Memory in Death (In Death 22)

“I’m always bringing work home. Doing work here.”

“As am I.”

“You don’t fill it with cops on top of it.”

“I don’t. And certainly don’t plan to in the future. If I had a problem with you doing so, I’d let you know.”

“I had this memory flash today.”

Ah, he thought, now we’ve got the root. “Tell me.”

“I was thinking about the way she’d hurt herself, gone out, bought socks for God’s sake, for the sole purpose of bashing herself in the face, bruising her body. Vicious, self-destructive behavior. And I remembered this time…”

She told him, just as the memory had come back to her. And more, as she remembered more. That it had been hot, and she could smell grass. Strange smell to her as she’d so rarely experienced it before. One of the boys had had a disc player, and there was music jingling out.

And how the police car had slid almost silently up to the house that night. How the buttons on the cops’ uniforms had glinted in the moonlight.

“They went across the street. It was late, it had to be late, because all the lights were out, everywhere. Then they came on, lights came on in the house across the street, and the boy’s father came to th

e door. The cops went inside.”

“What happened?” he asked when she went silent.

“I don’t know, not for sure. I imagine the kid told them he didn’t do anything. He’d been asleep. Couldn’t prove it, of course. I remember the cops came out, poked around. Found the spray can. I can still see how one of them bagged it, shook his head. Stupid kid, he was probably thinking. Asshole kid.

“She went over, started shrieking. Pointing at the can, her car, their house. I just stood there and watched, and finally I couldn’t watch it anymore. I got into bed. Pulled the covers over my head.”

She closed her eyes. “I heard other kids talking about it in school. How he’d had to go down to the police station with his parents. I tuned it out. I didn’t want to hear about it. A couple days later, Trudy was driving a new car. Nice shiny new car. I ran away not long after. I took off. I couldn’t stand being there with her. I couldn’t stand being there, seeing that house across the street.”

She stared up at the dark window above her head. “I didn’t realize until today that’s the root of why I ran. I couldn’t stand being there with what she’d done, and what I hadn’t. He’d given me the best moment of my life, and he was in trouble. I didn’t do anything to help him. I didn’t say anything about what she did. I just let that kid take the rap.”

“You were a child.”

“That’s an excuse for doing nothing to help?”

“It is, yes.”

She sat up, pushed around so she could stare down at him. “The hell it is. He got dragged down to the cop shop, probably got a sheet, even if they couldn’t prove he did it. His parents had to make restitution.”

“Insurance.”

“Oh, fuck that, Roarke.”

He sat up, took her chin firmly in his hand. “You were nine years old, and scared. Now you’re going to look back twenty years and blame yourself. Fuck that, Eve.”

“I did nothing.”

“And what could you have done? Gone to the police, told them you saw the woman—licensed and approved by Child Protection—deface her own car, then blame the kid across the street? They wouldn’t have believed you.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It’s not. And we both know that boy survived that bump in his childhood. He had parents, a house, friends, and enough character to offer a little girl a ride on an airboard. I imagine he survived very well. You’ve devoted your adult life to protecting the public, risking your life to do so. So you can bloody well stop blaming yourself for once being a frightened child and behaving as one.”

“Well, hell.”

“I mean it. And take off your coat. Christ Jesus, aren’t you roasting?”

It wasn’t often she felt— The only word she could think of was “abashed.” She tugged off her coat, left it pooled around her. “You’d think a person could wallow a little in her own bed.”