“You know how territorial local cops can be,” he said.

“The Army is even worse, especially when it comes to a homicide.”

“Even if one of their own is innocent and wrongly accused? Even if he's about to be executed? I thought they didn't leave their own out there to die.”

“If they believed that, Alex, the case would have never gone to trial. If I can help, I will. Let me know. I don't make offers that I don't keep.”

“I appreciate it,”I said.

After I got off the phone, I brought little Alex downstairs for some more milk. I was becoming faintly aware of just how much work was involved every day, every hour of every day, at the house. I hadn't even done any cleaning or straightening up yet.

I decided to check on Nana again.

Gently I opened the door. I couldn't hear anything.

I moved closer to the bed.

Finally, I could hear the sound of her breathing. I stood stock-still in her bedroom and, for the first time that I could remember, I worried about Nana.

She was never sick.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Twenty-Three

Nana finally got up around noon. She shuffled into the kitchen holding a thick new book, The Bondswoman's Narrative. I had a hot lunch ready for her and the baby.

She didn't want to talk about how she was feeling and didn't eat much, just a few spoonfuls of vegetable soup. I tried to get her over to Dr. Rodman's, but she wasn't having any of it. She did let me cook the meals for the rest of the day, and take care of the kids, and clean the house from top to bottom per her explicit instructions.

The next morning I was up before Nana for the second day in a row. It was unheard of in all our years together.

While I waited for her to come to the kitchen, I took in the familiar sights. Paid attention, that is.

The room is dominated by her old Caloric gas stove. It has four burners and a large space she uses to hold goods cooked earlier or cooling. There are two ovens side by side. A large black skillet sits on top of the stove at all times. The refrigerator is also an older model that Nana refuses to give up for a newer one. It's always covered with notes and schedules about our life together: Damon's choir and basketball schedules; Jannie's 'whatever' schedule; emergency phone numbers for Sampson and me; an appointment card for little Alex's next pediatrician checkup; a Post-it on which she has written her latest sage advice: You will never stumble while on your knees.

“What are you up to, Alex?” I heard the familiar scuff of her slippers. I turned and saw her standing there, hands on hips, ready for battle, or whatever.

“I don't know. The ghost of breakfast past? How are you feeling, old woman?” I said. “Talk to me. You okay?”