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Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
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reveal Ella had called her, bad enough, then, even worse, tell how she’d bailed on their appointment. After that, Ms. Finch—even Mr. Brannigan—would get involved. And probably lawyers.
She was staying.
Will I never learn to keep out of people’s lives? She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling from the cold—but that was her life, wasn’t it? Everything she did changed people’s futures, whether it was saying yes, or saying no, or saying … guess who called us? And then, life went on. The dominoes would fall.
This time, though, the dominoes could end up falling on her.
Ardella Morgan Gavin, she scolded herself. You are a grown-up with an important and responsible job. Get a life.
She turned and marched through the slush, heading toward the door of the Dunkin’ Donuts, whatever was about to happen.
“I’m only trying to help,” she whispered. “That’s always a good thing.”
16
“I think I understand this,” Jake said.
“Alert the media,” DeLuca said. “And it’s only Monday.”
Jake ignored him, nosing the cruiser into the parking space in front of the once-bright-yellow clapboard house. When they first showed up this morning, every shoveled space on Hinshaw Street had been taken. Not by cars, but by metal trash cans, webbed lawn chairs, and in one parking space, an orange plastic playpen. Neighborhood rules said once you cleared the snow from your parking spot, it was yours. Ignoring the rules would get you a punctured tire, or the gash of a key along the paint. D had lugged two battered aluminum folding chairs to the sidewalk so they could park. Aware of the social contract, they would put the chairs back in place when they’d finished their visit.
“It’s to save their spot, Harvard,” DeLuca said, palming the snow off his leather gloves. “Not just here in Southie. Probably in Wellesley and Dover, too. Or, ya know, they have their servants do it.”
Jake shifted into reverse, then park. “Not ‘I understand’ the parking, D, I grew up in Boston, remember?” He grabbed his second-of-the-morning coffee from the cup holder and slugged down the last dregs. “‘I understand’ about this woman. About this case. The nine-one-one call tape was a bust, came from a cell, no ID. That means someone heard something—but why aren’t they owning up to it? The victim was dead when the call came in, if you go by what your Dr. McMahan is estimating the TOD.”
“So either it was a witness who’s spooked for some reason, or the killer himself. Huh,” D said. “But the longer we weren’t on it, the longer the killer’d have to get away. So why call?”
Jake cocked his head at the yellow house. “Because of them, I figure. The kids. Whoever killed our vic knew the kids were there. Must have. Knew they were going to discover their murdered mother sooner or later. So. Someone might have hated her enough, or been mad at her enough, or whatever the motive, to kill her. But even then. He still cared about those kids.”
D nodded, scratching his nose with one finger. “And if he knew the kids—”
“The kids knew him. Exactly.” And was there another child? That cradle haunted him. Jake patted his jacket for his cell, then opened his car door. He looked at DeLuca. “You ready?”
D joined Jake at the bottom of the shoveled front walk, gesturing go ahead. The front door was only a few steps away. Cast-iron window boxes were filled with snow, a wood-burned sign over the door read CEAD MILE FAILTE . “So, you’re thinkin’ the kids might tell us who he is?”
“Yup. If we’re lucky. And sometimes we are.” Jake pulled out his badge wallet for ID, in case someone demanded to see the gold, even though he knew the court-appointed guardian who lived here was expecting them. Jake had a good record of talking to kids, but a text message from the brass reminded him that this Bethany Sibbach, a child therapist, was required to be their conduit, since the not-quite-witnesses were
She was staying.
Will I never learn to keep out of people’s lives? She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling from the cold—but that was her life, wasn’t it? Everything she did changed people’s futures, whether it was saying yes, or saying no, or saying … guess who called us? And then, life went on. The dominoes would fall.
This time, though, the dominoes could end up falling on her.
Ardella Morgan Gavin, she scolded herself. You are a grown-up with an important and responsible job. Get a life.
She turned and marched through the slush, heading toward the door of the Dunkin’ Donuts, whatever was about to happen.
“I’m only trying to help,” she whispered. “That’s always a good thing.”
16
“I think I understand this,” Jake said.
“Alert the media,” DeLuca said. “And it’s only Monday.”
Jake ignored him, nosing the cruiser into the parking space in front of the once-bright-yellow clapboard house. When they first showed up this morning, every shoveled space on Hinshaw Street had been taken. Not by cars, but by metal trash cans, webbed lawn chairs, and in one parking space, an orange plastic playpen. Neighborhood rules said once you cleared the snow from your parking spot, it was yours. Ignoring the rules would get you a punctured tire, or the gash of a key along the paint. D had lugged two battered aluminum folding chairs to the sidewalk so they could park. Aware of the social contract, they would put the chairs back in place when they’d finished their visit.
“It’s to save their spot, Harvard,” DeLuca said, palming the snow off his leather gloves. “Not just here in Southie. Probably in Wellesley and Dover, too. Or, ya know, they have their servants do it.”
Jake shifted into reverse, then park. “Not ‘I understand’ the parking, D, I grew up in Boston, remember?” He grabbed his second-of-the-morning coffee from the cup holder and slugged down the last dregs. “‘I understand’ about this woman. About this case. The nine-one-one call tape was a bust, came from a cell, no ID. That means someone heard something—but why aren’t they owning up to it? The victim was dead when the call came in, if you go by what your Dr. McMahan is estimating the TOD.”
“So either it was a witness who’s spooked for some reason, or the killer himself. Huh,” D said. “But the longer we weren’t on it, the longer the killer’d have to get away. So why call?”
Jake cocked his head at the yellow house. “Because of them, I figure. The kids. Whoever killed our vic knew the kids were there. Must have. Knew they were going to discover their murdered mother sooner or later. So. Someone might have hated her enough, or been mad at her enough, or whatever the motive, to kill her. But even then. He still cared about those kids.”
D nodded, scratching his nose with one finger. “And if he knew the kids—”
“The kids knew him. Exactly.” And was there another child? That cradle haunted him. Jake patted his jacket for his cell, then opened his car door. He looked at DeLuca. “You ready?”
D joined Jake at the bottom of the shoveled front walk, gesturing go ahead. The front door was only a few steps away. Cast-iron window boxes were filled with snow, a wood-burned sign over the door read CEAD MILE FAILTE . “So, you’re thinkin’ the kids might tell us who he is?”
“Yup. If we’re lucky. And sometimes we are.” Jake pulled out his badge wallet for ID, in case someone demanded to see the gold, even though he knew the court-appointed guardian who lived here was expecting them. Jake had a good record of talking to kids, but a text message from the brass reminded him that this Bethany Sibbach, a child therapist, was required to be their conduit, since the not-quite-witnesses were
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