Shattered by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 2) Read online

  “Good Morning, Chief. Are you ready to rumble?” She tilted her head toward her office and winked.

  Her eyes weren’t smiling. I shivered and walked past her into her office, settling myself onto the soft, leather sofa. I pulled my arms out of my wool coat, leaving it cocooned around me like a shield. I closed my eyes to calm myself, offering silent prayers that this time would be worthwhile, asking God to help me think of topics that would make it clear I was trying hard to cooperate.

  It wasn’t the cop thing that had me sweating. Managing cops and criminals was second nature to me. The thought of parenting full time, and on my own, terrified me. Being with Samantha, taking care of her, being there for her—that was easy and filled my heart with peace and the deepest love I’d ever known. Thinking of myself as her mother—as anyone’s mother—kept me up at night.

  What if I fail? What if I’m a horrible mother? What if I have to work and can’t find a sitter? What if Donna can’t come through in a pinch? What if there’s no room at the local day care the day I really need emergency assistance? What if? What if? What if?

  “Do you, Josie?” Kira’s voice had taken on the cool edge she got upon repeating herself.

  What had she just asked me? Had I said anything so far? I had to get with the program if I ever wanted to have a shot at finding out if I had what it took to be a mom. So I decided to go on the offensive and just dive right in.

  “Hey, you should be proud of me. I already know the issues I want to discuss today. There are a few, and I’m ready to unpack them all with you.” That had to be worth some major shrink points. Due to reading back issues of my favorite magazine, I felt like I was getting the lingo down pat.

  “Oh, really? Do tell. Pick one, and let’s begin.” She wasn’t buying it. Clever of her to throw the ball back in my court, though.

  “Okay, let’s go for the mother lode, then.”

  “And what exactly might that be?” Her voice was smooth river stone while her lips shifted back toward an insincere smile.

  “Ah, well, that’s it—the mother lode of motherhood.” I sat back, sighing like a flattening tire. Three minutes into the session, and I was already sharing real things. That wasn’t in the plan.

  “So, what are you feeling about this?” Her eyes bored into mine like a bare light bulb in a dark basement.

  Did she think I was lying to her? Did she think I was hiding something? Was I hiding something?

  “Nothing. Well, everything. It’s just that I so very much want to adopt Samantha, and I’m scared to death at the same time and embarrassed to be struggling with these strong feelings. But I can’t seem to shake them. I mean I’m happy and everything, and I really want to be her mom. But what if I fail her? I’ve never been a mom before. Everyone seems to do it with relative ease, like they know something I don’t.”

  Tears moistened my eyes, and my chest tightened. I hated to confess my fears, show my weakness, to a woman I trusted so little. And who held the pen to my future. For a hundred and ten bucks an hour.

  Maybe I could pretend I was talking to Donna, and I was here to really let ‘er rip. What harm could it do to share some real fear and see what happened? I’m safe here, right? Then why did I feel like I had an open wound in the middle of an ocean filled with sharks? Calm down, shut up, and talk.

  I decided to stick a toe in, start with the feelings. Kira’d like that whole ‘feelings’ thing. “I like the way she feels lying next to me on the sofa when I visit her at the Murrays.”

  “Go on.” She didn’t seem all that thrilled with my opener.

  “She feels like a puppy lying there sometimes. Like she has all the faith in the universe that I’ll protect her and take care of her. She just closes her eyes and relaxes into me without a care in the world. I love that feeling. And I’m afraid I’m not worthy of it.”

  “Where does that fear come from?” Kira sat up straight, grabbing her computer tablet’s stylus.

  I stared at her, trying to guess what she was after. Nothing came to me after rolling her question around in my mind.

  “You fear not being worthy of Samantha’s trust. Why? What happened to make you feel unworthy?”

  “Umm, I’m not sure.” I was hoping I could hold out until the end of the session, get her to go off on one of her tangents. If I knew one thing about Kira, it was that she loved to hear herself talk. Whereas I hated giving voice to my doubts. Was I cut out for this? What would happen if I hated being a mother six months after finalizing the adoption? An oppressive cloud descended, and my thoughts swam through a sea of darkness. I shook it off, making a mental note to reward myself with a trip to the gourmet popcorn store on the way home.

  “You’ve talked about this feeling of something not being ‘right’ about your parents. How old were you when you realized your parents were different? That something about them was missing?” Kira was acting like a real therapist today. I might get my money’s worth, for once.

  “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe six or seven?”

  “And how old is Samantha?”

  “Right now?” I was stalling—trying to figure out where she was going.

  “Yes, right now.” Kira sighed and half-rolled her eyes.

  Can therapists do that? Kind of obnoxious, but then again, this is Kira.

  “Almost seven.” The light snapped on in my head. “Whoa. That’s pretty good, doc. So what’s it mean? What am I afraid of?”

  “That’s a great question. It sounds a little bit like abandonment to me. How does that sit with you? Are you maybe afraid you’ll abandon Samantha like your parents abandoned you? That would be hard to face.” She was saying semi-compassionate things, but her tone was flat.

  “No! No way. I would never leave her, but I do think about whether or not I’m good enough for her. Whether or not I’m cut out to be a mother.” Steel bands wrapped around my ribcage, and my throat constricted.

  “No one is ever ready to be a parent. Kids just happen when they happen. That should be a bumper sticker: ‘Parenting happens.’ And people survive it.” She smiled, satisfied with her quip, and glanced at her watch as she sat back in her chair.

  “But not everybody does, right? Survive?” If I tossed a few questions at her, she might keep yapping and save me the trouble. Maybe get me through the last twenty-odd minutes of today’s session.

  “Well now, that depends. Doesn’t it? And not everyone deserves to survive, wouldn’t you agree?” She slithered back slightly, nestling deeper into her chair, her hose rubbing against the upholstery.

  “Sounds like we’re no longer talking about parenting. Where’d we wander? Who doesn’t deserve to survive?” Was she talking about Del? Images of my ex and his girlfriend bleeding to death on the boathouse floor wavered through my mind like a funhouse mirror. She couldn’t be suggesting that Del deserved to die, could she?

  “We’re here to talk about anything you want. Several times since the Mentor Sister Killer was apprehended, you’ve introduced the notion that the kinds of people who would actively harm a defenseless child, like Samantha, shouldn’t be allowed to live. I believe you said something akin to ‘they don’t deserve to survive.’ Tell me more about that.” She took a few notes without looking down at her computer tablet as she talked, holding my gaze.

  Had I said that? I didn’t think so. I’d certainly thought that. And I’d had the occasional fantasy about rounding up the bad guys and putting them in the ground. Maybe I did say it. Lord knows my mind wanders in these sessions. Might as well go with it.

  “Yeah, there are lots of perps who deserve to die. Lots of them. So what?”

  “So, what I’m wondering is how you feel about living in a world where people can do bad things to good people and get away with it. Does the lack of justice bother you?” She’d taken on a sonorous tone, like a judge.

  “Of course it ticks me off. I’d love to get my gun and put those punks in the ground—make this world a safer place for everyone.” You’re an idiot! You’re under
investigation for murder and you start talking like this? Do you want to get back to work or not? I closed my eyes, focused on relaxing my shoulders, softening my belly. “But I’ll settle for putting them behind bars. Wrap my arms tight around all the Samanthas on the planet, and make sure nobody else can harm them. But—”

  “But what? You don’t have the power? Or you don’t take the power?” Sonorous shifted to sharp.

  “I don’t have that kind of power. I don’t want that kind of power. That’s not my job while here on this Earth. That’s God’s job. I’m not the judge and jury, and I don’t aspire to be.”

  “You may not be the judge and jury, as you say, but are you sure you don’t want to be? Don’t you get a deep sense of satisfaction every time—and I quote—‘one of those evil perps gets what’s coming to them?’” She referred to her notes as she spoke.

  I’d ranted on this topic more than once. I didn’t remember using those words exactly. It sounded like something I could’ve said though.

  “Alright. Yeah, sure. Who doesn’t want to see creeps like the Mentor Sister Serial Killer punished?” I squirmed deep into the old cushions. Who wouldn’t want to see him fry rather than know he’s taking up space in a federal prison waiting on the legal system to decide his fate? He killed nine women that we knew of—probably more. What kind of justice is there, in a case like that? Talking about the man who’d kidnapped Samantha in a desperate attempt to lure me into a death trap sucked me into a dark vortex.

  Nature abhors a vacuum; Kira jumped in.

  “As you once said, ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ Death should be justice enough. I remember you telling me, how did you put it, that some men were meant to be captured and killed?” She looked up from her notes, face flushed, tiny beads of sweat marring her forehead. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Chief. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  Then why don’t I feel safe with her? I pulled myself to my feet, grabbed my coat, and turned to face her one last time before leaving her office.

  “Thanks.” I muttered, averting my eyes on my way out the door.

  I soldiered through the hallways without interacting with anyone. Head down, dark clouds of oppression thundering through my mind, I crashed through the last set of doors, desperate for fresh air. I leaned up against the courthouse wall and pulled out my phone, thumbed through pictures of Sam like a starving woman, smiled, and pushed off the wall. Walking into the sunlight cheered my spirit. My revived mindset gave me a great idea. I brightened further as I punched in Gino’s number while I clipped through the parking lot.

  “M’hija! You do remember me!” Laughter barreled through the speaker of my car’s Bluetooth. I pulled out of the parking lot on autopilot.

  “You know where I’m headed, right?” I drew out the last word.

  “Ah, she thinks how clever she is. Well, perhaps she would like to know that I am already there. Right?” He drew out the last word too, teasing me back.

  “Oh, really? Me, too.” Traffic was light. We’d be giving our usual breakfast order somewhere between the morning and noon crowds today. Perfect.

  “And your penchant for less than complete honesty has earned you the right to buy my breakfast this day. Pero, I will buy. This time.” His end of the line went silent, leaving me to fend for myself as I wove through traffic, hit the parking lot, and followed the incredible aromas into our favorite breakfast haunt.

  It took all of two seconds to spy his handsome face, broad shoulders, and chambray-clad boxer’s body crammed into a 50s-style vinyl booth. He raised an eyebrow and waved me over. When I was two strides from the booth, he rose and stepped forward to fold me into his arms. We didn’t speak as we hugged, happy and at peace in each other’s company.

  “Sit, and tell me all about your time with La Mala.” Gino had never been a fan of Kira. His Cuban roots meant he valued healers over therapists, and Catholics over practicing atheists. He’d created an elite company in the world of security and prisoner transportation, depending upon brute strength, firepower, and high-tech gadgets alike to get his point across. There wasn’t a whole lot of room in his world for stifling regulations like having to be cleared by a cop shrink to get back to work after doing your job. Gino was old school.

  “What’ll it be, handsome?” A curvy waitress appeared at our booth, smacking her gum for emphasis.

  “I would like scrambled egg whites with a pinch of salsa on the multi grain toast, por favor.” Gino smiled up at her, grabbed my menu and handed them both to her. “And she will have the same.”

  “What? No, I’ll take the breakfast hash with two eggs, over easy, and all the fresh coffee you’ve got.” I kicked his foot under the table as she walked off. “Hey, handsome. In the future, leave my meal planning to me.”

  I doctored up the mug of coffee when it arrived and sampled it. Not bad.

  “Enough of these coquetries. You must now tell me all that happened in the office of La Mala today.” Gino rolled his head from side to side—one of his least endearing habits. He was always moving some body part around in some unnatural direction, like a workout to-go.

  “Where do I begin?”

  Ugh. Today’s session. But talking to Gino was more therapeutic than talking to Kira. I’d bored Gino to heck and back with the depth of my grief. Ever since I learned about Del’s affair, through the winding trail of my near-divorce, to the reality of what had happened during the past forty-eight hours, Gino’d been one of my closest confidants. And he’d never complained once. I didn’t deserve this man, but I was forever grateful he was in my life.

  “I want to hear it all, m’hija. Anytime, anyplace.”

  “I think I’m just going to start collecting cats or something.” The waitress appeared midsentence. We took a break from talking for a few minutes as we tucked into our respective meals.

  “Now, having finished a light breakfast, and seeing that you are finished shoving those carbs into your mouth. Let us take advantage of this moment. I know you must be struggling. But now you are beset with the demons of ‘what if’ and the tricks of the mind that create false memories. And you are surviving even that. But what I do not know is how. How do you survive those dark moments, m’hija?” He leaned forward, broad brown face so close our foreheads almost touched.

  This dear man had been so patient with me. If anyone had earned a glimpse into the torture that was my soul, it was Gino.

  “I keep going, G. I keep on walking, and I don’t look back. At least, not with my head.” I drummed my fingers on the ancient Formica tabletop long enough for Gino to take my hand in his and squeeze.

  “But your heart has been another story. Your heart was broken into a thousand pieces the day we learned of the great betrayal. And now, with what has just happened, I am worried for you and your hurting heart.” He let my hand go and wiped at an invisible tear.

  I blinked back a tear of my own. “I wish I could say I was devastated. But all I am is numb. I thought it’d be easier, you know? Getting over my wreck of a marriage? Yet several months later, I think I’m still in love with a man in love with somebody else—both of whom just happen to be dead.” I picked up a saltshaker and studied it, waiting for my hands to steady before continuing. “How hopeless am I? I keep trying to think past it—past them. Sometimes the fantasy slinks back in.”

  My shoulders hunched, and my head dropped toward my chest.

  “What kind of fantasy could you still hold in your heart for a man of his kind? One who treated you so badly, who hurt you so deeply. I am not sorry to say I do not regret his death.” Gino’s soft brown eyes glistened. “Even on Good Friday, a day that reminds me of forgiveness, sacrifice, and new life, even today, I struggle with my anger over this man. That is my struggle. How I wish I could lift it from your shoulders.”

  “It’s not that simple. Not that clean. He’s… he’s everywhere. There isn’t a place in my life unmarked by him—by images of us. I loved throwing parties together. I loved seeing the pride o
n his face as he showed me off in the beginning, the comfort of knowing he’d always be there for me. In public, anyway.” A wistful tone crept into my voice.

  “But that which was happening in private was much less happy, verdad?” Compassion flowed from him, and he wrapped his fingers around mine. “M’hija, don’t allow the warmth of these memories to distort the clarity of the not-so-good ones. What about your memories of his drinking? Or his lies? Or the constant disappointment seasoning your very life as he broke one promise after another? Do you not remember this as well?”

  “That part I don’t miss—him telling me he was working late while I was sitting in the nearly empty parking lot of the station, soaking up the lie.” I squeezed his hand, knocking my calves together under the table.

  “You called me from that very lot that night. That man was a devil and a fool.” He clasped my hand, turned it palm up.

  “All the times I confronted him… his cool derision when caught in one of his way too many lies. The sound of his voice leaving me a thousand messages—his belligerent tone defending his heartless actions time after time. You win, Gino. Lord knows I don’t miss that.” I grimaced at my mountain-sized friend.

  “Nobody wins in this case—not even the dead. Favor m’hija, you must not permit him to tear you apart from the grave. He did enough damage when he was alive. Allow the dead to stay dead, and let us learn to live con gusto. There is more. Te prometo que haya mas.” He pulled out his trucker’s wallet and placed two folded twenties beside his plate, another over–the-top tip, Gino-style.

  We slid out of the booth in unison. He drew me into his arms before leaving me standing outside. I watched him walk away, wondering about his promise. Was there really more for me?

  The truth of who Del was, the reality of us, who I had become over time in order to please him and find a sad contentment with him… my freedom was a gift. But the solitude and loneliness that came with freedom sucked. I was accustomed to having a man by my side. In my house. In my bed. In my life.