Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,30

your fault.”

“You’re a baby! A weak, useless baby. Mom used to tell him that just so he would leave you alone. But I showed you my love. I cut your wrist just so you wouldn’t feel alone, and Mom beat the shit out of me for it.”

“She hit you? Or Dad hit you?”

“She hit me. Mom is not love. And you’re still weak and useless!”

I switched gears, leaning back. “Shana, who stitched you up? If blood is love, and he cut you each night, who repaired you in the morning?”

My sister looked away.

“Someone fixed you. Every morning, someone had to make you better again. And they couldn’t take you to a hospital. That would’ve garnered too much attention. So every morning, someone had to clean your cuts, bandage the wounds, do their best to make you feel better. Who, Shana, did that for you?”

Shana, shoulders twitching, jaw working, kept her gaze fixed on the far wall.

“Mom did it, didn’t she? She stitched you up. Every night he destroyed and every morning she rebuilt. And you’ve never forgiven her for it. That’s why Mom cannot equal love. Daddy hurt you. But she failed you. And that was worse, wasn’t it? What she did, that hurt worse.”

Shana, suddenly staring at me, her brown eyes gleaming uncannily: “You are her. I’m Dad, but you’re Mom.”

“Do you think I am trying to rebuild you? My visits feel like the morning; then I go away and abandon you once more to the night?”

“Dad is love. Mom is not love. Mom is worse.”

“You’re Shana. I’m Adeline. Our parents are dead. It’s not our fault what they did. But it is up to us to let them go.”

Shana smiled at me. “Daddy is dead,” she agreed, but her tone was sly again, almost gleeful. “I know, Adeline. I was there. What about you?”

“I don’t remember. You know that.”

“But you were there.”

“A baby strapped in a car seat. That doesn’t count.”

“The sound of police sirens . . . ,” she goaded.

“Harry Day panicked, realized the cops were on to him,” I filled in evenly. “Rather than be taken alive, he slit his wrists.”

“No!”

“I read the reports, Shana. I know what happened to our father.”

“Blood is love, Adeline. I know you understand, because you were there.”

I felt myself pausing, frowning. But for the life of me, I didn’t know what Shana meant. Because I had been just an infant, and my knowledge did come solely from police reports.

“Shana—”

“She gave him the aspirin. Thins the blood.” My sister’s voice had turned singsong, almost like a child’s. “Then she filled the tub. Warm water. Helps expand the veins. He took off his clothes. She told him to climb in. Then he held up his wrists.

“‘You must,’ he told her.

“‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

“‘If you ever loved me,’ he said. He handed her his favorite razor, the old-fashioned kind with an ivory handle. A gift from his own daddy, he’d once told me.

“Bang, bang, bang on the front door. Open up, open up, it’s the police. Bang, bang, bang.

“And Mom slit his wrists. Two strokes each, running down, not across, because across can be stitched up by doctors. Down is a killing stroke.

“Daddy smiled at her. ‘I knew you’d do it right.’

“She dropped the razor into the water. He sank into the sea of red.

“‘I will always love you,’ Mommy whispered, then fell to the floor as the police burst into our home.

“Blood is love,” Shana intoned. “And our parents are not gone. I’m Daddy, and you’re Mom, and Mom is not love, Adeline. Mom is worse.”

“You should rest now,” I told my sister.

But she merely smiled at me.

“Blood will win out, Adeline. Blood always wins in the end, little sister mine.”

Then she grabbed my hand. For a second, I thought maybe she’d smuggled in another blade and was going to do something violent. But she just clutched my wrist. Then the drugs finished taking hold. She eased back. Sighed. Her eyes closed, and my murderous older sister fell asleep, still holding my hand.

After a long moment, I eased my fingers free. Then I lifted my hand and studied the faint white scar I’d had for as long as I could remember across the pale blue veins of my wrists. Apparently put there by my sister forty years ago.

I could nearly hear my adoptive father’s voice now in my head: Pain is . . . ?

Pain is remembering, I thought.

Pain is family.

Which explains why even an expert on pain, such as myself, turned