Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(6)

He glanced around the depressing cracker box of a room, his home away from not much, and cursed it. But that was all done now. He was clear, except for the ding on his record, and he had done the thirty days. He was as normal as the next man.

It was disheartening to be here like this at thirty-two, to still be flailing about, a good chunk of what should have been the finest time of his life behind him already, ruined by failure, self-insulation, and shame. He should be married with kids. He should have a profession, a stake, instead of an endless series of meaningless jobs. He should be out in the world setting it on fire, not pinballing his way from one slipup to another and then suffering the indignity of having his sister, Amelia, bail him out, pick up the slack, manage him like he was some kind of idiot who didn’t have the sense to run his own life. How had his twin come out on top? He felt horrible being both angry and indebted. Westhaven would have been the perfect place to unpack all that, but he couldn’t, not without telling, and he couldn’t do that.

He lifted the duffel off the bed and headed for the door. At least he was out of here. No more psychiatrists like Dr. Mariana Silva with her probing questions and freaky dark eyes. He’d lied about a happy childhood with loving parents, and Silva seemed to know it. But he had to lie. He and Amelia knew that no one, no one, could know their truth. They’d made a family pact with their father—all for one, one for all. Morgans stick together. Not a single revelation escaped their quiet house. But silence was complicity, and you were only as sick as your secrets. He’d learned that in AA. Only the adage assumed that once the secrets were released, there’d be a new, fresh person left behind.

What if secrets were a cancer? What if you cut away the cancer and there was nothing healthy left?

Silva saw him, and he hated her for it. He hated the way she’d tried to smugly wheedle his darkness out of him. Every look she’d given him had been predatory, grasping, greedy. She handled him as though he were unstable, the human equivalent of a ramshackle wagon of nitro rolling over a pitted road. It just showed how much she didn’t know. He knew what he was. Tainted, a creature of habits, of types. He was the cancer, the curse.

Smiling, he closed the door behind him and headed out, pushing through the hospital’s front doors, filling his lungs with freedom, starting again at zero. At thirty-two.

He passed through the gate and down the road where he knew Amelia would be waiting. He stopped when he saw his sister leaning against a silver Mercedes convertible, her arms crossed in front of her. Even in a weathered field jacket and worn jeans, her auburn hair a messy mop, she looked like she held the world on a string, like a model on a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. No makeup because none was needed. Flawless. Even Am knew she was exceptional. Was that her power? Knowing? Bodie loved that about her, but part of him resented her too.

Am smiled and lifted off the car when she saw him coming. She ran to him, grabbed him up in a big bear hug, and kissed him on the cheek. “C’mere, Bod. You’re sprung, you idiot.”

Bodie leaned into the hug and squeezed his sister back. Am smelled like paint and plaster, tools of her artist trade. He wished he had a trade, something he was good at. He could have been a doctor or a dentist—or an accountant like . . .

Am gave him the once-over. It didn’t look like she appreciated what she saw. “Good God, you’re a bag of bones. Weren’t they feeding you?”

“It’s not a five-star resort,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat, the smell of expensive leather snaking up his nose. “What happened to that rattletrap Land Rover you had?”

“I sold a piece. Traded up. Hungry?”

“Sure. Congratulations, by the way. On the piece.”

“Thanks. Pizza?”

“Fine.”

She stared at him for a moment, like she was taking inventory. “And?”

He sighed. “And I gave them nothing.”

He didn’t mention his pass. Am didn’t need to know. He gave Westhaven’s gate a final look before Am sped away.





CHAPTER 4


The presence of a half dozen squad cars parked along Upper Wacker with their lights flashing had attracted quite a crowd of curious onlookers along the bridge at Michigan Avenue. Foster ignored the heckling and jeering directed at them as she and Lonergan descended the metal steps to the Riverwalk. A few people standing up top yelled out recriminations and taunts, calling for the city to “defund the police.” There’d been protests all summer, their intensity unabated in the fall. In fact, just the day before, a well-attended march had wended its way through the streets, snarling traffic as protesters made their way with banners waving and horns bleating from CPD headquarters to Daley Plaza. People were angry, frightened. It was better not to engage.

“Sure got here quick, didn’t ya?” an onlooker shouted down. “Wasted no time, matter of fact.”

Foster didn’t look up, feeling the sting of the snide remark about their response time here off the Mag Mile compared to what it was perceived to be in neighborhoods where complexions were darker and bank accounts less robust.

“Defund the police?” Lonergan muttered. “Can you believe that? Who’re they gonna call when some jackhole carjacks ’em? Streets and San?”

Foster flicked him a look. The partnership hadn’t started off great, and it had been a quiet ride over in the car. The less she said, the better, she figured, at least on day one.