Читать книгу Copycat - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 21

Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:30 p.m.

Kitt had been attending Alcoholics Anonymous for eighteen months. The department shrink, and consequently her chief, had required her to complete a twelve-step program before they would allow her back on the job.

She truly hadn’t thought she needed it. That attending had been nothing more than a hoop the department wanted her to jump through. She hadn’t turned to alcohol until her life fell apart. She’d thought that made her different, not really an alcoholic.

Little by little, she had seen how wrong she was.

She had realized, too, she needed the support and understanding of fellow alcoholics. They had become a kind of surrogate family. They were privy to her most secret thoughts and feelings, the demons that chased her and the longings of her heart.

She had become particularly close to three of her fellow AA members: Wally, an unemployed machine-shop supervisor who lost his job and two fingers because of drinking on the job; Sandy, a homemaker whose kids had been taken away because of her drinking; Danny, the youngest of them, who had woken up to his problem after an auto accident in which his best friend was killed. Danny had been the one behind the wheel.

They’d grown close because of the alcoholism—and because they understood loss.

“Hello, love,” Danny said, taking the seat next to hers and sending her a goofy, lopsided grin.

She returned the smile. “You’re chipper tonight.”

“Life is good.”

“Must’ve gotten lucky,” Wally said from her other side.

“Been sober one year tonight.”

Sandy squeezed his hand. “Way to go.”

They chatted quietly while they waited for the meeting to begin. Sandy, it turned out, had had a positive meeting with her lawyer about establishing visitation time with her kids and Wally had gotten a job.

As the group leader opened the meeting, Danny leaned toward her. “Want to get a cup of coffee after?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Saw you on the news. Thought we should talk about it.”

From the tone of his voice, she knew he was concerned. Stand in line, my friend.

They didn’t speak about it again until they were sitting across from each other in a booth at a local eatery called Aunt Mary’s.

“I’m worried about you taking on that case, Kitt. You sure you’re ready?”

“Boy, that question’s getting old.”

“Maybe you should consider that people have a legitimate reason for asking it.” He leaned forward. “You know what your triggers are, Kitt. Don’t put yourself in that position.”

The pressure to perform. Being under the microscope. Stress. Despair. Hopelessness.

“The anniversary of Sadie’s death is coming up,” she said.

“I know, Kitt. And that’s exactly my point. You’re not ready for this.”

She stared into her cup of coffee a moment. “I have to do this, Danny. I can’t explain all the reasons—”

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “You don’t have to. I know them.”

She gazed at their joined hands, suddenly uncomfortable.

Carefully, she slid her hand from under his. “It’s more than my personal reasons. I can’t discuss it, but it has to be me.”

He was silent a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Just know I’m here for you.”

He had been. They’d joined AA around the same time and had been through a lot together. She liked him. Counted on calling him friend.

He’d made it no secret that he would like to deepen their relationship. But she cherished his friendship too much to take a chance on a romance between them. Besides, at twelve years her junior, she felt like she’d be robbing the cradle.

“Joe’s getting remarried.”

Danny paused, a forkful of apple pie halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“It hit me hard. But I should be happy for him. He deserves happiness.”

“Screw that.” Danny set his fork down and leaned forward. “Wallow.”

She smiled at her friend. “I tell myself life goes on. It should go on. That I need to let go.”

“Let go,” he said softly. “You deserve happiness, too.”

“With a younger man.”

Her tone was teasing. The expression in his eyes was anything but. “You know how I feel. Give us a chance.” He caught her hands. “Let the past go. Allow yourself to have a future.”

A lump formed in her throat. Her eyes burned. He was right, dammit. What was stopping her? Sadie was gone, five years now; Joe was moving on.

“I care about you, Kitt. I know who you are. I like you. Strong. Vulnerable. Stubborn and forgiving. We’ve lived through the same struggles. We understand each other. We would be good together.”

“You’re too young for me.”

He tightened his fingers. “Biological years mean nothing. I’m an old soul.”

She hesitated; he pressed his point. “If our ages were reversed, you’d think nothing of it.”

That was true. An age-old double standard.

Maybe she should let go. Live a little.

“I don’t want to lose your friendship,” she said. “It’s too important to me.”

“You won’t. I promise. Will you at least think about it?”

“Let me get this case behind me,” she said, meaning it, “and I will.”

Later, as she stood at the bathroom vanity in her panties and a T-shirt, she thought about that promise. Dating Danny. Dating leading to sex. Wasn’t that the natural progression of things?

The thought flustered her. She’d never been with anyone but Joe. They’d been high school sweethearts. Married at twenty. Divorced at forty-five.

This was the first time since the divorce she’d even thought about it. She’d had neither the time nor the energy; hell, for the past year, she’d been in a fight to save her own life.

She had written in her journal faithfully since her therapist urged her to give it a try. It had taken a number of resentful, self-conscious attempts, but the entries had become a vehicle to pour out her anger, fear and grief. And eventually, hope.

Would a future entry read: Went to dinner with Danny. Afterward, I invited him inside to spend the night.

Good God.

She worked to shake off how the thought made her feel. No doubt Joe and his fiancée were … intimate.

Was Valerie younger than Joe? Probably. Ten years? It didn’t seem Joe’s style, but lots of guys did it. Why not?

Why not? A couple of the divorcées from group were always joking about getting a “boy toy.” She supposed that Danny, at thirty-six, would qualify.

Kitt gazed into the mirror, imagining taking off her clothes in front of him.

The thought horrified her. She’d had a baby, for Pete’s sake. Not only had she cleared her fortieth birthday—she was facing her fiftieth. She lifted her tee and stared at her aging body. She wasn’t overweight, but she was out of shape. Falling in all the wrong places. Going soft where she was supposed to be firm. Dear God, what had happened to her knees? When had it happened?

Kitt dropped the tee and turned away from the mirror. When was the last time she’d worked out? She couldn’t remember exactly. Before Sadie died, for sure. Ditto for going for a run.

Pitiful. She was a police officer. How would she run down a suspect? Fend off an attacker?

“Call me Peanut.”

She narrowed her eyes. This son of a bitch meant business. He claimed to be a killer. And he had singled her out for fun and games, psychotic style.

She marched to her closet, dug out her running shoes, then crossed to the dresser for socks and jogging pants.

The time for being soft and vulnerable was yesterday. She meant business, too.

After dressing, Kitt clipped a can of mace to her waistband and strapped on an ankle holster. She wasn’t about to take any chances, not with a maniac stalking her.

There was a lighted track at the high school, three blocks away. The route there was fairly well lit and rarely deserted. She collected her keys and headed out.

The run exhausted her. Toward the end, she felt as if her heart was going to burst from her chest. She never hit that place where the endorphins kicked in and you forgot the pain. Her legs and lower back ached, she was out of breath and sweating like a pig.

She could imagine Mary Catherine Riggio’s expression if she saw her now. Or any of the guys. She’d be the watercooler joke-of-the-day.

So unbelievably uncool.

Kitt made her way home, grateful for the dark. For the opportunity to lick her wounded ego in private. Tomorrow, she would hit the gym. The shooting range wasn’t a bad idea, either.

As she neared her house, she saw that something had been tacked to her front door. A note, she saw.

She climbed the stairs, crossed to the door. The note read:

Saw you on TV. Good girl. I’ll be in touch. Love, Peanut.