“And I have an alibi,” Greg continued. “Thursday night, the Harringtons, right? I was working, watching Evan Oliver, the boy who was brought in this afternoon.”

“Wait a minute.” Alex leaned forward. “The boy who was admitted today. That’s the one who stabbed his mother, right?”

“Evan Oliver, yes. I work for his mom once a week.”

“You met the family outside the unit?”

Greg nodded.

“What about Lightfoot? Did he work with the boy, too?”

“I might have referred him. He might have paid me fifty bucks.”

Alex leaned back. Looked at D.D. Looked at Greg. “Experienced with firearms, Greg?”

“Hardly.”

“What about Tasers?”

“What? Come on, look at me: I don’t have to resort to toys.”

“Not even a pillow, maybe to suffocate a baby?”

“What?” Greg appeared horrified.

D.D. turned back to Alex. “You think?” she asked.

“I’d like to ask Healer Boy a few questions,” Alex agreed. “Including why he lied about not knowing the Laraquette-Solis family, when he decided to start billing for his ‘gift,’ and what kind of alibi might he have for Thursday or Friday night.”

“Then it’s a good thing we know where he’s at.” D.D. pushed back her chair. Alex followed suit. “You two,” she addressed Danielle and Greg, “stay put. If you’re lucky, when I return I’ll decide not to arrest you. But I make no promises.”

She smiled at them wolfishly. Then she and Alex were on the hunt again.

Part 5 - Monday

Chapter Thirty-Five

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

VICTORIA

A rumbling sound from the hallway wakes me up. My eyes pop open. I feel a moment of intense, overwhelming nausea, and roll onto my right side to vomit.

Then the queasiness passes, and I’m left disoriented and shaken. Slowly, I return to my back. I stare at the blank ceiling of my hospital room and give myself a moment to adjust.

Playing with my son. Speaking with my ex-husband. And then … this.

Should I cry? I want to. I think if your child stabs you, crying is probably a logical thing to do. But I can’t summon any tears. I feel stark, hollowed out. For years I’ve fought a war. Then, in thirty seconds, I lost it.

Now there’s no going back. This is the new reality. My son is a violent offender and I’m his first victim.

At least it wasn’t Chelsea, I think, and then I do cry, low, muffled sobs of relief, because Michael wasn’t the only one who’d spent years terrified that one day he’d have to harm his son to save his daughter. At least it didn’t come to that. At least not that.

Then I picture Evan again, his bright blue eyes and infectious giggle as we raced around the backyard, and I cry harder.