t you scared?” I asked as I took her hand and led her back to the apartment for our now cold dinner.
“No, Mommy.”
“Not even locked in the dark?”
“No, Mommy.”
“Really? You’re a brave girl, Sophie Leoni.”
She squeezed my hand. “Mommy come,” she said simply. “I know. Mommy come for me.”
I reminded myself of that evening now, as I lay trapped in a hospital room, surrounded by beeping monitors and the constant hum of a busy medical center. Sophie was tough. Sophie was brave. My daughter was not terrified of the dark, as I’d let the detectives believe. I wanted them to fear for her, and I wanted them to feel for her. Anything that would make them work that much harder, bring her home that much sooner.
I needed Bobby and D.D., whether they believed me or not. My daughter needed them, especially given that her superhero mother currently couldn’t stand without vomiting.
It went against the grain, but there it was: My daughter was in jeopardy, lost in the dark. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
One a.m.
I fisted my hand around the blue button, held it tight.
“Sophie, be brave,” I whispered in the semi-darkened room, willing my body to heal faster. “Mommy’s coming. Mommy will always come for you.”
Then I forced myself to review the past thirty-six hours. I considered the full tragedy of the days behind. Then I contemplated the full danger of the days ahead.
Work the angles, anticipate the obstacles, get one step ahead.
Brian’s autopsy had been moved to first thing in the morning. A Pyrrhic victory-I had gotten my way, and in doing so, had certainly stuck my own head in the noose.
But it also fast-forwarded the timeline, took some of the control from them and gave it back to me.
Nine hours, I figured. Nine hours to physically recover, then ready or not, the games began.
I thought of Brian, dying on the kitchen floor. I thought of Sophie, snatched from our home.
Then I allowed myself one last moment to mourn my husband. Because once upon a time, we’d been happy.
Once upon a time, we’d been a family.
15
D.D. made it back to her North End condo at two-thirty in the morning. She collapsed on her bed, fully clothed, and set her alarm for four hours’ sleep. She woke up six hours later, glanced at the clock, and immediately panicked.
Eight-thirty in the morning? She never overslept. Never!
She bolted out of bed, gazed wild-eyed around her room, then grabbed her cellphone and dialed. Bobby answered after the second ring, and she expelled in a breathless rush: “I’m coming I’m coming I’m coming. I just need forty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Must have screwed up the alarm. Just gotta shower, change, breakfast. I’m on my way.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck! The traffic!”
“D.D.,” Bobby said, more firmly. “It’s okay.”
“It’s eight-thirty!” she shouted back, and to her horror realized she was about to cry. She plopped back on the edge of her bed. Good God, she was a mess. What was happening to her?
“I’m still home,” Bobby said now. “Annabelle’s sleeping, I’m feeding the baby. Tell you what. I’ll call the lead detective from the Thomas Howe shooting. With any luck, we can meet in Framingham in two hours. Sound like a plan?”
D.D., sounding meek: “Okay.”
“Call you back in thirty. Enjoy the shower.”
D.D. should say something. In the old days, she would’ve definitely said something. Instead, she clicked off her cell and sat there, feeling like a balloon that had abruptly deflated.
After another minute, she trudged to the sleek master bath, where she stripped off yesterday’s clothes and stood in a sea of white ceramic tiles, staring at her naked body in the mirror.
She touched her stomach with her fingers, brushed her palms across the smooth expanse of her skin, tried to
