New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“Look at the clothes, too. The belt and shoes especially. She bought some of the wardrobe for him, but he’d want to shop for himself after being caged. Browse, touch fabrics. Maybe he did a little shopping when he went to the bank. He might want to replace some of the things he had to leave behind.”

“I’ll work from here. They’re bringing in a cot so I can stay with her tonight. It’s not likely he’ll come back for either of them, but—”

“He won’t be back, but why take chances? Stay with your sister.” She crossed the hall, turned back. “He’s not as smart as he thinks he is, not this time. He’s caught up in being out, in being free as much as by the plans he made. He wants his fashionable wardrobe, his good wines. He needs them after being denied for so long. He can’t stay under long, it’s like being back in a cage.”

“And he’ll want another girl.”

“Yeah.”

Thinking of that, Eve opened the door to Darlie’s room.

The mother sat on the bed, an arm curved around Darlie’s shoulder, with the father flanking the other side. Eve’s entrance had interrupted. She could see the father desperately trying to make Darlie smile or laugh.

Tears shimmered in his eyes as he turned toward Eve.

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I remember.” The mother stood up. “You were at the mall when . . . I remember. We’re so grateful, my husband and I, and Darlie.”

“I saw you. You came in the room.” Darlie’s gaze fixed on Eve. “You came in, and you said we were safe.”

“You are safe now.”

“Melinda said you’d come.” Her fingers fretted with the hospital sheet. “Where’s Melinda?”

“She’s right across the hall.”

“Did you find him yet? Did you find him and put him back in jail?”

“Working on it.”

Darlie took a little sobbing breath that had her father’s face crumbling, and her mother moving in to take her hand.

“I’d like to speak with Darlie alone.”

“She’s already gone over everything,” Mr. Morgansten began. “She really needs to—”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Daddy. I want to talk to her. Melinda said. It’s okay.”

“We’ll give you a little time.” Mrs. Morgansten stood up, hovered a moment. “Let’s go outside,” she suggested to her husband.

“I . . . We’ll go get you that ice cream,” he said to Darlie. “How’s that?”

“Okay.”

“Fudge Sludge, right? Your fave. You’re a slave to your fave.”

“That’s the best.”

“We won’t be long.” He bent down, kissed her. When he turned to go, the look he sent Eve was a painful morass of guilt and grief and terrible hope.

“My dad’s been crying,” Darlie said when they were alone. “He tries not to, but he can’t help it. He’s trying to make it better, but he can’t.”

Faced with the girl’s misery and exhausted pain, Eve missed Peabody like a limb. Her partner would know what to say, how to say it, how to reach both the child and her parents.

“I can’t tell my dad what he did to me. I can’t talk about it, not to my dad. I want to tell my mom, but I don’t know how. I was stupid, so it’s my fault. I can’t tell them.”

“How were you stupid?”