Lisa Gardner - Love You More

“We’re even.” She spoke up suddenly, her voice flat. “Don’t call again. We’re even.”

I smiled, sadly, with genuine regret. For ten years, we’d kept our distance. And would’ve continued if not for Saturday morning and my stupid husband dying on our stupid kitchen floor.

Blood is thicker than water. Actually, friendship was, and so I had honored what I’d known Juliana had needed. Even when it hurt me.

“I would do it again,” I murmured, my eyes locking on hers in the rearview mirror. “You were my best friend, and I loved you and I would do it again.”

“Did you really name her Sophie?”

“Yeah.”

Juliana Sophia MacDougall nee Howe covered her mouth. She started to cry.

I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the snowy night. Another moment, the engine started up. Then the headlights flicked on and Juliana drove away.

I headed toward my father’s shop. I could tell from the light burning inside that he was already waiting.

Bobby and D.D. headed back to HQ in silence. Bobby drove. D.D. sat in the passenger’s seat. She had her hands fisted on her lap, trying not to think, her mind racing anyway.

She hadn’t eaten all day and last night her sleep had been marginal at best. Combine that with the all-time shittiest day of her career and she was entitled to go a little nuts and kiss a married man while carrying another man’s baby. Made total sense.

She leaned her forehead against the cool window, stared at the snow. The frozen flakes were falling heavily now. Obliterating Tessa Leoni’s trail. Snarling traffic. Complicating an already complicated investigative operation.

She’d contacted her boss before leaving the crime scene. Better Horgan hear the news from her than the latest media report, where it was bound to break at any time. D.D. had lost a suspected double-murderer. Taken her out to middle-of-nowhere Mass., where her entire team had fallen victim to a rookie booby trap.

The BPD looked like a bunch of idiots. Not to mention, the violent fugitive apprehension unit-a state operation-was most likely going to take the entire case from them, given the steadily growing size of the search operation. So the BPD would appear incompetent and be denied any chance to redeem themselves. Talk about a one-way ticket to Asshole Avenue. Let alone a punch line in all future media reports- suspected double-murderer Tessa Leoni, who escaped while in the custody of the Boston police…

She’d better hope she was pregnant, D.D. thought. Then, instead of getting fired, she could take maternity leave.

She ached.

She did. Her head hurt. Her chest, as well. She mourned for Sophie Leoni, a sweet-faced child who’d deserved better. Had she looked forward to her mommy coming home from work each morning? Hugs and kisses, while snuggling close for stories or showing off her latest homework? D.D. would think so. That’s what children did. They loved and loved and loved. With their entire hearts. With every fiber of their being.

Then the adults in their lives failed them.

And the police failed them.

And so it went.

I love my daughter .

“Gonna stop ahead,” Bobby spoke up, flipping on the right turn signal. “Need food. Want anything?”

D.D. shook her head.

“How about some dry cereal? Gotta eat something, D.D. Low blood sugar has never been your strong suit.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

Bobby took his eyes off the road long enough to regard her evenly. “Bet Alex would, too. If you’d let him.”

She scowled. Bobby shrugged off the glare, attention back on the treacherous highway. It took a bit to ease the Crown Vic over, find the exit, then work their way into the parking lot of a small shopping plaza. D.D. noted a dry cleaner’s, a pet supply store, and a mid-sized grocery store.

The grocery store appeared to be Bobby’s target. They parked up front, most customers scared off by the wintry conditions. When D.D. got out of the car, she was surprised to see how much snow had already accumulated. Bobby came around the vehicle, wordlessly offering his arm.

She accepted his help, making her way gingerly along the snow-covered sidewalk into the brightly lit store. Bobby headed for the deli. She lasted five seconds before the smell of rotisserie chicken proved too much. She left him to wander on her own, commandeering an apple from produce, then a box of Cheerios from the cereal aisle. Maybe one of those fancy organic fruit drinks, she thought, or a premade protein shake. She could live on Ensure, next logical stage of the life cycle.

She found herself in the small pharmacy section, and that quickly knew what she was going to do.

Fast, before she could change her mind, before Bobby could appear: family planning section, condoms, condoms, and of course, when the condoms broke, home pregnancy kits. She snatched the first box she found. Pee on a stick, wait to see what it tells you. How hard could it be?

No time to pay. Bobby would spot her for sure. So she high-tailed it for the restroom, apple, cereal box, and home pregnancy test clutched tight against her chest.

A green sign declared that no merchandise was allowed in the restroom.

Tough shit, D.D. thought, and pushed through the door.

She commandeered the handicap stall. Turned out it had a changing station bolted to the wall. She unfolded the plastic table and used it as a workbench. Apple, Cheerios, pregnancy kit.

Her fingers were shaking. Violently. To the point she couldn’t hold the box and read the words. So she flipped the box over on the changing table, reading the directions as she worked the button on her pants, finally shoving her jeans down to her knees.

Probably this was the kind of thing women did at home. Surrounded by the cozy comfort of their favorite towels, peach-painted walls, maybe some floral potpourri. She squatted in an industrial gray tiled public restroom and did the deed, fingers still shaking as she tried to position the stick and pee on command.

Took her three tries to get it done. She set the stick on the changing table, refusing to look at it. She finished peeing. She pulled up her pants. She washed her hands at the sink.

Then she returned to the stall. Outside, she could hear the bathroom door opening. Footsteps as another woman entered, headed for the neighboring stall. D.D. closed her eyes, held her breath.

She felt naughty, the bad schoolgirl caught smoking in the loo.

She couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be discovered. For her to look at the stick, she needed absolute privacy.

Toilet flushing. Stall door opening. Sound of water running at the sink, then the blast from the automatic hand dryer.

Outside door opened. Outside door closed.

D.D. was alone again.

Slowly she cracked one eye. Then the other. She stared at the stick.

Pink plus sign.

Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren was officially pregnant.

She sat back down on the toilet, put her head in her hands, and wept.

Later, still sitting on the edge of the toilet, she ate the apple. The rush of sugary fruit hit her bloodstream, and suddenly, she was ravenous. She consumed half a box of Cheerios, then abandoned the bathroom in search of a protein bar, mixed nuts, potato chips, yogurt, and bananas.

When Bobby finally caught up with her, she was standing in the checkout line with her apple core, opened Cheerios box, opened pregnancy kit box, and half a dozen other groceries. The checkout girl, who sported three facial piercings and a constellation of star tattoos, was regarding her with clear disapproval.

“Where’d you go?” Bobby asked with a frown. “Thought I’d lost you.”

Then his gaze fell upon the pregnancy test kit. His eyes widened. He didn’t say another word.