Blessed Are Those Who Weep (4 page)

As I open a new document on my computer, determined not to hurt the investigation with my story, a nagging voice in the back of my mind remembers how my first instinct at that apartment was to help the baby, not compose a story about what I was seeing. Deep down inside, I wonder if Kellogg is right. Have I forgotten whose side I'm on?

 

Chapter 7

I'
VE
CROSSED
A
line. Broken the rules of Journalism 101—­never show a source a story before it runs—­because after I finish my first-­person account of what I saw in that apartment, I e-­mail it to Detective Khoury with a note:
My editors are on me to write about this. Will this hurt your case?

And I don't even particularly
like
Khoury, either.

The story is about six inches long. Incredibly short by newspaper standards. More a “brief” than a story. But it's all I'm willing to give.

In my story, I talk about having an appointment with Mrs. Martin. I leave out that she called me and wanted to tell me “the story of a lifetime.”

I describe walking up to find the door of the apartment slightly ajar, then give a brief account of what I saw when I nudged it open:

“
Bodies lay strewn across the apartment, pooled in blood. A baby girl sat in the middle of them all, untouched.
”

These two sentences are the lead of my story, going into the article through the back door, so to speak. Later, I go into how I scooped up the girl, changed her diaper, and gave her a bottle. Putting it on paper makes me realize how stunned I was. Why did I do all that
before
calling 911? I was acting on pure instinct. Although I was taking notes in the back of my mind, my urge to care for that child overcame anything else I knew I should do.

Drumming my fingers on my desk, I wait for an e-­mail back from Detective Khoury. Every once in a while I cast a guilty glance over at Kellogg, as if he can read my mind and knows I showed a source a story.

Khoury's response comes in less than three minutes. I click it open in a hurry.

“I'd prefer you didn't write anything,” the e-­mail says. “But what you have seems to be fine. Won't hurt the case.”

I file the story in the editor's queue and check my other e-­mails.

But I can't quash the guilt in the pit of my stomach for running the story by the detective. I know it was the right thing to do ethically as a person, but not the right thing to do as a journalist. And that's the crux—­they should technically be the exact same thing, right?

We never, ever read or show stories to sources before they run. But I needed to. The last thing I wanted to do was harm a case that would put a mass murderer behind bars.

When my phone rings, I snatch it up, thinking it's Khoury changing her mind about my article, but it's Nicole.

“Hey, how's it going?” Her words are soft, guarded.

“I'm okay.”

“That was . . . awful . . . you know . . . that you had to see all that . . .” She starts and stops, clearing her throat. “Kellogg has me covering it. Did he tell you?”

“Yes.” Handing off the biggest story our newspaper has probably ever seen to another reporter—­even my best friend—­stings.

“Any arrest?” I ask, even though I just exchanged e-­mails with Khoury.

“No. Off the record, my D.A. source told me the investigators are stumped. Nobody saw a thing.”

“Yeah. I'm their only witness, and I didn't see anything.” I let out a strangled laugh.

Nicole is quiet for a minute. “I'm sorry this got punted to me. It feels weird.”

It is odd to have Nicole covering the story. It's my story. It's my beat. The Mission Massacre is one of the biggest stories to hit the Bay Area in my lifetime, and I'm benched, sitting on the sidelines. Like a chump.

I wait a second to answer. “No, it's better you than anyone else. I know you'll knock it out of the park.”

“Kellogg says he's running your first-­person account as a sidebar.”

There's another long pause. “I'll send you over my story. Tell me what you think,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say. And mean it. It's not her fault.

Her voice brightens. “When are you and Donovan coming over for dinner? Ted has a new grill and wants to feed you two.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “I'll find out when Donovan has his next Saturday off.”

I say the words, but the truth is I'm not asking Donovan anything. Although I love Nicole like a sister, I've been avoiding invitations to her house for months. I'm not sure I can handle seeing her baby boy cooing in his bouncy chair. I've only met him once—­I went to the hospital when he was born. But that was before.

That's the thing I don't understand. It's been excruciating lately to be around babies, yet all that disappeared when I held Lucy. All I want to do is hold her again.

“Maybe you and I can meet after work this week for a drink?” I say.

“Let me check with Ted.” Now she sounds apologetic. “It's been a little bit of a challenge to get to day-­care pickup before they start charging us an arm and a leg for being late. I'll figure out a night Ted can take off from work early so I can meet up with you.”

Again, the line is silent. Both of us contemplating just how much our worlds have changed in the past year. She has to check with her husband before she meets me for a drink?

I want my old friend back.

But it is more than that. I want my old life back. I want it like it was last year before every day was filled with longing and heartache.

 

Chapter 8

W
HEN
I
WALK
in, Donovan is sitting on my couch, scratching Dusty behind the ears and nursing a beer. The kitchen is dark. It's Friday night, and we're both home early. A year ago, he would've had something yummy to eat on the table. We're like an old married ­couple now. We no longer try to impress each other. It makes me sad and wistful.

All that disappears as he stands and wraps me in his arms.

“You okay?” he whispers in my ear. His warm breath sends a shudder of desire through me. Dusty wraps himself around my legs, trying to be part of our embrace.

I push back an image of that apartment filled with bodies. It is instantly replaced with the memory of holding Lucy in my arms. I can almost feel her tiny fingers wrapped around my hair. I can't stop thinking about how she reached for me when CPS took her away.

When I don't answer, Donovan draws back. Holding onto my shoulders, he searches my eyes. “It's going to be okay.”

Pressing my lips together tightly, I nod before disengaging myself from his arms and checking my side table for today's mail.

Unearthing a postcard from Tomas in Russia, I lean over my chessboard and make the move he has sent me: Queen e2. I can see immediately that he's aiming for a smothered mate. If I move knight to df6 to defend, he will move bishop to b4 mate. I study the board, biting my lip for a few seconds until I move my own piece. Knight to d6. That should give him something to think about. Grabbing a stack of postcards that have been preaddressed and stamped, I scribble my move and sign it with my signature, G.G. Can't wait to see what Tomas has planned to defend against
that
. I set the postcard on the small table by my door so I won't forget to mail it in the morning.

Donovan is watching me with a sexy half smile. “Why
do
you like chess so much? As opposed to, say, poker or something. Have you thought about it?”

He already knows that after my sister was murdered, learning to play chess helped me cope with the trauma and begin speaking again after six months of silence. But that's not what he means.

“I've thought about it a lot, actually. What I've also thought about is why you won't give it a try. I think you'd like it. It would be something fun we could do together.” I watch him down the rest of his beer. “Are you sure you don't want to learn how to play?”

“Nah,” he says, winking.

Donovan walks over and undoes the top few buttons of my silky blouse.

“Tell me more about why you enjoy chess,” he says in a low voice that sends a shiver through me. He runs his hands down my back and even lower.

“There are certain truths you can find in chess.” I catch my breath as his fingers roam.

Donovan's face is now only inches away from mine. His eyes are lowered, staring at my mouth as I speak.

“Go on,” he says with a sexy growl, his hands roaming down my sides, lifting my blouse to find bare skin.

“You can't find a universal truth in life, but you can find it in chess,” I say, nearly losing my train of thought as I watch his mouth come even closer to mine. He smells so good, a musky man scent with the faint hint of cologne. “In chess you can achieve the seemingly impossible, such as the ability to confront a superior force and overcome it.”

With a flick of his wrist, my silk blouse is on the floor.

“But for you,” he says, his mouth coming closer, “chess is also a way for you to escape, isn't it?”

He knows me like nobody else does. I feel like he's always known me. I don't answer, only stare at his mouth until finally it crushes mine. I melt into his embrace, closing my eyes for a second before an image of the massacre leaps into my mind and I pull back in dismay.

“What's wrong?” He searches my eyes, concerned.

I shake my head back and forth. “When I close my eyes . . .”

“Shhh,” he says, kissing my forehead. “It's going to take some time. Is there anything I can do?”

I answer by grabbing his head and pulling his mouth down to mine. He responds eagerly, pulling me close until it feels like every inch of our bodies is touching. When I finally pull back, it's only to move my mouth over to his jaw, down his neck, my hands under his shirt and behind his back, holding him to me.

He pulls my hips even tighter against him, and I moan. He has picked me up and is moving toward the bed, when his phone rings.

Putting me down on the bed, he glances at the number on his cell. When he starts to reach for it, I know it is his work calling. I put my arm on his to try to stop him from picking up the phone.

“It's Finn.” His partner. Which means a ninety percent chance he's calling about a dead body. A homicide case means Donovan gone for at least the next twelve hours, if not longer.

He's listening to Finn and nodding. I'm lying on my back on the bed, half dressed, wild with desire, and knowing in the pit of my stomach that I'll be spending the night alone.

“I'll be there in twenty.” He disconnects and runs a hand through his hair, making it stick straight up. “Goddamn it.”

At first I think he says it because he has to leave me.

“Gang shooting. This time it was one of my C.I.'s.” Confidential informants.

I flop over onto my belly and put my chin on my folded hands. I don't look at him as I ask, “Can't Finn handle it for the first hour? Can't you stay just for a little while?”

He leans down, lifts my hair, and kisses the back of my neck. “I'm sorry. Hell, I don't want to leave right now, either, but I have to. Be back as soon as I can.”

I don't answer. My entire body is limp with desire, and he's going to leave me.

When the door shuts behind him, anger surges through me. He knew I was ovulating today, and he still walked out. I thought he wanted a baby as much as I do. The window for getting pregnant each month is small—­maybe twenty-­four hours, possibly as long as forty-­eight. I try to push back my frustration. It's not his fault. But it lies there, simmering under the surface, even as I try to distract myself.

I'm not hungry for dinner. I don't want to read. I don't want to watch TV.

My computer is on a small desk across the room. I'll check my work e-­mail and see if there's anything new on the Mission Massacre. Maybe an arrest? I scan the return addresses, looking for something from Kellogg or Nicole. Nothing.

My heart leaps into my throat when I see this return address: FA2858.

It's him. Frank Anderson. The man who kidnapped and killed my sister. Even though I have no proof, I know deep down inside my sister's killer is e-­mailing me. He's taunting me. But I haven't told Donovan about the previous e-­mails from Anderson. When I first got pregnant, he asked if maybe we could take a small break from hunting Anderson (aka me obsessing about finding my sister's killer) while we concentrated on starting a family.

He pulled some strings and got a new detective assigned to Caterina's cold case.

“I know it's hard, but give it a try,” he said. “Let's turn it over to the investigators and let them do their job. I'm worried about you. This guy knows how to get under your skin. I don't want that monster in your head. He's done enough damage. If you can, just let go for a little while and enjoy being pregnant.” His eyes were so shiny with happiness and excitement that I agreed to let go. Temporarily.

I promised to send the new detective any leads that came my way. But I soon found out that's much easier said than done.

The first e-­mail came right after my miscarriage.

The subject line said,
Sins of the Father.
The body of the e-­mail said this:
Exodus 20:5 You shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me.

I immediately knew it was Anderson. And while I didn't have proof, I believed he knew about my miscarriage and was telling me that it was my punishment for being a killer—­that my unborn child was punished for my sins. He knows. I don't know how, but he knows. I forwarded the e-­mail to the detective.

Tonight's e-­mail has a subject line that says,
Thou Shalt Not Kill.

My hand hovers above the keyboard, trembling slightly. I want to click it open so badly, but instead, without reading it, I forward it to the detective. I know I'm doing the right thing for my relationship with Donovan—­and probably my mental health—­but I can't help feeling as if I am once again turning my back on my sister.