Read The Survivors Club Online
Authors: Lisa Gardner
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #General
“Molly is your sister,” Jillian said evenly. “You’ve said yourself it’s better to keep it that way.”
“If I’m her mother, then she must have a father. I don’t want her to
ever
ask about her father.”
“Then remove that from the equation. Molly is your little sister, you love her, your parents love her and she is very happy.”
“Molly is very happy.”
“The rest . . . Meg, you were only thirteen when David first approached you. That’s much too young to know better. And you certainly can’t blame yourself for being raped. So that means you’ve made only one mistake, as a thirteen-year-old girl. You’re nearly twenty-one now. You’re strong, you’re resilient, you’re smart. You’re going to be all right.”
Meg sniffled a little. “What if I meet the right guy, freeze up, and he goes away?”
“Then he’s not the right guy,” Carol said firmly.
But Meg was looking at Jillian. “I wasn’t raped,” Jillian told her.
“You were assaulted.”
“I . . . I have moments.”
“You think about your sister,” Meg said quietly.
“I do.”
“Poor guilt-ridden Jillian.”
She didn’t deny it. “Griffin told me something earlier, during his investigation. And it was one of the hardest, saddest, truest things I ever needed to hear: Trisha loves me.”
“She does,” Carol said immediately.
“She does,” Meg seconded.
Jillian smiled at them. “I lost sight of that. I don’t know why. But I’m remembering now. I’m . . . enjoying . . . my memories of Trish, and that feels good. And Griffin understands that Trish is a part of me, just as I understand that Cindy is a part of him. Sometimes we just talk about them. It feels right.”
“He’s a lucky man,” Carol said seriously.
“I’m a lucky woman. Well, and Libby isn’t doing so badly either. Have you seen how much she flirts with him? I swear, she hasn’t taken this much care with her appearance since she discovered the UPS man was single.”
“Ooh, competition!” Meg teased.
“He definitely has a soft spot for her. Next thing you know, she’s going to add the word
stud
to her picture book.”
Carol and Meg chortled. Jillian rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, too. She felt lucky these days. Sometimes she found herself humming at work for no good reason. Clients seemed less annoying, the days were brighter, the evenings more beautiful. When the weather was nice, she had picnic lunches with Libby and Toppi in the park. And sometimes she left work early, sometimes she came in late, and one day she brought in four giant pots of yellow mums simply because she’d seen them at the florist and thought they were beautiful. Her employees looked at her curiously a lot, but no one complained.
“Speaking of family,” Jillian said.
“We should return to the fold,” Carol agreed.
“Think they’re done with the kitchen?” Meg asked. “We could pick up some pizzas.”
Food would be good, they all agreed. They climbed up from the floor and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, Jillian spotted Griffin first. He had Molly perched on his shoulders, running a duster along the top of the kitchen cabinets.
“I’m a dust bunny!” she cried.
“Well look at you,” said Meg and held out her arms for her little sister.
Griffin swooped the giggling girl down onto the ground. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt today, with dust on his left cheek and cobwebs in his hair. Griffin looked good in jeans and a T-shirt. Libby had actually blushed when he’d pulled into their driveway and assisted her into the van.
Right now, his twinkling blue eyes were on Jillian. She felt his gaze as a warmth in her chest. Tonight, they were having Mike Waters over for dinner. Toppi had taken quite a bit of interest in the lanky detective’s recovery. She’d bought a new outfit for tonight. You never knew.
Now Griffin opened his arms and wagged a brow in a look that could only be called a leer. She, of course, pretended to look coolly away. In response, he thundered across the kitchen and playfully swept her into his embrace.
Molly shrieked, Meg and Carol smiled. Libby pretended to chastise.
Jillian simply slipped her arms around Griffin’s narrow waist. She leaned into the warmth of his broad chest, felt the strength of his arms around her shoulders. He didn’t step back.
“Pizza!” Molly yelled, and they all prepared for dinner.
Read on for a preview from Lisa Gardner’s upcoming novel
LOVE YOU MORE
Available March 2011
Who do you love?
It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing
.
Who do you love?
He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip
.
“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent
.
My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us
.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason
.
He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”
“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”
“Belt. On the table. Now.”
“No.”
“GUN. On the table. NOW!”
In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side
.
I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting
.
Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished
.
Who do you love?
He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?
“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”
I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered
.
Love you, more, baby. Love you, more
.
His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon
.
One last chance …
I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time
.
Who do you love?
I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table
.
And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire
.
S
ergeant Detective D.D. Warren prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasn’t simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then they’d definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here. D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of blood—which, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.
Today, however, she wasn’t going to do any of those things. Today, she was spending a lazy Sunday morning dressed in gray sweats and Alex’s oversized red flannel shirt. She was camped at his kitchen table, clutching a thick clay coffee mug while counting slowly to twenty.
She’d hit thirteen. Alex had finally made it to the front door. Now he paused to wind a deep blue scarf around his neck.
She counted to fifteen.
He finished with the scarf. Moved on to a black wool hat and lined leather gloves. The temperature outside had just crept above twenty. Eight inches of snow on the ground and six more forecasted to arrive by end of week. March didn’t mean spring in New England.
Alex taught crime-scene analysis, among other things, at the Police Academy. Today was a full slate of classes. Tomorrow, they both had the day off, which didn’t happen much and warranted some kind of fun activity yet to be determined. Maybe ice skating in the Boston Commons. Or a trip to the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum. Or a lazy day where they snuggled on the sofa and watched old movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
D.D.’s hands spasmed on the coffee mug. Okay, no popcorn.
D.D. counted to eighteen, nineteen, twent—
Alex finished with his gloves, picked up his battered black leather tote, and crossed to her.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he said.
He kissed her on the forehead. D.D. closed her eyes, mentally recited the number twenty, then started counting back down to zero.
“I’ll write you love letters all day, with little hearts over the ‘i’s,” she said.
“In your high school binder?”
“Something like that.”
Alex stepped back. D.D. hit fourteen. Her mug trembled, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. She took a deep breath and soldiered on.
Thirteen, twelve, eleven …
She and Alex had been dating a little over six months. At that point where she had a whole drawer to call her own in his tiny ranch, and he had a sliver of closet space in her North End condo. When he was teaching, it was easier for them to be here. When she was working, it was easier to be in Boston. They didn’t have a set schedule. That would imply planning and further solidify a relationship they were both careful to not overly define.
They enjoyed each other’s company. Alex respected her crazy schedule as a homicide detective. She respected his culinary skills as a third-generation Italian. From what she could tell, they looked forward to the nights when they could get together, but survived the nights when they didn’t. They were two independent-minded adults. She’d just hit forty, Alex had crossed that line a few years back. Hardly blushing teens whose every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of each other. Alex had been married before. D.D. simply knew better.
She lived to work, which other people found unhealthy, but what the hell. It had gotten her this far.
Nine, eight, seven …
Alex opened the front door, squaring his shoulders against the bitter morning. A blast of chilled air shot across the small foyer, hitting D.D.’s cheeks. She shivered, clutched the mug more tightly.
“Love you,” Alex said, stepping across the threshold.
“Love you, too.”
Alex closed the door. D.D. made it down the hall just in time to vomit.
T
en minutes later, she remained sprawled on the bathroom floor. The decorative tiles were from the seventies, dozens and dozens of tiny beige, brown, and harvest gold squares. Looking at them made her want to puke all over again. Counting them, however, was a pretty decent meditative exercise. She inventoried tiles while she waited for her flushed cheeks to cool and her cramped stomach to untangle.
Her cellphone rang. She eyed it on the floor, not terribly interested, given the circumstances. But then she noted the caller and decided to take pity on him.
“What?” she demanded, her usual greeting for former lover and currently married Massachusetts State Police Detective Bobby Dodge.
“I don’t have much time. Listen sharp.”
“I’m not on deck,” she said automatically. “New cases go to Jim Dunwell. Pester him.” Then she frowned. Bobby couldn’t be calling her about a case. As a city cop, she took her orders from the Boston turret, not state police detectives.
Bobby continued as if she’d never spoken: “It’s a fuckup, but I’m pretty sure it’s
our
fuckup, so I need you to listen. Stars and stripes are next door, media across the street. Come in from the back street. Take your time, notice
everything
. I’ve already lost vantage point, and trust me, D.D., on this one, you and I can’t afford to miss a thing.”
D.D.’s frown deepened. “What the hell, Bobby? I have no idea what you’re talking about, not to mention it’s my day off.”
“Not anymore. BPD is gonna want a woman to front this one, while the state is gonna demand their own skin in the game, preferably a former trooper. The brass’s call, our heads on the block.”
She heard a fresh noise now, from the bedroom. Her pager, chiming away. Crap. She was being called in, meaning whatever Bobby was babbling about had merit. She pulled herself to standing, though her legs trembled and she thought she might puke again. She took the first step through sheer force of will and the rest was easier after that. She headed for the bedroom, a detective who’d lost days off before and would again.
“What do I need to know?” she asked, voice crisper now, phone tucked against her shoulder.
“Snow,” Bobby muttered. “On the ground, trees, windows … hell. We got cops tramping everywhere—”
“Get ’em out! If it’s my fucking scene, get ’em all away.”
She found her pager on the bedside table—yep, call out from Boston operations—and began shucking her gray sweatpants.
“They’re out of the house. Trust me, even the bosses know better than to contaminate a homicide scene. But we didn’t know the girl was missing. The uniforms sealed off the house, but left the yard fair play. And now the grounds are trampled, and I can’t get vantage point. We need vantage point.”