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    Forgotten Place
    Forgotten Place
    Forgotten Place
    Ebook495 pages6 hours

    Forgotten Place

    By LS Sygnet

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    About this ebook

    (Book 3, Eriksson Series)

    An early morning at physical therapy to rehabilitate Helen Eriksson's recent injury turns into a nightmare rife with déjà vu for the Darkwater Bay police department. Helen interrupts an attack on a young woman - the daughter of former Assistant District Attorney David Ireland - on the anniversary of his murder.

    Helen leaps at the opportunity to finally link a crime to her personal nemesis Danny Datello, long suspected in the murder-for-hire of ADA Ireland. Knowing he's guilty is a far cry from proving it, however, especially when the evidence Ireland had that incriminated him was never recovered. Now, it seems that something has prompted Datello to search for this elusive proof of guilt and destroy it at any cost.

    Like everything else in Darkwater Bay, nothing is as it seems on the surface. As Helen and her fellow detectives race to beat Datello and his hired guns to the evidence, another link to Jerry Lowe seems to cement Helen's theory that Datello is the criminal heart of the city. But while she's focused on her quenching her desire for revenge, Helen dismisses her instincts that tell her something about this case doesn't quite add up.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLS Sygnet
    Release dateOct 30, 2012
    ISBN9781301772506
    Forgotten Place
    Author

    LS Sygnet

    LS Sygnet was a mastermind of schoolyard schemes as a child who grew into someone who channeled that inner criminal onto the pages of books. Sygnet worked full-time in the nursing profession for 29 years before her "semi-retirement" in March 2014.She currently lives in Georgia, but Colorado will always be her home.

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    Forgotten Place - LS Sygnet

    LS Sygnet

    Copyright 2012 LS Sygnet, Smashwords edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations.

    This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print, without written permission from LS Sygnet.

    The Eriksson Series by LS Sygnet

    Daddy's Little Killer

    Beneath the Cracks

    Forgotten Place

    …and coming soon, book 4, The Chilling Spree

    Preface

    Before reading this book, I must forewarn and claim caveat lector. First, I have worked with the mentally ill since the mid 1980's, and you could say that it has been my passion, my life's work, the one thing that no matter what else came along, I always remained tethered to in some way, shape or form.

    Yet not all of the things in Forgotten Place are created by my imagination. And while I have seen some horrific things in a historical context only, those treatment modalities are either no longer used, or are done in a humane manner. Yes, I'm sure you've guessed there is some Dark Age psychiatry in this book. It is brief, and not particularly explicit, but it's there.

    Over 20 years ago, I saw the old treatment room in a state psychiatric hospital. It was kept mostly intact to serve as education, a stark example of how much psychiatry has advanced over the years. I remember that it scared the crap out of me. I cared for people who suffered such treatments doled out in the 1950's and 1960's, heard their stories, wondered how much was true, how much was confabulation if not downright delusion… until I saw that treatment room.

    I felt a wave of gratitude that things have improved in the last half-plus-century. For if things had not improved, I would not be able to do what I do professionally.

    So when you read that segment of Forgotten Place, know that it is rooted in a historical reality that psychiatry cannot erase, but no longer practices anymore. Just like physicians no longer bleed folks with leeches, or lop off limbs as a first resort.

    LS Sygnet

    Table of Contents

    Title

    Copyright

    The Eriksson Series by LS Sygnet

    Preface

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    Chapter 25

    Chapter 26

    Chapter 27

    Chapter 28

    Chapter 29

    Chapter 30

    Chapter 31

    Chapter 32

    Chapter 33

    Chapter 34

    Chapter 35

    Chapter 36

    Chapter 37

    Chapter 38

    Chapter 39

    Chapter 40

    Chapter 41

    Chapter 42

    Chapter 43

    Chapter 44

    Chapter 1

    The dull misery of springtime segued into torrential summer storms with damp, chilly nights. Moisture beaded on windowpanes whether rain fell or not. Autumn was soggy. Wet leaves fell and rotted on peaty earth. Cold winds, dank and moist chilled even the well-insulated bodies to the bone. By wintertime, the local's promises that it never snows in Darkwater Bay felt empty to me. Who cared about a few flakes, when the perpetual rain and fog only abated for dark dreary skies?

    It felt like life at the pole without the sixty-below wind-chill. Even daylight felt like dusk, and it didn't last long enough to pull me out of the boggy depression that made only one activity appealing—curling up in bed and sleeping through life until my bones mended and I could escape wet-hell and all its varied shades of gray.

    I tucked myself into a ball at the end of the sofa and let the natural gas flame in the fireplace hypnotize me through another vapid day of existence. The sparkling white wine glowed in the dancing orange-yellow light. I watched the little bubbles appear at the bottom of the crystal and effervesce to the top before disappearing.

    The crisp bite normally appealed to my palate, soothed me in a complimentary way with the sweet, fruity flavor. Tonight it tasted bitter as Alka-Seltzer on my tongue. This is what depression feels like. I don't have the energy to move, the desire to fix this, the will to push forward. Random thoughts on the futility of my existence bubbled in my brain, much like those in the wine glass. Would prison be worse than life behind the closed doors of my heart?

    If he really cared, he wouldn't have listened when you threw him out and told him things were finished. So much for his dire warnings about not leaving, this mythical point of no return.

    Invariably, my misery came back to rest at the feet of Johnny Orion. Part of my psyche knows he's a convenient excuse, the face that for some reason I attached to my melancholy, the broad shoulders strong enough to carry the blame for mistakes I no longer wanted to own as mine. The other part of my psyche isn't quite willing to be so dishonest.

    If it weren't for Orion, you wouldn't know that Wendell is alive and well, that he doesn't hate you. On the contrary, he loves you enough to teach that meddling dolt Orion how to cover your mistakes and throw the blame onto someone who deserved his day in court.

    Until recent weeks, I never understood how vast the disconnect between the heart and the psyche truly can be. My mind is ripped in two, one hemisphere hating Johnny for interfering in my personal life, the other lauding him for making obvious the subtle plan I tried to put into motion when my ex-husband died.

    My heart? I simply tried not to listen to its yearnings, or how much it suddenly despised the lack of company. And that loss went far beyond the presence or absence of Johnny Orion.

    I stopped returning calls.

    I started having my groceries (mostly wine) delivered.

    If I could've paid the doctor to make house calls to evaluate my shattered bones, I'd have done that too. I went so far as to hide in the sanctuary of the third story room of my house where all the precious mementos from a life long dead had been squirreled away while the housekeeping service did its thing once a week.

    Maya started leaving threatening messages. Statements like, don't make me break in to see that you're all right, Helen. This has gone beyond ridiculous. Call me back.

    Sometimes I wonder if we don't learn passive-aggressive behavior by studying psychology. She wanted a return call? Fine. During normal business hours, I'd call and leave messages for her at home. Maya's a savvy woman. That tactic won't work forever, nor will my excuse that she's got enough on her plate dealing with work and chemotherapy to be worried about little old me and my nicely healing gunshot wound to the shoulder.

    One of the nicest things about natural gas fireplaces is that the flame doesn't die until you shut off the fuel source. Snuggled under an afghan, I watched the fire lick the ceramic logs until my eyelids grew too heavy to remain open.

    That was when my real misery began. It takes a lot of conscious effort to keep thoughts of my father from haunting me. It's a skill I have not mastered during sleep when the subconscious mind slips into the driver's seat.

    His face had not fully materialized through the haze in my mind when reality jerked him away from me again. The shrill sound jarred me awake and left me feeling lost and confused. Telephone ringing. Hadn't I switched it over to voicemail? Perhaps this was the dream and I would hear Dad's voice if only I would answer this time.

    I reached for the cold plastic appliance and clicked on. Eriksson.

    She lives.

    Thud. Or maybe it was a splat. There was a distinct sound when my heart hit the floor.

    Please don't hang up the phone.

    I swallowed half my tongue and whispered, Okay.

    The soft laughter warmed the bone-deep cold that hadn't seeped away for months. This is a hell of a lot easier than I expected, Doc. Should I be worried?

    Why are you calling, Orion?

    Hope deflated on a soft sigh. People are worried. For some inexplicable reason, they thought I might make more headway talking some sense into you than anyone else has. But...

    My mind's eye saw him shrug.

    I appreciate the concern, but it's really unnecessary. I'm fine.

    Yeah, I figured that much out on my own. Shelly Finkelstein wants to know when you'll be cleared for active duty. Something about her intent with that contract you signed in October not including months of convalescent leave as part of the eight month deal.

    How very sensitive of her. Perhaps I should contact a lawyer and see what it would take to buy my way out of our arrangement.

    Helen, I wish you wouldn't do that.

    Yeah, we both knew what he wished.

    "Are you all right? Am I allowed to ask that, to tell you that I'm worried too?"

    I said I was fine.

    Have you started physical therapy yet?

    Last week. Damned rules. I didn't understand why they insisted on seeing me at the hospital for outpatient therapy. Hadn't I made it clear as a bell that I was more than willing and able to pay for private therapy at home? My sole consolation came from being the first appointment of the day. Arriving at six-thirty drastically decreased the odds of bumping into people who knew me.

    The ache in his voice floated into my ear like a dagger searching for its most direct path to my heart. I take it therapy is going fine too.

    Is this really why you called me?

    Don't ask what I expected him to say. I'm not sure. Like I said, I've had issues with disconnects between the brain and my heart, not to mention the separate halves of my brain. Maybe he'd do me a favor and get pissy with me, defensive at least. It would inspire a little bit of energy. It takes a lot of vigor to sustain rage.

    Orion plays dirty. This much I learned when he butted into my little problem and decided that Eddie Franchetta made a much better murder suspect than I did.

    I miss you, Helen. I keep praying every day that you'll pick up the phone and call me, that maybe you miss me a little bit too. How much longer do I have to stay away to prove to you that everything has worked out for the best? What more can I say or do to convince you that I would never betray someone I love the way I love you? Tell me, because it's killing me, having you so close but never seeing you or hearing your voice.

    Stop.

    He did, damn him. My heart squeezed painfully at the respect he always gave me. We sat breathing at each other for a long time. Johnny tipped his toe in to the piranha-infested lava pool of conversation first.

    I'm sorry I hurt you. It wasn't my intent to make things worse. I wanted to give you a little bit of peace, Helen.

    My vocal chords felt like molten guitar strings stretched ten times too taut. I know.

    Please tell me I didn't make things worse. I'll go to Levine if I did and—

    It won't be over for years. But no, it's not worse than it was. They're convinced that…well, that things are progressing as they should've from the beginning.

    You still hate me.

    We can't have this conversation.

    Silence became as taut as my vocal chords.

    Then, at last, We could have it face to face.

    "No, Johnny. You have to let this go; let me go. I meant what I said. When I've mended enough to leave, that's what I'm going to do. I don't belong here. I don't want to belong here."

    But your contract—

    Let Darkwater Bay sue me. Do you think I care?

    Yes, he replied. I know how much you care, Helen. I'm not talking about me. You care about the people out here. You cared enough not to let what happened to Gwen Foster go. You cared about my detective. You cared about dead homeless guys and even a dead drug dealing biker whose worst crime was being too stupid to keep his mouth shut. I saw how much it hurt you when Maya was in the hospital facing a fight for her life. Do you think I don't understand what you're doing? None of this can hurt you if you avoid it. But the people who love you are hurting. They're suffering because you're pushing them all away.

    I believed that my tears dried up and left me almost two months ago. Orion proved that theory wrong. My eyes stung, burning liquid overflowed and scalded my cheeks. They're better off without me, I whispered. "You are better off without me."

    You're crying...

    I dashed at the droplets clinging to my chin. Cleared my throat. I'm not.

    A soft knock sounded on the window to my left. Let me in, Helen. Johnny stood outside under the lanai at the back of my house. His dark coat hung to the knees. Even through the darkness, I could see the water droplets clinging to the leather skin. He looked as sad and fatigued as I felt, standing desolate in the cold with his cell phone pressed to his ear. Baby, please let me in.

    I dropped the phone, heard it clatter when it hit the floor, and buried my face in my hands. Why wouldn't he stop? Why did he have to come back—not just the voice that made my soul weep and my heartache, but to see him?

    His voice floated up from the tiny speaker on the floor. Doc, please.

    The afghan tightened around my shoulders. Too late. He's here. I saw him. I don't have the strength to send him away. The heart exerted its control over what my brain screamed must be done. I drifted to the back door. Fingers trembled with uncoordinated effort. The deadbolt twisted.

    Johnny pushed the door open and stepped inside, carried on a blast of frigid North Pacific air. One foot kicked the door closed while his arms swept me up into the embrace I ached to feel. I melted into it, into the strength I lacked.

    He separated from me long enough to peel off the coat. It hit the floor with a soft whoosh before Johnny crushed me against his chest again. No words, just arms and breathing and pain leeching slowly away. He didn't grope. There were no kisses. The heartbeat in his throat slammed against my forehead. It was the only tell that Johnny felt anything at all.

    I suspected it was a response to fear. How much time did he have before my anger returned, before I pointed to the door and demanded he leave, before I started railing at him over the intrusion into my life, not to mention onto my property by scaling the wall around the fortress once again?

    He couldn't know that I lacked the energy for any of it. Could he?

    One arm scooped behind my knees and lifted me. Silently, Johnny walked across the room and sat in the recently vacated corner of the sofa. Imagine the gentlest embrace of all time—made from steel bands. That was the way he held me. A nose burrowed into my hair. Inhale. Hold. Slow release.

    Johnny—

    Shh.

    I don't—

    Not tonight, Doc. No talking. No fighting. No rejection. Tonight, you need me to hold you, and that's exactly what I'm going to do.

    When I woke the next morning, tucked into bed in the same sweat suit I had worn the day before, I wondered if the comfort of my recurrent Dad dream was merely replaced with another. There was no dent in the pillow beside my head. The bedding was undisturbed save for where I slept without moving. The telephone wasn't bleating on the floor. The gas logs in the fireplace radiated warmth and color into the drab world around me. Not a single clue had been left behind to prove the visitation from Johnny was corporeal.

    I wandered through the house looking for water droplets on the floor near the back door, a smudge on a windowpane from his knuckles knocking, evidence that he had come to me and chased away my demons one last time.

    There was nothing. I felt a little bit of hope evaporate like wisps of smoke. Push it aside, brain says. Let it go. Do what must be done. Mend yourself and flee for parts unknown. Leave Darkwater Bay behind.

    My heart was too tired to protest. With weary resolve, I dressed for another session of physical therapy.

    Chapter 2

    One of the aspects of Metro State University Hospital that made it a great institution was the fact that by virtue of being part of a university hospital system, research was a huge part of its mission. At the same time, that fact also provided its greatest flaw. It was also a teaching hospital.

    I try not to get irritable about such things. God knows I was an intern at one time too. Anybody with a license, whether it's in medicine or nursing or clinical psychology has to learn a few things hands on. I simply wanted to avoid being the guinea pig that trained a would-be practitioner. My surgeon was the chief of orthopedics. No pun intended, but it was the only bullet I dodged during this ordeal.

    Student nurses cared for me. I even had a pharmacy intern show up to talk to me about the pain medications prescribed on discharge.

    The real kicker was Amy Peterson. Amy had the misfortune of an internship in physical therapy in December, the cold month of Helen Eriksson's mad dash through rehab. I give her credit for having the guts to stand up to me. I think the therapist supervising her was more than a tad bit intimidated by my dagger eyes and razor-sharp tongue.

    It's hard to imagine me going from depressed and living in seclusion at night to being a viper coiled and ready for attack by the crack of lighter fog the following morning. These are the idiosyncrasies of my personality, I'm afraid. Any news that falls outside the strict boundaries of what I want to hear brings out the venom.

    After a week of physical therapy, I had achieved 65 percent abduction of my left arm, abduction of course, meaning how far I could extend my arm away from the midline of my body. It was not fast enough for my liking.

    Pushing yourself harder won't give you a faster result, Helen, Amy scolded (the nerve!) when my left shoulder joint was stiff as a board Monday morning. I can tell that your range of motion is limited from overexertion and not lack of exercise this weekend, so don't even think of trying to tell me you took a couple of days off.

    You can't possibly know that.

    She was fearless, that one. Instead of cowering away from my cold accusation, she merely smiled. Sure I can. Don't you know that the change in your muscle mass is visible? You lifted free weights with your left arm. I can feel the stiff muscle when I do this. Her fingers dug into my bicep.

    It sucked a yelp from my gut. Don't do that! Jesus, were you trained by Hitler?

    Remember when I told you that it was great that in five sessions you increased range of motion from 25 percent to 65 percent?

    Of course I remember.

    You're back down to 50 percent now, Helen. Congratulations. You've probably tacked another week onto therapy. You're not trying to ease your way back onto the job early, are you?

    No. Truer words had not fallen from these fat lips all year. I scowled at her, and then nothing in particular when she returned my expression with one of her own.

    Don't blame me—you're the one who didn't follow directions.

    Such a simple but effective look. Amy might've been an intern, but she had the skill of a veteran already. I harrumphed and admitted my crime. I figured if I achieved 40 percent in five days with you, maybe I could bump it up another fifteen or twenty on my own.

    Your body needed the rest. Pick up the three pound weight and see if you can abduct to here. Her hand spanned a 30-degree arc away from my body. Good. Now hold it and count to thirty.

    Numbers started ticking through my head.

    Count out loud.

    I groaned and let the weight drag my arm down to my side. It hurts. I should've taken that magic pill before I came over this morning.

    You should've followed my directions. Let's get the infrared on you for a while and try the whirlpool, see if we can't lure some of the stiffness out of the joint and muscles before we try the exercises again.

    I was about to comply when the cell phone on my belt clip chimed.

    Don't even think about answering that.

    Too late. I looked at the caller ID. Something about my dream sparked renewed desire to hear the voice of whoever might be calling me. An unfamiliar local number only served to heighten curiosity, not dampen it.

    Eriksson.

    Helen, it's Zack Carpenter. Am I calling at a bad time?

    My chest constricted. Zack was not pleased when the gunshot wound forced him to bring in a less compelling forensic psychologist to testify at Jerry Lowe's competency hearing. The end result was far from optimal. Nobody lost, but nobody won either. Lowe was currently placed under an involuntary commitment order at Dunhaven, the local psychiatric hospital, while a more in-depth evaluation of his fitness for standing trial was conducted.

    I'm in physical therapy. Is this about—

    Nothing serious, Helen. I called about your plans for the weekend.

    Wine. Fireplace. Depression. Self-loathing. Nightmares. Urgent stuff. Um...

    You should've received the invitation in the mail a few weeks ago.

    Yeah, I haven't exactly been up to dealing with my personal correspondence.

    His frown was silent, but I heard it just the same. How is the therapy progressing? Are you getting adequate help at home?

    Fine, Carpenter. Blame my neglect of the United States Postal Service on a bum arm. Yes, but I bank and pay bills electronically, so what little I get in the mailbox is usually junk. No offense to whoever invited me to something.

    It's the annual Christmas party for law enforcement personnel. I suspected that you either weren't feeling up to attending—

    Great excuse, thank you very much.

    Or hadn't seen the invitation. It would mean so much to everyone if you could attend, Helen. I thought I'd call and see if... well, if you aren't planning to attend with someone already, perhaps you'd give me the honor of escorting you to the event.

    I dragged my lower lip through my teeth. I'm not sure I'm up for a social event, Zack, least of all some police department Christmas party.

    Amy Bigmouth piped up, It would do you good to get out of the house, Helen. You've got enough range of motion for dinner and a little dancing. Go with the man already.

    She's lucky I'm impaired. The urge to drown her in the three-foot deep aluminum whirlpool tub was strong.

    Was that your physical therapist?

    She's an intern, so she barely qualifies to have an opinion. I glared at my tormenter and probably melted ten pounds off her stocky frame.

    I'm sorry. I feel like I'm putting undue pressure on you, Helen. Besides, from what I've heard, if anybody should be inviting you to the law enforcement gala, it's Johnny Orion.

    I stood stock-still. Orion? What gave you the impression I'd go with him? I thought you said this thing was for law enforcement.

    Zack fell silent, but not for long. He didn't tell you?

    Tell me what?

    When he saved your life... Helen, Johnny blew his cover. What I heard—

    Oh Darkwater Bay, your infamous rumor mill never ceases to amaze me.

    Was that when the paramedics showed up to take you to the hospital, that some of the Downey cops had to physically restrain him. One of them actually thought he would arrest Orion for shooting Kim Jackson and killing him. Johnny whipped out his badge and practically shoved it down the poor kid's throat. Weren't you curious about how Johnny shot Jackson without any repercussions?

    Honestly, it was probably the only question that hadn't popped into my head. Then again, I elevated wallowing in despair to a high art form over the past couple of months. I couldn't be bothered to care what Johnny did to save my literal life after learning that he broke the law to get Mark Seleeby and the FBI off my case.

    I've had other things going on.

    Well, it's no secret anymore. The world knows Johnny is the guy behind the badge of power at OSI.

    I was sure Chris Darnell was thrilled to be publicly reduced to a puppet administrator. I'm afraid I'll have to pass on Saturday night, Zack. Big law enforcement bash, Johnny's cover blown, no thank you. It was one thing to have heart-shattering dreams about the man. Rubbing elbows with him in public after two months of active avoidance delved directly into the realm of very bad plan.

    Right. I shouldn't have asked. Well, I should've realized that you'd rather attend with Johnny.

    Then again… Zack, I'm not sure where you're getting your information, but Johnny Orion is not in the picture anymore.

    He's not?

    No. I wouldn't even call it a picture when we were sort of... well, toying with the idea. It was more of a doodle on a cocktail napkin than a picture.

    Oh.

    How formal is this gala Saturday night?

    Black tie, Zack said. Are you having second thoughts about attending?

    Second, third, millionth. What time will you pick me up?

    Five thirty, he said. Cocktails at six followed by dinner at seven. After dinner, there's a brief awards ceremony, typically when Darkwater Bay decorates officers for outstanding service during the calendar year, and then dancing and socializing, but it's entirely understandable that you wouldn't want to stay past—

    My brain heard cocktails, but Zack had something else in mind.

    The awards.

    We'll play that part by ear, I suppose.

    I'm delighted.

    My voice dipped lower as I stepped away from the perked ears of my therapist. Zack, this thing with Orion, how much did it hamper the investigation he was working on for the past couple of years?

    A slow breath blew over the connection. "It's tough to say, Helen. You'd have to talk to him about it, but I can tell you this. Danny Datello has been pretty vocal about the deceptive tactics of law enforcement of late. It's no secret that he had to realize Johnny was watching him in an official capacity now that word is out about his real position. Rumor has it that Datello is scouring the ranks of the state senate for someone to challenge Joe Collangelo in the next election."

    So he can get rid of OSI no doubt. Stupid! Orion should've maintained his cover and let Darnell deal with the fallout from Kim Jackson's shooting. The idea of Danny Datello slipping through the cracks yet again gnawed at my gut, sparked a little bit of vendetta back to life within me. I'd been so wrapped up in running away, in the inability to run away immediately that everything else faded into obscurity.

    I'm afraid Datello might have the connections to pull it off too, Helen. Like I said, I'm not aware of the details of Johnny's current investigation, but I do know that he's been working almost around the clock for the past few weeks. No doubt he's feeling the pressure from Collangelo's end of the hierarchy too.

    Because if someone isn't arrested on a charge that will stick, Joe stands to lose a great deal. I can't tell you how much that disturbs me.

    Downey Division, all of Darkwater Bay for that matter, could sure use you back at a hundred percent, Helen. It feels like we're taking a giant step backward after some very promising progress.

    Amy's foot tapping intruded on something I would've rather continued to discuss. My tormenter is losing her patience, Zack. Perhaps we can discuss this more at dinner Saturday night.

    I look forward to it.

    We disconnected and Amy huffed, 'Bout damn time. Shut the phone off, Helen. Our time is finite. If you want to put those dancing shoes on Saturday night, we've got a lot of work to do.

    I was a little surprised at how much the idea appealed to me. Well, not the dancing part, but getting my head into something outside pity. Danny Datello, my nemesis and the only living part of the equation that ruined my life, did the trick. I spent the next forty-five minutes focused on being obedient and following Amy's directions to the point that it roused her suspicions.

    I thought you weren't really interested in this party Saturday night.

    Hmm?

    Sure sounded like your friend had to twist your good arm to talk you into it. Why the sudden change of heart?

    You were persuasive that it would be good for me.

    Ha! she barked. You don't listen to a thing I say or follow a single direction because I ask you to do it. What's the real motivation here?

    Can you keep a secret? That was a joke. Darkwater Bay, for the level of corruption it has and its dirty underbelly, is filled with people who couldn't hold a confidence to save their lives. Exhibit A, Batshit Crazy, drug dealer of massive moron caliber who died because he admitted that a dead undercover cop frequented Uncle Nooky's bar.

    Sure!

    I've got to get back to work.

    The twinkle in her eyes died, the shoulders deflated. Is that all? Here I thought there was some great romance about to bud.

    I couldn't remember the last time I laughed and meant it. As it turned out, Amy's dark humor lifted my spirits and became a turning point in therapy. I felt better than I had in weeks; goals meant something to me again. Goals that didn't involve erasing my identity.

    With high spirits, I left therapy with a sincere promise not to overdo at home and continue to give my best effort through the duration of physical therapy.

    This may come back to bite me in the butt, Helen, but I think I believe you meant that.

    I wasn't sure how I felt about giving off an aura of dishonesty no matter what I said, no matter how long the audience had known me. It was a conscious decision to chalk it up to her smart-ass sense of humor.

    The Expedition was parked on the sixth level of the hospital garage. My brain was on Datello, a little bit on Orion and how much he probably hated me for being the reason his cover was blown. After all, it was one thing to come out of the undercover cop closet with a payoff being the undying love of the woman whose life you saved. It was another to be unceremoniously thrown out on your ass.

    Suddenly it made sense. His absence had nothing to do with respecting my wishes. Johnny found himself in the unenviable position of having no choice but keep his mouth shut and walk away. To do otherwise would incriminate him in a crime as felonious as mine had been.

    Tiny pangs of regret pricked my heart, not just for another shot at putting Datello behind bars slipping away. Guilt almost propelled my cell phone into my hand, tempted me to dial a familiar number and offer an apology for inadvertently screwing up Orion's cover. If I had waited for backup that night... if I hadn't been so reticent with Briscoe and Conall and made a stupid decision to sneak off and close the case my way... if, if, if.

    At the door of the Expedition, I found the iPhone in hand instead of the car keys. If I were a religious girl, I'd have seen it as a sign that it was time show a little bit of the empathy I recently discovered.

    Or, not.

    Voices tickled the periphery of my awareness. Sweet and feminine preceded low and deep. Then the shriek bounced

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