“I’m telling you, they’re an item, and she has a secret,” D.D. said.

“And I’m telling you… I know her secret.”

“Say what?”

“Way back when, Danielle’s father killed Danielle’s mother and siblings. Little bit of unemployment, lot of whiskey, and he shot the entire family, except her.”

“How’d you learn this?”

“A milieu counselor named Ed told me everything. How sad it was for Danielle to have to deal with Lucy’s tragedy, particularly so close to the anniversary of her family’s death, yada yada yada.”

“Sure it was only a gun?” D.D. asked. “What about a knife? Maybe her father also stabbed someone?”

“We’ll have to look it up.”

“Oh, we’ll definitely look it up.” D.D. leaned back in the passenger’s seat. “Interesting. Personal. Isn’t that what you said after the Laraquette scene? Whoever is doing this is following a script. The murder business is personal to him. Or her, as the case might be.”

“Danielle survived her father’s massacre. If she’s reenacting a past trauma, shouldn’t the scene involve a lone survivor?”

D.D. shrugged. “Hell, I’m a lowly sergeant, not a criminologist. Maybe she resents being the survivor. Maybe she’s determined to get the deed done right. Maybe Danielle’s actually a very strong man, which would explain her ability to take out Denise Harrington and Jacob Harrington, each with a single killing blow.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Alex agreed.

“One way or another, all roads lead back to the acute-care facility,” D.D. pressed. “And inside the acute-care facility, all fingers point at Danielle Burton.”

“Bears consideration,” Alex granted.

They were almost in the North End now. He slowed the car and D.D. felt her earlier fatigue. Another lonely return to her one-bedroom wonderland. Another sleepless night, followed by another single-espresso morning. It really had been an atrociously long time since she’d had anything other than an Italian coffee machine to make her smile.

“You know who would be extremely good at taking out an entire family?” Alex was saying now. “The kind of player who has height, strength, and fitness on his side?”

D.D. regarded him blankly. “Who?”

“Couple of the MCs on the unit. Particularly, Gym Coach Greg.”

Alex double-parked outside her condo building. D.D. looked at the tall brick unit, tucked shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other two-hundred-year-old brick units. Then she looked back at Alex.

“Wanna come up?” she heard herself ask.

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he answered. “I do want to come up. But I think I’m going to pass. I think, if we’re going to do this…”

“When we’re going to do this?” she tried.

“Okay, when we’re going to do this… I want to do it right. I’m thinking red sauce and homemade pasta and really terrific Chianti. I’m thinking eating and talking and laughing and then… then all of that, all over again. It’s the advantage of being older and wiser. We know good things are worth the wait.”

“I’ve waited a long time,” D.D. said. “You have no idea.”

He smiled. “I’ve waited a long time, too.”

D.D. sighed, gazed back up at her building. “What if I said no hanky-panky?”

“No hanky-panky?”

“Just two consenting adults, remaining fully dressed.”

“Different,” he said.

She blew out a puff of air. “I don’t want to be alone. Okay? Maybe you don’t want to be alone either. So we go upstairs and we work on not being alone together. I’ll leave my shirt on, you leave your shirt on, and we’ll both go to bed.”

“Will there be spooning?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

“All right. I’m in.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Alex said, and pulled away from the curb in search of a parking place.

Sunday

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting cat.”

“Interrupting cat-”

“MEOW!”

I dutifully laugh as Evan cuts me off. Interrupting cat is his favorite knock knock joke. He’s been telling it for three years now, and it never grows old for him. I don’t mind. I’d expected a long night with Evan, one where he worked out his agitation and frustration from being overmedicated the day before. Instead, he slept all the way till six this morning, one of his longest stretches ever.

He woke up surprisingly happy. We went for a bike ride around the neighborhood, then broke out the sidewalk chalk and drew an elaborate race car shooting flames on the driveway.

After a midmorning snack of raspberry fruit smoothies, we’re now relaxing in the shade of the backyard, birds chirping, squirrels scampering, and a neighborhood cat stalking both.

This is charming Evan, silly Evan, let’s-goof-off-and-hang-out Evan. This is the son I can’t let go.

“Your turn,” he says now.

I think about it for a second. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Iguana.”

“Iguana who?”

“Iguana give you a hug.” I lean across the grass and capture Evan in a giant bear hug. He bursts into a fit of giggles, squirming his way out my arms.

“Mommy germs!” he shrieks.

“Iguana kiss you, too!” I growl, crawling after him. The backyard is more dirt than grass these days, but I bravely stalk my eight-year-old across the patchy lawn. Evan scampers away just enough to pretend to resist.

We’re no different from any other abusive relationship, I think as I chase my laughing son around the yard. After every episode of explosive violence comes the temporary euphoria of reconciliation. Evan’s contrite for yesterday’s incident in the park. I’m contrite for drugging my child so I could have sex with a man who wants me only for my body. Now Evan and I are both on our best behavior. We need these moments, or neither one of us would make it.

The phantom would win.

We run around for a bit. I declare defeat first, flushed and panting from the oppressive humidity. Evan appears equally overheated, so we retreat inside for a blast of AC. I set up Evan on the couch with water and SpongeBob, then I return to the deck, filling the kiddy pool. Today would be perfect for going to the beach. I’m not that brave, or maybe I just don’t want to risk ruining the moment, so I work on the kiddy pool. Evan will add a fleet of fire engines and two Super Soaker guns. He’ll splash and spray. I’ll sit on a deck chair with my feet in the cool water, grateful for the relief.

I’ve just finished filling the pool when the doorbell rings. I pause, rooted to the spot in surprise. We don’t exactly get a lot of visitors. And there aren’t deliveries on Sundays.

Evan is still engrossed with whatever SpongeBob and Patrick are up to. Warily, I make my way to the front door and peer through the peephole.

Michael is standing there.

I have to concentrate to fit the key into the lock. I focus on my hands, willing them not to tremble as I crack open the front door, facing my ex-husband, but holding him at bay.

“Morning, Victoria,” he says stiffly. He’s dressed in summer business casual. Brooks Brothers khaki shorts, a sharply pressed button-up shirt with little yellow and green stripes. He’s like a picture from a men’s magazine: fit high-finance at play.

“Is Chelsea all right?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

He nods, then clears his throat, shifting from one brown leather boat shoe to the next. He’s nervous. I remember my ex-husband well enough to recognize the signs. But why?

“I thought about what you said,” he states abruptly. “About Evan and the wedding.”

“What did I say?” I ask stupidly.