I read it over twice, ignoring the reaction the words provoke, then forward the email to Quincy Hanford’s address, telling him to find out what he can.
A white Crime Scene Unit vehicle sits in my driveway. I park on the street and rush up the walk. Eric Castro slips through the front door, pausing in surprise.
“Detective-”
“Where is she? Inside?”
He nods wordlessly and I slip past.
She’s in the living room, cradled in a wingback chair with the portable phone in hand. Based on the tail end of her sentence, probably talking to her sister Ann. She looks up, sees me.
“He’s here,” she says into the phone.
She rises as I move forward, opening her arms for me, pulling me close. Her body presses into me and I hold on as tight as I can, feeling her breathing, her warmth, inhaling the scent of her hair.
“Oh, Roland,” she says.
When I loose my hold, she pulls back slightly, giving me a crooked smile.
“That’s quite a shiner,” I say, trying to make light of the swollen lid, the purple flesh around the eye.
“It’s fine. It’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Sure, it doesn’t. You’re very brave, you know that? And the guy who did this, he might as well have cut his own throat. He just signed his death warrant.”
“Don’t even talk like that.” She pulls away. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
“If I wanted him dead, I could have done it myself.”
“You’re right,” I say, the words coming out harsher than I intend. “Forgive and forget. When I find him, I’ll tell him to mind his manners from now on.”
“Roland,” she says, cutting her eyes sideways.
For the first time I notice the audience. Carter slouches on the opposite chair, his gauzed forearm hanging over the side, and behind him, silhouetted in the doorway, a crime scene tech stands frozen, waiting for the action to pause before passing through the room. I motion him along, then sink onto the couch, pulling Charlotte down beside me.
“How’s that arm?” I ask Carter.
He lifts the bandage for inspection. “I’ll take this any day over getting shot.”
“We did all right,” Charlotte says, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
I can imagine them a few moments earlier, knowing my arrival was imminent, deciding between them to put a brave face on things. But all I can think of is my wife screaming as a knife-wielding psychopath beats down the door. I put my arm around her and remember the wounds on Simone Walker’s back. He’d have done the same to Charlotte, even worse, if Carter hadn’t arrived when he did. They can sit here with their awkward smiles and congratulate themselves on the outcome, and I can let out a hundred sighs of relief, telling myself everything worked out in the end. But only by the thinnest margin. If Carter had been slower, if her attacker had gotten through the door, would Charlotte have been able to shoot? Or would I have come home to find her cold and lifeless on the tile floor, another victim of the man it was my job to stop?
“Don’t,” she says. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t.”
I bury my face in her hair. “I can’t help it.”
“I should probably go,” Carter says, rising to his feet.
Before he leaves, I shake his good hand and thank him again. “You saved her life.”
“She saved mine, too.”
The resentment I’ve built up the past couple of months, the frustration with his influence over Charlotte, ebbs away as he walks through the door. I watch him go and for the first time in a year I finally see him for what he is, just a young man willing to risk himself to do what’s right. Whatever our differences are, I admire that. He’ll never ossify with rust, never cut the corners. He’ll never wake up across the room from his crooked doppelganger, uncertain which side of the line he’s really on.
“I should probably go,” I say. “Get on top of this thing.”
A faint smile. “Yes, you should.”
I sink back beside her, wrap my arm around her shoulder.
“There’s so much to do,” I say.
But I don’t leave for a long time, afraid to put too much distance between us, afraid of what might happen if I’m not here. After a while she starts to tremble. And then the tears flow and I hold her tight.
“You’re not staying here,” Ann says. “No way.”
Charlotte’s sister drags her downstairs by the wrist, a hastily packed overnight bag clutched in the other hand. Within ten minutes of her arrival, she’s taken charge of the situation, declaring the house unsafe and insisting Charlotte go home with her. She gives me a tongue-lashing for not having installed a security system, and I take it gladly, relieved that someone is finally putting the blame where it belongs.
“She’s right,” I say. “We can’t take the chance that he’ll come back.”
“There’s a police car out front. I hardly think he’d be that stupid.”
Ann drops the bag near the door without releasing Charlotte’s hand. “We’re not arguing, sis. You’re coming with me, end of discussion. Once your husband takes care of the situation, you can do what you want. Until then, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“What about Carter and Gina?”
“What about them?” Ann says. “There’s a police car out front.”
I’ve never cared much for Ann, calling her the ugly duckling behind her back, but at this moment I could kiss her.
“Go with your sister. I’ll come see you when I finish some things.”
I follow them out, slipping Charlotte’s overnight bag into the back. Ann guides her to the passenger seat, making sure she’s settled, then closes the door. Coming around, she leans in close to me.
“You’d better not,” she says.
“Better not what?”
“Come over. How do you think this guy found out where you live?”
“I don’t know.”
She shakes her head. “How would you do it?”
“I’d look him up, but we’re unlisted.”
“How else would you do it?” she asks. “Think about it. You work with a lot of bad people. Well, I’ve represented a few. It seems obvious to me.”
“What does, Ann? Just spit it out.”
“Did you ever think maybe he followed you? You were at the scene, your name is in all the newspaper reports, and he obviously knows how to email you. Would it be so hard to tail you around?”
I smile. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”
“I think there’s plenty you don’t notice,” she says. “So indulge me, all right? Let me take care of my sister and you focus on your case.”
They pull out onto the street and Charlotte lifts her fingers in a hesitant wave. As the car rolls away I feel a bond drawing taut and, as her figure behind the glass grows small, finally snapping. It’s terrible, her going away, but somehow right that she should be taken from me. I turn back toward the house, cold and deliberate, a dark intention forming at the back of my mind, a cancerous notion metastasizing, infiltrating blood and bone.
Hanford calls my cell, telling me his baited hook is ready to send.
“You’ll be able to find him with this?”
He laughs, unable to contain his excitement. “I think so. All he has to do is run the Mail software. When our message hits the preview screen, we’ll get a location-it might be precise, it might be vague. But we’ll also get a picture. He’ll basically send us his identity.”
“What about the message I sent earlier? Can you tell where it came from?”
“He switched up on us. The location was different, and I’m working on the provider to see if I can pinpoint it. He might have just used an open network. A coffee shop Wi-Fi signal, maybe even somebody’s house. He could pull up to the curb just like he did with Dr. Hill.”
“Couldn’t he do that again, with our email?”
“Sure,” he says. “The difference is, we’ll see his face. Also, he’ll be opening the software to compose a message. In the time it takes him to do that, we might be able to get there. You never know.”