Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,11
acts and the Managers into various repressive acts. And around and around you go, whirling through the dysfunctional cycles of life, caused by the core Self not being the one in charge.”
“I fell down the stairs,” D.D. said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t get what that has to do with Exiles and Firefighters and Managers. Oh, and my true Self.”
“The fall is trauma. It caused pain but also created fear, powerlessness and impotence.”
The detective hunched her shoulders slightly, wincing.
“Those emotions are your Exiles,” I supplied gently. “They’re screaming to be heard. The Firefighters in the system might respond with a compulsion to drink or abuse of prescription medication—”
“I’m not taking anything!”
“Or the Managers might rise to the forefront,” I continued, “micromanaging the entire system by controlling and judging your response to the pain. Demanding, in fact, that you be tough enough.”
D.D.’s eyes widened slightly. She stared at me a full minute. Then her gaze narrowed.
“The Exiles must be heard,” she murmured. “That’s why you want me to talk to my pain.”
“Melvin. Generally speaking, it’s easier to carry on a conversation when the other party has a name.”
“And Melvin will say what? Hey, I’m hurt. I’m powerless. I hate stairs. And I’ll say, okay, and then my pain will go away?”
“And then your pain might feel more manageable. The rest of the system can ease while your core Self rises to the front. For the record, there have been numerous studies on physical pain. One of the most interesting findings: Everyone has pain, but only some people are bothered by it. Meaning, colloquially speaking, attitude is everything.”
“I think,” the detective said slowly, “that’s the biggest bunch of BS I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet, here we are. One session down, two more to go.”
D.D. gave her awkward half shrug, rose slowly to standing. “Fucking Melvin,” she murmured under her breath. Then, “I kinda like cursing him.”
“Detective,” I asked as she started for the door, “given that we have only two more appointments, what goal would be most valuable to you? What do you want most right now so that we can pursue it?”
“I want to remember,” she said immediately.
“Remember . . . ?”
“The fall.” She looked at me quizzically. “I have physician-patient privilege, right?”
“Of course.”
“My injury—I fell down the stairs at a crime scene. Discharged my weapon. Except I don’t remember why I was there, or who I was firing at.”
“Interesting. Concussion from the fall?”
“Possibly. Which according to the docs can cause memory loss.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?”
She fell silent for so long, I thought she hadn’t heard my question. Then, “The scent of blood,” she whispered. “The sensation of falling. Down will come baby, cradle and all.”
“Detective Warren?”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the night, when you’re done cursing out Melvin, I want you to ask him a question. I want you to ask him why he doesn’t want to remember.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Then I want you to tell him it’s okay. You’re safe, and you can handle it now.”
“The memory of what happened?”
“Yes. Then prepare yourself, Detective Warren. Melvin may have a very good reason for wanting you to forget.”
Chapter 4
MY PAIN IS NAMED MELVIN.”
“Better than Wilson,” D.D.’s husband, Alex Wilson, observed. “Or, say, Horgan.” Deputy Superintendent of Homicide Cal Horgan was D.D.’s boss.
“Please, you two are minor pains in the ass, while Melvin is a major pain in the neck.”
D.D. continued walking toward her husband, who already stood on the front porch of the modest redbrick town house. It was dusk. Sun sinking, evening air sharp with early winter bite. She’d parked three blocks back. Maybe a local, arriving home from a day’s work. Or an injured detective, who just happened to be in the neighborhood of a recent homicide, out for an evening stroll.
She shouldn’t be here. Had no right to be here, in fact.
And yet, leaving her new doctor’s office, she’d known the most recent murder scene was exactly where she’d go. As she’d eased herself into the driver’s seat, carefully reached across her body for the strap Alex had jury-rigged to the inside of the driver’s door, then used the strap to awkwardly pull the door shut without overjostling her left arm. The process was slow, uncomfortable, laborious.
Meaning she’d had plenty of time to change her mind.
Putting the key in the ignition. Shifting the vehicle from park into reverse.
Suddenly experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. That she’d done this before. Told herself to go home, while heading toward a crime scene instead.
Of course. She’d repeated this pattern most of her adult life.