“Define attack.”

“Shoved her onto the floor and climbed on top of her. Evans says she tried to strangle her.”

Now he opens his eyes, sits up enough to see the woman’s face. “She put that on the record?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman flips a few pages in the file and slides it forward. He pulls his reading glasses onto his nose and skims the passage, then looks up.

“Is this it?”

The male detective leans forward. “Also, the proximity of where the body was found to where Madden lives. It’s less than three blocks away. Pacer’s house is up in Bethany Park… so the crime scene is most likely Madden’s apartment. Give us the warrant, and we can make a big move either toward or away from this girl. If we’re wrong and she’s innocent?” He spreads his hands out. “Then we’re out of her hair. No more bothering her.”

The judge flips through the file, glimpses of the girl’s face, direct and unsmiling, peeking through the passing pages. He turns pages forward, then back, then forward. Finally, he snaps the file shut and tosses it across the desk.

“Limited search. Luminol up the place, poke around a bit, then get out of her hair. I don’t want a lawsuit coming out of this, you hear?”

“Thanks, Judge.” They stand as one and the woman leans over, pushing a form forward.

He scrawls his name across the bottom, then looks up. Nods somberly and waits for them to leave. Wonders if he’ll have time for a nap before his next interruption.

CHAPTER 42

Past

MY APARTMENT WAS pitch dark when someone knocked on my door. When I opened my eyes, I didn’t move. I was on my back, one leg kicked free of the covers, the other toasty warm. The right side of my face was sticky and I lifted a hand, wiping at the drool at the corner of my mouth. I rolled onto my side and slid a hand under the pillow.

Knock knock knock.

I sat straight up, my heart beating, a pause passing before I scrambled from the covers, my ankle tangling, my body pitching forward, and I rolled off the bed, trying to find my bearings and wondering what time it was. So dark in the apartment. I moved to the door and grabbed the handle, pushing to my tiptoes and looking through the peephole.

Simon had a hand on the door, his weight on it, his chin lifted up, eyes on the peephole. Something caught his attention and he turned his head, said something too soft for me to hear. He made a fist and pounded on the door, and I waited. Thought. Waded through the final layers of sleep.

“Simon.” I called his name during the fourth set of knocks.

“Deanna?”

“Stop fucking knocking.”

“Okay.” Simon. Such a polite little waker.

“What time is it?”

“Uh… four something.”

“What do you need?” I squatted down and eyed the door frame’s crack. The dead bolt was in place. At least he’d done something right. My psychosis twitched. Damn him for sticking to the rules.

“I have to go to Oklahoma City. I won’t be back till late tomorrow night. So… uh… you know today, the…”

“You can’t lock me in?”

He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh. No. I mean… yes I can’t lock you in tonight but today is the first. So… uh…”

Oh. Right. This wasn’t about concern over my lock-in. This was about his drugs, the day he waited for all month. The trip must be important; the kid scheduled his bowel movements around getting his pills. “The delivery. You want me to hold it?” I could have Jeremy give me the package from Dr. Pat. I could hold it for Simon. No biggie. Let him stop by when he gets home tomorrow night. Could even invite him in. Tie him down and feed every last pill down his throat. Pop some popcorn and watch the excitement. I traced a finger over a dried drip of paint on the door. Scraped my nail over it and watched it drop to the floor. I’ve neglected this door. I used to spend a lot more time here, a piece of me pressed against its cool metal, a TV dinner or laptop on my knees, loneliness my best friend. I almost miss the simplicity of that time. Back then I had no expectations of anything else. No aspirations, no fantasies other than those that involved death. I just existed, worked, breathed, behaved. I was content. And others were safe.

“Just tell the UPS guy to give them to my sister.”

“No.” I’m not having that bitch sit in my hall all day and wait for Jeremy. Not gonna happen. I’m not gonna be able to work all day knowing she’s out there, hearing her giggle. The day before, she sat in the hall on her cell and carried on a twenty-seven-minute conversation. I know that because I timed the damn thing. And I had better things to do with my time than listen to her on the phone. She didn’t even discuss anything relevant. It was the stupidest, most pointless conversation I had ever eavesdropped on, the bulk of the chatter around a House of Cards plotline. After they’d exhausted that topic, and touched on a new OPI polish color (Over the Maroon and Back) and bitched about Delta’s new policy on carry-ons, she finally hung up. Heaven forbid the woman has more friends. More conversations to conduct. More unintelligent chatter that might occur should she have to wait on Jeremy. At least Simon is quiet when he waits. He just leans or sits and plays Bejeweled. Occasionally he’ll groan, or cheer, or pop his gum. Sometimes he paces, an entirely silent activity. But Blondie… She’ll be loud and annoying in her waiting, I have no freakin’ doubt about that.

“Come on… please. I never ask you for anything.”

I frown and turn over the sentence. “You ask me for things all the time.” More pills, more pills, more pills. It’s a freakin’ mantra out of his mouth. Though, to his credit, I never say yes. Does it count as a question if the answer is always no? I think it does. He slammed a hand against the peephole and I flinched, then cursed myself for the weakness. “Back the fuck up, Simon,” I snarled.

He lifted his head and stared at me. “Just give it to my sister. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Jeremy can give it to me, you can pick it up from me. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be here. You’ll get it at the same time as before.”

“But you’ll be locked in.”

“Not if you’re not here to lock me in.” That stopped him and I could see the mental struggle, his stagger as he tried to work through the pieces in his mind. I tried not to be excited, tried to stop my mind as it went to the dark, to all of the possibilities that a night of freedom might mean. How late? I wanted to scream. How late will you be back? Will I have a second night of freedom? Or will you return at the disappointingly early hour of ten? I could feel my breath quicken, the gentle tremor of my fingers.

“I have to lock you in.” He said the words so quietly I almost missed them, his head down, the words not direct. “You’ve always said, it doesn’t matter what you say to me at night, I have to lock you in.”

Damn him. The man fucks up his entire life a hundred different ways a day yet somehow, through the haze of whatever cocktail he’s currently on, remembers the cardinal rule, the one that I’ve spent three years pounding into his brain. I watched him step back, his hand falling off the door. “Please give them to my sister.”

Then, ignoring the scream from my mouth, he turned and headed toward the elevator. I jerked at the knob but it didn’t move.