Chapter Twenty-Three

I found my parents at the hospital. Mom dozed in a private room. Dad sat beside the bed, his hand on hers. When I paused in the doorway, my nose twitching at the smell of disinfectant, he rose and waved me toward the chair. I took his place as he rounded the bed to stand on Mom’s other side, touching her shoulder. For a minute, we were silent. Voices murmured in the hallway and someone’s shoes squeaked as they passed, but the machine by Mom’s bed made only a faint hum, its lights steady.

“She’s going to be fine,” Dad said softly.

The nurse I’d asked for directions had told me the same. Though maybe “fine” was pushing it. At least she’d return to her new normal, needing nursing care as her mind faded. At the moment, that seemed better than the alternative we’d dodged.

I looked at Dad. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Not your fault.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he put a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the door. I followed him down the hall to an alcove with comfortable chairs. We slumped into the chairs with identical groans of exhaustion.

Dad said, “I got some of the story from the lady medic, but why don’t you tell me the whole thing?”

I started with Padilla’s visit to the house. When I’d finished explaining everything, I said, “If I hadn’t pushed Hicks, let him know he was under suspicion—”

“You know better. Don’t blame yourself for his actions.”

I wanted to protest, but I bit back the words. It was a lesson I’d had to learn as a reporter. In theory, you should always speak the truth. But innocent people could be hurt by the truth. In a war zone, reporting the military’s action, or not passing along an informant’s lead, could mean death and destruction. That made it hard to stay neutral. I’d learned to do the best I could with the information I had, ask for a second opinion when necessary, and stop beating myself up over the results.

Practice hadn’t made it easier, though. And my mother had never been caught in the middle of a story before. Logic worked better when you only had to apply it to strangers, or to the military personnel and other reporters who accepted the danger.

“If your mother had known the price, she still would have paid it.”

I tipped my head back to rest on the arch of the chair back, but the glare of the overhead lights stung my eyes. I blinked and rubbed them. “We got off easy. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Even so.”

She’d suffer no long-term effects. Meanwhile, we had enough evidence to put Hicks away, which might save future lives, including those of Lisa and Ryan Delacruz. Mom might not understand all the repercussions, but the woman she’d once been would have been proud to play a part in all this.

“I would rather have paid the price myself,” I said.

“You still could. Hicks might try to take revenge on you next.”

“Maybe, but the police are hunting him now. If he thinks he got away with everything, he’ll have no reason to hide.”

How far away had he been when the ambulance pulled up with its sirens screaming? Close enough to realize his actions had been observed? If he suspected he’d been caught, surely he’d flee town, or at least lie low and try to bluff his way out of this, as he had previously. He hadn’t tried to poison Mom simply for revenge. He’d wanted to throw blame on me. It would be stupid to risk getting caught in order to punish me.

On the other hand, Hicks hadn’t proven himself to be one of the great minds of our times.

“I’ll be careful. You too.”

“I’ll spend the night here.” He peered down the hall toward Mom’s room. “Your mother saw him, and I won’t take the chance that he decides to get rid of a witness. That couch thing folds out into a bed, so I’ll be comfortable enough. You go home. You look exhausted.”

My heart wanted to stay with Mom, but my body complained that I’d never sleep without the good painkillers. My brain weighed in, noting that someone had to feed the cat. Anyway, if I stayed, Dad would insist I take the foldout bed, which would leave him sitting up all night. “All right.”

I edged forward in the chair. The seat was too low, so I’d need strength to push myself up. Did I have any strength left?

“I guess we should call Jen and tell her everything,” I said.

“I did. She’s on her way.”

That got me out of my seat in a hurry. “Right. Call me if anything changes or if you need anything.”

His eyes twinkled up at me. “We’ll be fine. Get some rest.”

“You too.”

He stood and we embraced. I peeked in at Mom before fleeing the building. My sister would be furious that I’d put Mom in danger, that I hadn’t told Jen everything sooner, that I’d failed in my duties as a daughter. I wasn’t up for that argument, even if I deserved it.

By the time I got near the house, I was so shaky I probably shouldn’t have been driving. I stopped at the end of the street and scanned the area. I didn’t see a big white truck like the one Hicks had been driving, or anything else suspicious. I pulled up to the house and studied it. Everything looked normal. Well, not the cardboard taped over the front window, but its abnormality made sense.

I fished my phone out of my bag and held it in my hand, ready to make an emergency call. I got out and slowly approached the house, eyeing the bushes on either side of the front door. The evening sun cast long shadows and a breeze sent the leaves whispering.

I pushed aside my paranoia and unlocked the door. I glanced all around as I slipped inside. I tried to ease the door shut softly, but it was a little warped, so it wouldn’t close all the way unless I slammed it. I threw my shoulder against it, wincing at the bang, and locked it behind me.

I flipped on the living room lights. The closed drapes looked ominous, since I knew they covered the gunshot holes in the window. Great, I had a locked door and holes in the house covered only by a thin sheet of cardboard. Not that the holes made the window that much less secure, since it wouldn’t take much to smash the glass, but I felt more vulnerable with the reminder of last night’s fright. Too bad I hadn’t been telling Jen everything as it happened. She’d have that glass replaced already.

The list of “too bad I hadn’t . . .” went on and on. I should have called the police sooner. Been quicker, stronger, more alert. Known what would happen.

Idiot. By this logic, I should go back in time and avoid getting hurt. While I was revising reality, I could stop Alzheimer’s. Bring world peace. Get rid of jerks who cut in line or man spread on buses. Fix all the problems I’d spent my life reporting.

And then I’d revised myself right out of a job.

Despite my exhaustion, I walked through the first floor to check for intruders. What would I do if I found one? Who knows, but at least I wouldn’t worry about monsters in the closets.

I paused at the base of the stairs. Once I got to the second floor, I wouldn’t want to come down again. I hadn’t heard a sound, and Hicks didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would patiently wait in an upstairs bedroom if he wanted to attack.

Something moved at the top of the stairs. I flinched, jerking my hand upward. My phone flew into the air, bounced off my forehead, and hit the steps.

Harlequin bounded down with a meow of greeting. More evidence that no one else was here, I hoped. I took a few deep breaths to ease my nerves.

The phone rang and I almost jumped out of my skin.

“You want to get that?” I asked Harlequin.

He sat right next to the phone, stared at me, and licked a paw.

“Fine.” I picked up the phone and answered. Mackenzie and Simon wanted to know what had been happening. I flopped on the couch and updated them as Harlequin purred next to me, and my heart rate slowly came down.

“What do we do next?” Mackenzie asked.

“Nothing. You are officially off duty.”

She paused for a long time before finally saying okay. “If you ever need help again . . .”

“Thanks.” I still owed her some mentoring. I’d find a nice, safe task for that. Later. At the moment, it took all my energy to say good night.

I stuck the phone in my pocket, fed Harlequin, and heated up some leftover lasagna for my dinner. Once my belly was full, I dragged myself up the stairs. My bed whispered seductively despite the early hour. After checking the upstairs for intruders and finding none, I took a hot shower and put on comfy shorts and a T-shirt. I sat in bed with pillows propped behind my back. I’d sleep better if I stretched and massaged my leg first, so that was what I’d do. In a minute. Or ten.

A sound came from downstairs. The front door opening?

I froze, straining to hear. The sound must have come from outside.

It was the cat. Or the water heater.

It was my imagination.

Bang! The front door closed, an unmistakable sound.

It had to be Dad. Hicks wouldn’t slam the door.

But why would Dad have changed his mind about spending the night with Mom at the hospital?

I grabbed my phone from the bedside stand and eased off the bed. My mind whirled as my heart pounded. Investigate? Close and barricade my bedroom door until the person identified themselves? Call Padilla, or 911? I hovered in the doorway, peering down the hall toward the stairs. Hicks might search the downstairs first. Dad would call out to me, wouldn’t he? Maybe not if he thought I might be sleeping. But he would have seen the upstairs light on.

So would Hicks.

The stairs creaked. With one hand, I dialed 9-1, while the other hand grabbed the door to slam it closed. I hesitated with my thumb over the last number. Part of me still couldn’t believe Hicks would really come here.

My heart pounded. A shadow moved at the top of the stairs.

Jen rounded the corner. We stared at each other.

I was still tempted to slam the door, but 911 would not appreciate a call. I canceled it and staggered back to bed.

Jen stopped in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

I scooted over a bit and patted the edge of my bed. She perched on it looking . . . nervous? Sad?

“I’ve been to see Mom.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was happening earlier.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I sighed. “I had reasons that seemed to make sense at the time.”

“It’s hard to believe all this.”

I tensed, but she seemed to be making a statement, not accusing me of lying. “Did Dad tell you everything?”

One corner of her mouth twisted up. “Everything? Who knows? He told me a lot.”

“Do you have questions?”

“Did someone actually shoot at you?”

“The official theory is that he shot high up to scare us.”

She shuddered. “Still, I can’t even imagine. It must have been terrifying.”

I shrugged. “It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with gunfire.”

Jen’s eyes were huge. “Don’t you get nightmares?”

“Back at the beginning, sure. Not so much anymore. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’ve developed coping mechanisms. To some extent, you get used to the adrenaline and even crave it. That’s pretty common among war correspondents.”

I grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “In fact, I should be thanking Hicks for easing my transition into civilian life. I don’t know how I’d adapt if I didn’t have that occasional jolt of fear.”

Jen’s jaw worked, but no words came out. She shook her head.

I finally asked, “Didn’t you come here to yell at me?”

“Actually, I came here to thank you.”

I gaped at her.

She laughed. “You should see your face.”

I had to laugh too. It felt good.

When I could breathe again, I said, “I’m not fishing for compliments, but why do you want to thank me? I thought you’d be mad.”

“I’m not happy. Still, you were protecting Mom. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

Of course. Now that I felt terrible about everything I’d done, Jen was ready to forgive and move on. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Jen looked toward the bag she’d set on the floor. “I brought a bottle of wine. I thought maybe we could share it.”

“I can’t. I developed an allergy to beer and wine after getting sick in Tibet.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Really?”

“It’s whiskey or nothing.” I snuggled back against my pillow. “You go ahead. I’m on painkillers anyway.”

Jen opened the bottle and poured herself a glass. I inhaled the rich, fruity scent and pretended that was as satisfying as drinking a glass.

The silence turned a little awkward. Jen frowned over the collection on my bedside stand and picked up the prayer rope. It looked something like a rosary with its knotted loop ending in a cross.

“Why do you have this?”

“It was a gift.”

She tipped her head slightly to one side.

“A woman in a refugee camp gave it to me after I interviewed her for a story. She wanted to thank me for the work I was doing, for letting the world know. They’d felt so ignored. Her family had owned a shop in Syria. Militants threatened to kill them if they didn’t convert. Then the bombs hit. They fled. They were living in a tent with their four kids, barely enough to eat, their nice middle-class life literally up in smoke. She said I was one of the few people who seemed to care. To listen.” I gazed at the prayer rope. “I didn’t want to take it.”

Jen’s eyebrows went up. I decided she was interested, not critical or shocked.

“They had so little. If she carried this all that way, it had to be important to her. How could I take one of the few treasures she had left?”

“But you had to.”

I nodded. “It would have been insulting to refuse. So I keep it to remember. I gave a camp coordinator extra food for the family. I didn’t want to embarrass them by delivering it myself, but I watched to make sure it got to them.”

Jen ran the prayer rope through her fingers, coiled it, and gently set it back on the leather bag. She studied the other items, touching a few delicately, before turning back to me. “You don’t have anything from here. Didn’t you want something to remember us by?”

“I had photos on my computer.” But not back in the beginning, in the days before laptops. I’d walked away, run really, with hardly a thought of what lay behind. But I hadn’t been fleeing home. I’d simply been looking for something else, something more. I looked around my old room, so familiar that I could take it for granted, and more comfortable than I’d wanted to admit. I considered the white jade phoenix pendant. Maybe home wasn’t a prison built by my injury, a trap to escape as soon as possible. Maybe this was my phoenix’s nest, where I could be reborn.

“You know what? I didn’t have to bring anything with me. Because I knew it would still be right here.” I met Jen’s gaze. “You’d still be here. I could wander, because I could always go home again.”

She smiled, the first full smile I’d seen since I got home. Her gaze dropped to my legs—the fresh scar, still puckered and purple, several older scars from more minor injuries, and a scattering of bruises from my various recent falls. Her eyes widened. “You look like you’ve been in a war.”

“Well, I have.”

Her face twisted as if trying to make sense of something she was seeing for the first time. “I guess so.” She peered at the newest scar. “Does it hurt?”

Since she was being nice, I resisted the urge to say, “No, I limp and use the cane for fun.” Instead, I said, “It’s getting better. The muscles tend to knot up, but massage helps, and this cream relieves pain.”

She picked up the tube of cream and studied it. “Right, Gary got some of this after he hurt his back.” She gestured toward my leg. “May I?”

I’ll give myself credit for not hesitating too long before I nodded. Jen’s hands were gentle and competent, and after a minute, I leaned back with a moan.

Jen smiled. “I don’t know how many times I’ve done this kind of thing after one of the kids had a sports injury.”

“You have magic hands.”

Her smile grew. She worked on me for ten or fifteen minutes. She avoided massaging the area right over the scar, but at the end, she laid her hand gently on it. The warmth seeped into the muscle.

She sat back with a sigh and met my gaze. “I was so jealous of you. You had this exciting life, independence, freedom, doing whatever you wanted. But it wasn’t that simple, was it?”

“It has been exciting. But I guess excitement isn’t always pleasant. Anyway, I always thought you had exactly what you wanted—husband, children, home, and community.”

“I know, but . . .” Her face crumpled.

“Jen! Is it really so bad?”

“No, of course not, but . . .”

“What? Tell me.”

“I got old!”

I smothered a laugh. “Yeah, me too. Turns out that’s what happens if you don’t die.”

She managed a weak chuckle. “I got everything I wanted, but . . .” She shrugged. “Maybe things don’t always live up to expectations? I don’t mean that I regret anything. I love Gary and the kids. But sometimes . . .” Her eyes swam with tears and her shoulders heaved as she tried to hold back sobbing.

“Oh, Jen.” I leaned forward to embrace her.

She let me hold her for half a minute before she pulled away and rose, keeping her back to me as she fished a tissue out of her bag and dabbed at her eyes. Like me, she saw her suffering as weakness, and she wasn’t willing to let people see her weakness. But we’d finally connected, and I wasn’t willing to let her pretend nothing was wrong.

“Jen, please tell me what’s the matter.”

She took another minute to compose herself before perching on the edge of the bed. “It’s nothing, really. Only sometimes . . . sometimes I don’t know how I got here. What to do with myself. The kids are growing up and don’t need me much anymore. That’s good. I know it is. In a few years, they’ll be in college, starting their own lives. I want them to be independent, but—”

“You want to be needed too.”

She nodded. “And Gary and I . . . the love is still there. It is. But it’s different. We’ve been parents together for so long. I can’t remember the last time we’ve been truly romantic.”

I wasn’t about to ask if she was referring to their sex life. “With the kids growing up, maybe you can find that romance again.” I topped off her wine and handed it to her.

She wrapped both hands around the glass and stared into the ruby liquid. “I’m not the woman he married. I’ve changed so much. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”

I was out of my depth, and I wasn’t much of a counselor, but as a reporter, I knew how to listen and ask relevant questions. “What do you mean?”

She brushed her hair back from her face. “My identity has been ‘mother’ for so long. What else is there?”

“You do a lot of other things. The PTA, um . . .”

“Everything is related to being a mother. School fundraisers, coaching sports, helping with band camp. Once the kids are done with all of that, what will I have?” She looked at me as if I might truly find the answer for her.

“I’m the last person who should be giving advice on marriage and family, but maybe it’s time for you to find yourself again. Take some classes. Try some new hobbies. I don’t know. Think about the things you used to do, or want to do, and see what appeals to you. Stop focusing on others so much and focus on you.”

“What if I don’t like what I find?” Her voice dropped. “What if Gary doesn’t?”

“You will, because you’re not just finding yourself, you’re becoming the person you want to be. I think Gary will like you too, and love you. I think a lot of people will like you. Even if Gary doesn’t, you’ll move on, and that will be okay. You’re strong enough to handle whatever happens.”

She pressed her lips together. I don’t think she was breathing. Finally, she nodded.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “I’m glad to have my sister back.”

“Me too.” And I meant it.