Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,14
high-intensity beam, Alex illuminated more blood evidence along the way. Paw prints, some full, some partial, as the small dog had gone up and down the stairs. Then, at the top of the stairs, a significantly larger streak, as if someone had found a large pool of blood and tried to mop it up.
“We’ll have to conduct some experiments to see if we can reproduce the pattern,” Alex was saying, “but I believe this smear pattern is from the dog as well. She was agitated, spending time next to the body, then running back and forth in the hallway. Here, at the top of the stairs, I think she lay down for a while. Maybe waiting for help to arrive.”
D.D. was having a hard time breathing again. The climb up the stairs, she told herself. But she had a death grip on the right handrail and her chest felt unnaturally tight. As if a giant had reached inside her body and was now squeezing her lungs with his meaty fist.
She bent over slightly. Found herself panting.
Then, as white dots began appearing in front of her eyes . . .
Rockabye, baby, on the treetop . . .
“Hold my hand. Steady. Now breathe. Inhale through your mouth, one, two, three, four, five. Exhale through your nose. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five.
“Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”
Another minute. Maybe two, three, ten. She was embarrassed to realize her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. And she was sweating. She could feel the beads of perspiration dotting her brow, rolling down her cheeks. For an instant, she was seized by the overwhelming compulsion to bolt back down the stairs and race out the door. She’d flee the scene. Run away and never look back.
Alex’s fingers, enmeshed in her own.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “Anytime you want, D.D., we can walk away. I’ll drive you home.”
That did it. His voice was so patient, so understanding, she had no choice but to grit her teeth and steel her spine. She did not want to be this person. This weak, trembling woman who required her husband’s support just to climb the damn stairs.
She inhaled, counting to five. Then exhaled. Then got her head up.
“I’m sorry,” she said shortly, looking at anything but Alex’s face. “Clearly, time to boost the cardio.”
“D.D.”
“All this lying around. Doesn’t do a body good.”
“D.D.”
“Maybe instead of naming my pain, I should force it to run laps instead. That’d teach it.”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Don’t lie to me. If you need to lie to yourself, fair enough. But don’t lie to me. This is the first time back at a crime scene since your accident. That you’re suffering some kind of panic attack—”
“I don’t panic!”
“Some kind of emotional response isn’t unwarranted. You’re not carved out of stone, sweetheart.” Alex’s voice grew gentle. “You’re a real person. And real people feel fear and pain and uncertainty. It doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re human.”
“I don’t panic,” she muttered, still looking away. Then, because she simply had to know: “Is the dog okay?”
“Staying at the neighbor’s, which I gather was already like a second home to her.”
“She was covered in blood. The dog, right? Only way a smear this big . . . The dog’s legs, stomach, would have to be covered in blood. From the mattress. From lying down next to her owner and the mounds and mounds of flayed skin . . .”
“We can go home, D.D., anytime you’d like.”
“When the wind blows,” she murmured.
“What’s that?”
She merely smiled, then got her head up and her shoulders back. “And down will come baby, cradle and all.”
She continued down the hall.
• • •
THEY HAD LEFT THE SCENE relatively intact. The body was gone, of course. But the blood-soaked mattress, bottle of champagne, fur-lined handcuffs, remained. And the bloody sheet, now tacked up on a bare wall. D.D. had witnessed the technique before, bedding, clothes, even entire sections of flooring, suspended at the original crime scene to enable better spatter analysis. Even then, she had to steel herself as Alex flipped on the overhead light, chasing away the thickening shadows and revealing the full bloody glory.
“I asked them to leave as much of the initial scene as possible,” Alex said quietly. “Allow me the opportunity to study it in situ.”
D.D. nodded. Her left shoulder had started a deep, throbbing ache.
“Same bottle of champagne,” she observed, looking at anything but the suspended sheet.