“Ssh, ssh.” Martella pressed kisses to her sister’s hand. “Don’t think about it anymore.”
“You turned her over?” Eve persisted.
“Yes. I think . . . It’s all so cloudy and in pieces. I think I did—trying to help her, but . . . I think I screamed. In my head, my head was full of screams. I needed to get help. I think I tried to get help. Did I scream for JJ? I think . . .”
“Do you remember calling nine-one-one?”
“I . . . Yes!” She struggled up a little higher in the bed. “Yes, yes. I called for help. Oh thank God, I called for help. I called for help, but . . .”
Her eyes filled with more tears, more confusion. And fear. “Something happened. Something . . . someone.” Her free hand lifted to the bandages.
“Who struck you, Ms. Quigley?”
“I . . .” The drenched eyes evaded. “I can’t remember. It’s not clear. I can’t say because it’s not clear. I can’t remember.”
“Ms. Quigley, we have the nine-one-one recording.”
Her gaze darted to Eve, away again. “I can’t remember. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m tired. Tella, I’m tired.”
“You have to leave now,” Tella said. “You have to leave her alone now.”
“Don’t upset yourself, Ms. Quigley.” Dr. Campo moved in. “You did very well. You get some more rest, and I’ll be back to check on you later. Lieutenant, Detective, that’s all for now.”
“You don’t need to be afraid anymore,” Peabody said before they left the room. “You’re safe now.”
In response, Natasha choked out a sob, turned her head away.
Unsatisfied, Eve glanced back toward 600. “Why not tell us? She’s lying. She remembers. Why not just tell us?”
“Confused, conflicted, scared. Here you’re trying to save your marriage—you know you’ve both screwed up, but you’re trying to patch it back together. And in one big reveal, you find out your husband’s a killer, and he tries to kill you. Add in scandal, embarrassment, media frenzy.”
Eve added annoyance to dissatisfaction. “What kind of world does she live in where a woman’s embarrassed her husband tried to kill her? Where scandal—which is inevitable considering Catiana’s in the morgue—weighs over telling the cops: Holy shit, my husband tried to kill me. Lock him up and protect me.”
“An old money world, I guess.” They rode back down to the garage. “She’s been through a big trauma, and maybe—yeah, she’s lying—but maybe she’s also convinced herself she’s really not clear, not sure. She’s going to come around when she’s steadier.”
“Either way.” Eve shook her head. “We keep tabs on her, regular updates on her status. If they even think about the possibility of releasing her, we know about it.”
“Pretty good bet she’s going to spend Christmas in the hospital. At least it’s a swank room.”
“Hospital’s a hospital. We hit Copley, because if she doesn’t come around, it’s going to stick up the works. Let’s pull Reo in, get the legal take on worst case, but we hit him and we work him, and we tie this up.”
But when she walked into the Homicide bullpen, Jenkinson hailed her. “Yo, LT. There’s a guy waiting in the lounge—Steven Dorchester. He wants to talk to you. Says he’s Catiana Dubois’s boyfriend.”
“Okay. I’ll take him,” she said to Peabody. “Set up the interview, contact Reo. Might as well give Mira the heads-up, too.”
She stood for a moment, studying a couple fake ears of corn now hanging on the pathetic tree.
“Isn’t the corn thing Thanksgiving? Why is fake corn hanging on that tree?”
“For Kwanza,” Jenkinson told her. “Trueheart said it’s one of the seven symbols. He looked it up. We’re all-inclusive in Homicide, ’cause whatever your race, color, or creed, you can get dead.”
“We should write that up under a Merry Christmas sign.”
Eve made her way to the lounge with its scatter of tables, and vending machines. Somebody cursed at one, gave it a punch with the side of his fist. Knowing she wasn’t the only one to war with those machines cheered her right up.
She scanned a few cops, a couple talking quietly with civilians. Then the man sitting alone, staring down at his own folded hands.
She crossed to him. “Mr. Dorchester.”
He looked up at her out of red-rimmed eyes. “Yes. I’m Steven Dorchester. You’re Lieutenant Dallas.”
“That’s right. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Dorchester.”
“Steven. It’s Steven. I . . . keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’s all going to be a terrible dream. Or it’s just some horrible mistake. But