Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,23

a more pleasant soreness in other parts of his body, and a dull pain in the back of his shoulder.

No doubt, when he went to shower, he’d try to inspect his back in the bathroom mirror. At which point he’d spy a red stripe down his left shoulder blade, slightly puckered at the edges. He’d puzzle over it. Wonder if he banged into something. Except the wound would appear more like a broad scratch, meaning maybe he snagged himself on something, a belt buckle, a sharp strap.

Eventually, he’d shrug, climb into the shower. The wound would most likely sting for a second; then that would be that. It would heal, leaving behind a faint white line, the source of which remained forever a mystery.

Because who’d ever consider that his bar hookup had removed a strip of his skin with a scalpel while he slept? And even now, she kept it in a glass vial, part of a special collection she couldn’t explain but was compelled to keep.

My adoptive father had obsessed over my genetic inability to feel pain.

Maybe he should’ve been more concerned with my genetic predisposition to inflict it upon others.

• • •

I WENT HOME, conducted a thorough physical exam to ensure I hadn’t accrued any unsuspected damage, then collapsed into bed, sleeping without a single dream.

I woke up bright and early to a phone call from the prison.

Superintendent McKinnon’s voice was firm and crisp. “Adeline, there’s been another incident. Shana got her hands on a homemade shank. Apparently, spent most of the night working herself over. She’s currently stabilized down in medical, but Adeline . . . it’s bad.”

I nodded, because when it came to my sister, there had never been anything good. I hung up the phone, swung out of bed and prepared to return once more to prison.

Chapter 6

ALEX MADE ALL THE ARRANGEMENTS. D.D.’s physical therapist plus Phil and Neil would meet them at the scene of the first murder and D.D.’s subsequent stair dive. Seven A.M., D.D. sat in the kitchen across from three-year-old Jack, plying him with Cheerios while engaging in their morning contest of who could make the most ridiculous face. As usual, Jack won, but D.D. felt she put up a fair fight.

Eight A.M., Alex drove Jack to day care, at a neighbor’s house just down the street. D.D. told herself she was not nervous. Alex’s idea to reconstruct the shooting incident of six weeks ago based upon the resulting trauma to her body made perfect sense. Forensic collision experts did it all the time, looked at smashed-up car A, smashed-up car B, then rendered stunningly accurate analyses of the auto accident, including who was to blame. If it could work on cars, why not the human body?

Eight thirty. Alex returned home and the real challenge began. Pulling on fresh clothes, despite the limited mobility of D.D.’s left arm and the excruciating pain that still radiated throughout much of her neck and shoulder.

“Melvin,” she said, eyeing her tucked left arm in the mirror.

Her shoulder blazed instant pain. The kind that came from overstretched muscles and inflamed nerves, she’d been told, and would require months to heal.

What had the shrink told her? Talk to Melvin. Let him know who was in charge.

“All right,” she addressed her reflection. “Here’s the deal. Got a big morning. Gonna do some real work, and part of that work is trying to remember what you made me forget.”

Her shoulder remained . . . a shoulder, reflected in a mirror.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is the stupidest, most idiotic . . . Fine!” She scowled harder at her reflection. “These clothes are coming off. Then I’m going to shower so I feel like a real human being. And then I’m going to put on tight-fitting yoga clothes, because those are my instructions.”

In fact, her physical therapist, Russ Ilg, had instructed her to arrive in black yoga pants and a tight-fitting black T-shirt. FYI, he was bringing chalk and she shouldn’t be surprised if she became the blackboard.

“I don’t want to hear it from you,” she continued ruthlessly. “This is how it’s gonna be. So just . . . take a break or something, Melvin. Because life goes on and I’m sick of being stuck in this house, wearing my husband’s clothes and smelling like an animal in the zoo. It’s been six weeks and I . . . I gotta do something. I’m not meant for lying around. If you are me, surely you know that, Melvin. Surely you