The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,55

in charge!”

Besides the fear there’s the clammy coldness of guilt covering me, guilt about being a single mom, leaving her alone in this rough neighborhood, being so stubborn I wouldn’t give Ben a second chance so that we’d be safe at our previous home, and if it wasn’t for the fact I’m running so hard and fast, I’m sure I’d be throwing up in this packed parking lot.

“Mom!”

I can’t help myself—that single word makes me burst into tears, and there’s an opening along the police line, and there’s my sweet and terrified Amelia, sitting in the open rear of an ambulance, a gray blanket over her shoulders, two EMTs with blue latex gloves gently poking and probing.

“Mom!” she yells again, and she joins me in bawling.

I hug her and kiss her, and the EMTs stand aside. Amelia’s blubbering about a bad man getting into the apartment and a fight, and I whirl at the touch of someone behind me.

“Ma’am?” comes the soft male voice. Before me is an African-American male, early thirties, gray suit and raincoat, brown eyes filled with concern. He has a closely trimmed beard and around his thick neck, dangling from a chain, is a detective’s shield.

“Detective Gus Bannon,” he says, “Fairfax County Police Department.” He looks to his notebook and says, “This young girl … Amelia Miller. She’s your daughter?”

“Yes … can you tell me what happened? Is she okay?”

He gestures for the two of us to move away from the ambulance, and Amelia is still sobbing, so I kiss her forehead and something else stabs at me: the presence of a stuffed panda bear she had gotten some years back at the National Zoo.

I haven’t seen it in her hands for at least two years.

I follow Detective Bannon around to the side of the ambulance, and he says, “A short while ago, someone broke into your apartment. Your daughter is fine. She’s scared and she might have a bruise on her wrist and—”

“How did she get bruised?”

“From the intruder,” he softly explains, and I want him to hurry up and tell me what happened, who did it, how it can be made better, and with a shock I realize that for the first time ever, I’m the one answering questions, I’m the one being impatient with the police, I’m—

I’m the victim.

He goes on. “The intruder ran out through the kitchen, pushed Amelia away.”

“Male?”

He nods. “We think so. It happened very fast, your daughter says. A short man, dark-skinned, wearing some sort of uniform.”

“Uniform? Like a firefighter? Or cop?”

The detective shakes his head. “More like a utility worker. Or a technician. Maybe a cable TV worker. That’s all we’ve got for now.”

I just nod, realize my hands are clenched, and right now, both hands want to be around the intruder’s throat. I’m so angry and focused and relieved that Amelia is safe that I don’t hear what the detective says next.

“Excuse me?” I ask. “I’m so sorry, I was drifting there for a moment.”

He looks embarrassed, staring down at his notebook. “That’s all right, it happens. I was asking, Mrs. Miller, if—”

“Grissom,” I automatically say. “I’ve always kept my name.”

“But you’re married to Ben Miller. Who works for the Department of the Interior.”

I feel like a huge storm is coming right at me, and I can’t do a thing but close my eyes and pretend it’s not out there, heading my way.

“I am, but we’re currently going through a divorce,” I say. “Detective, please. What’s going on?”

“It seems like your husband, Ben Miller, he came into your apartment and surprised the intruder. There was an altercation in your bedroom.”

Everything seems so loud now, the voices, the sound of sirens, the engines idling from the parked emergency response vehicles.

He looks down at his notebook. “I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but your husband, Ben Miller, he’s dead.”

CHAPTER 45

THE ROUTINE IS always the routine, and I go through it like one of those smiling robots at Disney World, just nodding and looking around and following the lead of Detective Bannon. We go to the open entryway into the apartment building, ducking under the police tape, and he thoughtfully holds up the tape for me. We go upstairs and the detective talks aimlessly to me— the weather, the baseball playoffs—all in an effort to distract me from what I’m about to see.

It doesn’t work.

At the open door to our apartment, a uniformed police officer with a clipboard takes our names and checks the time of our entry, a