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I turn around. She’s still sitting on the porch swing, but she’s alert now.
“What was that?” But I heard. I’m just hoping she doesn’t have the courage to ask me again.
“What do you see?” She doesn’t spare me. “When you look at me.”
I know that my answer matters. I can feel the dreadful anticipation spilling from her. Taking a step closer, I lower my voice. “I see a woman who’s rebuilt her life from nothing. I see a survivor. Afighter.” If my mind adds,A beautiful one, I don’t say it to her because her looks shouldn’t have any bearing on how much she’s accomplished. “I see women on the streets every daywho’ll never make it. Most of them have lost their ability to even try. So, while I can’t empathize, I do respect how far you’ve come, Catherine.”
“And if I told you that I would give it up all tomorrow for one last fix?”
She wants to fight. I can see the stubborn glint hovering behind her eyes.
But I can’t.
Not with her.
Taking out a business card, I walk back towards the porch. I don’t hand it to her. I leave it on the railing in front of her, giving her the choice to take it or discard it. “I’d say the fact that you haven’t yet,” I point to Lizzie’s bedroom window, “withthatright underneath your nose, is what makes you unique.” I tap the card on the porch railing once. “But that if you’re ever in a position where you’re overwhelmed and thinking about it, you call me.” When I look at her again, her eyes are round with surprise. “I’ll come.”
“Why?” she whispers.
Why?Her question resounds. I’ve certainly never gone out of my way to help before, and my job is rife with interviewing, investigating, and sometimes, apprehending addicts. “I don’t know,” I admit. And then I turn and walk away.
Chapter 8
Aiden
June 20, 2008
“The ME’s report justcame in on Elizabeth York.”
I glance up from my computer at Mani who waves the printed and stapled report in his hand. “Did you attend?”
“Nah, I had to be in court. Sade did.”
“And? Anything new?”
“It’s not good,” he says, passing me the papers. “Elizabeth didn’t die from the gunshot wound.”
Indicating to the chair by my desk, I begin reading aloud. “From the anatomic findings and pertinent history, I ascribe the death to respiratory failure due to…” I look up at Mani. “Fentanyl toxicity?”
“Read the summary.”
“One post-mortem gunshot wound, entering the back, traveling downwards, exiting lower abdomen.”
“Keep going.”
I read through notes on Elizabeth’s endocrine system and head and central nervous system, none of which triggers anything unusual. When I get to the next section of the report, I stop reading, my stomach suddenly queasy. “Shit.”
“Fetal weight and development put her at about fifteen weeks.”
“Did they run the fetal DNA profile through CODIS?”
“They’re still working on it.”
I think about Elizabeth, dressed in the black mini dress and six-inch heels, and, according to Antoinette, booked for a date on the night she died. “She had to have known, right?” I ask, my knowledge of pregnancy near zero. “At fifteen weeks…”
“I’d hate to assume the worst.”
I admire that about Mani, I really do. But I just don’t have it in me anymore, that hopeful ability to see the best in people. It left me a long time ago. “Vaginal swab collected intact sperm,” I read on. “No sign of needle punctures.”
