My cheek burned. My head throbbed. But I was satisfied.

I was awake, I was lucid. And finally, I was alone.

Time to plan.

My fingers fisted against the sheets. I studied the ceiling tiles with my one good eye, and used my pain to steel my resolve.

A woman remembers the first time she is hit. But with any luck, she also remembers the first time she fights back and wins.

I am the Giant Killer.

Just gotta think. Just gotta plan. Just gotta get one step ahead.

I could do this. I would do this.

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.

Then, I rolled onto my side, curled up in a ball, and wept.

Chapter 9

9

When D.D. wasn’t overseeing an interagency taskforce charged with solving a murder and rescuing a child, she led a three-man squad in Boston’s homicide unit. Her first squadmate, Phil, was the quintessential family man, married to his high school sweetheart and raising four kids. Her other squadmate, Neil, was a lanky redhead who’d formerly served as an EMT before joining the BPD. He had a tendency to handle the autopsies for the team, spending so much time at the morgue that he was now dating the ME, Ben Whitley.

D.D. had a whole taskforce at her disposal; she still preferred to go with what she knew. She put Neil in charge of Brian Darby’s autopsy, currently scheduled for Monday afternoon. In the meantime, Neil could start pestering the medical staff overseeing Tessa Leoni’s care to determine the extent of her current injuries as well as any medical history of past “accidents.” She assigned Phil, their data cruncher, to run the computer background checks on Brian Darby and Tessa Leoni. And, of course, get her the information on Brian Darby’s employer, immediately.

Turned out, Brian worked for Alaska South Slope Crude, otherwise known as ASSC. Head offices were in Seattle, Washington, and not open on Sunday. This did not suit D.D. She chewed the inside of her cheek while sitting in the command van, nursing a bottle of water. The initial crush of officers had subsided. Most of the neighbors had drifted off, leaving the usual assortment of “didn’t see nothing, don’t know anything” mutterings in their wake. Now only the media remained, still ensconced across the street, still clamoring for a press conference.

D.D. was probably going to have to do something about that, but she wasn’t ready yet. She wanted something to happen first. Maybe a breaking lead she could dangle in front of the hungry hordes. Or a new piece of information that would enable the media to work on her behalf. Something. Anything.