Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,6

care. Then Alex could head to work at the police academy while D.D. . . .

D.D. dedicated her day to getting out of bed.

She moved gingerly. Any movement of her left arm and shoulder still led to instantaneous shooting pains, so during the past few weeks, she’d perfected the art of rolling onto her right side. From there, she could swing her feet down to the floor, which helped heave her torso into the vertical position. Having achieved sitting up, she would then spend the next couple of minutes regaining her labored breath.

Because what happened next really, truly hurt, and heaven help her, but six weeks later she was growing more averse to the pain, instead of simply resigned to it.

Strained muscles. Inflamed tendons. Overstretched nerves. And the winning injury, an avulsion fracture. The ripping away of a piece of bone in her left humerus. In a matter of seconds, D.D. had sustained enough damage to her forty-four-year-old body that she now moved like the Tin Man, unable to turn her head, lift her left arm or rotate her torso. No surgical options, she’d been told. Just time, fortitude and physical therapy. Which she did. Twice-weekly appointments followed by daily homework assignments that made her scream in agony.

Because forget ever holding a gun again. Right now, D.D. couldn’t even pick up her own child.

Deep breath. Counting to three. Then she stood. The movement was abrupt, nearly impossible to perfectly balance. Meaning she instinctively countered with a shoulder shrug here and a neck rotation there, as her teeth gritted and her right hand clenched and she used the worst, most vile words she could think of, which after twenty years as a Boston cop included curses that would make a long-haul trucker with a kidney stone blush, and even then, she nearly vomited from the pain.

But she was standing. Sweating. Swaying slightly. But fully vertical.

And she thought, not for the first time, what the hell had she been doing at that crime scene at that hour of the night? Because six weeks later, she still couldn’t remember a thing. She’d suffered the worst injury of her life, put her career in jeopardy and her family in crisis and she still didn’t have a clue.

One day, six weeks ago, she’d shown up for work. And life had been a mystery ever since.

Another thirty minutes while she managed to brush her teeth, comb her hair. Showering required Alex’s help. He’d been gracious about it. Saying he’d do anything as long as she was naked. But his deep blue eyes maintained a watchful look. As if she were suddenly spun from glass and needed to be handled delicately at all times.

The first day home, she’d caught him staring at the dark bruises welting her back, and the look on his face . . .

Stricken. Horrified. Appalled.

She hadn’t said a word. After a moment, he’d resumed rinsing the shampoo from her short blond curls. Later that night, he’d reached for her, very carefully, but she’d hissed reflexively in pain and he’d snatched his hand back as if slapped, and that was the way it had been ever since.

He helped her with the day-to-day tasks of life. And in return, she felt herself slowly but surely turn into a shadow of herself, a second child for her incredibly patient spouse to tend.

In her heart, she knew she was lucky. But her brain just couldn’t accept that fact yet.

Time for clothes. She couldn’t move her left arm enough to pull on a shirt. Instead, she stole one of Alex’s oversize flannel shirts, slipping her right arm into the sleeve but leaving her left arm tucked against her ribs. She couldn’t manage all the snaps but enough to get her through breakfast.

Walking wasn’t so bad. Once she’d achieved vertical, as long as she kept her shoulders square and her torso straight, her neck and shoulder didn’t mind so much. She took the stairs carefully, right hand glued to the railing. Last time she’d dealt with stairs, they’d clearly won, and she couldn’t bring herself to trust them again.

Rockabye, baby, on the treetop . . .

Excellent. Another morning, same old creepy lullaby still stuck in her head.

Upon arriving in the living room, D.D. became aware of voices coming from her kitchen. Two men, hushed tones. Maybe her father-in-law, over for a cup of coffee? Alex’s parents had moved to Boston six months ago in order to spend more time with their only grandson. D.D. had been nervous at first,