Annie’s voice faded. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the rocker, listening to the rhythmic scraping of wood on wood and the plunking echo of rain on the porch roof.
“He loves you, Izzy,” she said at last, perhaps more to herself than to the silent child. “I know he loves you.”
It took her a moment, but Annie realized there was a sound coming from the child, a tiny, reed-thin whisper that sounded like png-png-png.
She was mimicking the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof overhead.
Annie smiled.
Izzy was trying to find her way back.
Izzy felt the scream starting again. It was way down deep inside her, in that dark place where the nightmares lived. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mommy, and she remembered what she’d heard. You can’t follow me . . . can’t follow me . . . can’t follow me . . .
What if that were true? What if she disappeared into the fog and still couldn’t find her mommy? A tiny, whimpering cry escaped her lips.
She was scared. It was one of those nights when nothing good happened in her sleep and she woke up with tears on her cheeks. She kept dreaming about that doctor, the one with the pointy nose and the thick glasses who told her that she had to talk or else she wouldn’t get over her mommy. It had scared her so much, those grown-up words that she hardly understood. The last thing she’d ever said was to him. I don’t want to get over my mommy. . . .
Her whole body was shaking.
She didn’t want to scream again.
She threw the covers back and slithered out of bed, walking barefooted to the closed door. There, she stopped. She stared down at her own hand, at all that nothingness around her thumb and forefinger. She wished suddenly that she wasn’t disappearing, that she could just reach out and grab that old doorknob and twist it hard.
With a sigh, she used her two fingers to turn the knob. It took a while, but finally, she got the door open.
She poked her head out and saw the dark hallway.
Her daddy’s room was to the left, just three doors down, but she knew he wouldn’t be there. She’d heard Annie talking to Lurlene. They thought she was gone, but she wasn’t. She’d been hiding in the corners, listening.
Her daddy was in the bad place, the place that made him smell like cigarettes even though he didn’t smoke, the place that made him come home with that scary look in his eyes and slam his bedroom door shut. The place that made him walk funny.
She crept down the hallway and peeked over the railing, and saw Annie asleep on the sofa.
Annie, who held Izzy’s hand and brushed her hair and acted like it didn’t matter at all that she didn’t talk. Annie, who was going to make her mommy’s garden grow again.
Very slowly, she went down the stairs. The steps felt cold beneath her bare feet and made her shiver, but she didn’t care. Once she started walking, she felt better. The scream slipped back into the dark place.
She almost wanted to say something, call out Annie’s name, maybe, but it had been so long since she’d even wanted to talk, it felt weird. She couldn’t even remember what her voice sounded like anymore.
She tiptoed to the sofa. Annie was asleep, with her mouth open. Her short hair was smashed to one side of her head and stuck straight up on the other.
Izzy wasn’t sure what to do. When she was little, she used to climb into her mommy and daddy’s bed whenever she was scared, and it felt so good, so warm. Mommy would curl Izzy up in her arms and tuck the blanket around them both, and Izzy would go to sleep.
Annie made a quiet snoring sound and stretched out, leaving a big empty space along the edge of the sofa. Just enough space for Izzy.
Izzy cautiously peeled back the scratchy blue blanket and gingerly crawled onto the couch.
She lay stiffly on her side, hardly breathing. She was afraid Annie would wake up and tell her to go back to her room. But she didn’t want to be alone in her room. She was scared of the dark in there.
Annie made another quiet sound and rolled toward Izzy.
Izzy clamped down on her breath and went perfectly still.
Annie curled her arm protectively around Izzy’s body and pulled her close.
Izzy felt as if she were melting. For the first time in months, she felt as if she could breathe right. She snuggled backward, poking her bottom into the vee of Annie’s bent body, so they were like two spoons pressed together.
With a quiet, happy sigh, she closed her eyes.
In the early hours of the morning, Annie woke to the scent of baby shampoo and the feel of a small, warm body tucked against hers. It brought back a flood of memories— days long ago and a child that was now far away and hadn’t been a baby in years. She gently stroked Izzy’s sweaty hair and kissed her small, pink ear. “Sleep well, princess.”
Izzy snuggled closer. A quiet sound answered Annie, so quiet she might have missed it if they’d been outside or if it had been raining or she had been talking.
In her sleep, Izzy laughed.
Annie glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was fivethirty in the morning. Very gently, she peeled back the blanket and climbed over Izzy. Hugging herself against the chill morning air, she walked over to the window and stared out at the lake. Dawn was a pink brush stroke across the serrated black treetops.
“Damn you,” she whispered.
This time, Nick hadn’t come home all night.
Chapter 13
The phone rang at five forty-five in the morning. Annie reached over Izzy and answered softly, “Hello?”
“Hello. Annie Bourne, please.”
She frowned, trying to place the male voice. “This is she.”
“This is Captain Joseph Nation, of the Mystic police force.”
Annie’s stomach clenched. She eased away from the sleeping child and sat down on the cold floor. “It’s Nick . . .”
“He was in an accident last night.”
“Oh, my God. Is he—”
“Fine. Apart from a few bruises and . . . a hell of a hangover, he’s going to be fine. He’s at Mystic Memorial.”
“Was he driving?”
“No. He was smart enough to get a ride home with someone—but not smart enough to pick a sober driver.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
Captain Nation sighed. “No. They hit a tree out on Old Mill Road. The driver walked away without a scratch, and Nick just bonked his head a good one. He has a slight concussion. He was lucky . . . this time. I’m calling because he’s going to need a ride home from the hospital.”
Annie glanced over at Izzy, sleeping so peacefully on the sofa. She couldn’t help remembering the way Izzy had waited and waited for a daddy who didn’t come home— because he was getting drunk again.
Enough was enough. Slowly, she answered, “Oh, I’ll come get him all right.”
Nick moaned and tried to roll over, but the covers were tangled around his legs so tightly he couldn’t move. Slowly, so as not to punish his already throbbing head, he pushed to his elbows and looked around. Lights stabbed through his brain, and somewhere a radio was blaring.
He was lying in a narrow, metal-rimmed bed. Fluorescent tube worms crisscrossed the ceiling, sending blinding pyramids of light into the white-walled room. A bright yellow privacy curtain hung in folds from ceiling to floor.
He closed his eyes and thumped back onto the narrow bed, flinging an arm across his face. He felt like shit. His head hurt, his eyes ached, his mouth was dry, and his stomach felt as if it had been scraped clean by a rusty scalpel. His whole body was shaking and weak.
“So, Nicholas? You back among the living?”
All in all, it was not a good sign to wake up in a hospital bed with your boss standing beside you. Even worse when that boss was as close to a father as you’d ever known.
Joe had offered Nick the first real home of his life. Nick had been young and scared and ready to run; his mother had taught him early that policemen were the enemy. But he’d had nowhere else to go. His mother’s death and Social Services had given him no options.
You must be Nicholas, Joe had said that day. I’ve got a spare bedroom . . . maybe you wouldn’t mind hanging out with me for a while. My daughters have all gotten married and Louise—my wife—and I are sorta lonely. And with those few welcoming words, Joe had shown Nick the first frayed edges of a new life.
Nick pushed up to his elbows again. It hurt to move; hell, it hurt to breathe. “Hey, Joe.”
Joe stood quietly beside the bed, staring at Nick through sad, disappointed eyes. Deep wrinkles lined his forehead and bisected his round, dark-skinned cheeks. Long, gray-black hair hung in two skinny braids that curled against the blue checked polyester of his shirt. “You were in a car accident last night. Do you remember it? Joel was driving.”
Nick went cold. “Christ. Did we hurt anyone?”
“Only you . . . this time.”
Nick sagged in relief. He rubbed a trembling hand over his face, wishing he could take a shower. He smelled like booze and smoke and vomit. The last thing he remembered was taking a drink at Zoe’s—his fourth, maybe. He couldn’t remember getting into Joel’s car at all.
With a high-pitched scraping sound of metal on linoleum that almost deafened Nick, Joe pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “You remember the day we met?”
“Come on, Joe. Not now—”
“Now. I offered you everything I had to give. My home, my family, my friendship—and this is what you give me in return? I’m supposed to watch you turn into a drunk? If Louise—God rest her soul—were alive, this would kill her. You blacked out, you know.”
Nick winced. That was bad. “Where?” It was a stupid question, but it seemed important.
“At Zoe’s.”
Nick sank back onto the bed. In public. He’d blacked out in public. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned. He could have done it in front of Izzy.
He didn’t want to think about that. He threw the covers back and sat up. At the movement, his stomach lurched and his head exploded. He cradled his head in his hands and leaned forward, staring at the floor through burning eyes until he could breathe again.
“Nicholas, are you all right?”
Slowly, he looked up. It came back to him in bits and pieces: Sally Weaver . . . all that blood . . . Chuck’s wailing voice, it’s not my fault. . . . “Remember when you talked me into going into the academy, Joe? You told me I could help people like my mother. . . .”
Joe sighed. “We can’t save ’em all, Nicholas.”
“I can’t do it anymore, Joe. We don’t help people. All we do is clean up bloodstains. I can’t . . . not anymore. . . .”
“You’re a damn fine cop, but you have to learn that you can’t save everyone—”
“Are you forgetting what I came home to last year? Hell, Joe, I can’t save anyone. And I’m sick to fucking death of trying.” He climbed out of bed. He stood there like an idiot, swaying and lurching in a feeble effort to stand still. His stomach coiled in on itself, just waiting for an excuse to purge. He clutched the metal bed frame in boneless, sweaty fingers. “You’ll be getting my resignation tomorrow.”