PROLOGUE
This is going to end badly.
It’s chaos in here. They’re not listening to me. I’ve told them that we need to stop operating, but they’re talking over me, drowning me out. I know what I’m doing. I’m an integral part of this team. Hell, I’m the smartest person in the room.
Her vitals are a mess. Her breathing is shallow and labored. Her color is all off.
“She’s been under too long. We need to close her up.”
“Almost there. Just hang in. Just a minute longer.”
The beeping ramps up.
The ego in this room has pushed out the common sense. “We’re going to lose her.”
“This is my operating room!”
“She’s coding!”
PART ONE
Date: October 2, 2019
From: [email protected]
H,
I know you told me not to reach out to you this way, but you aren’t leaving me any other choice since you haven’t returned any of my phone calls. We really need to talk.
I know you got the same message I did last night. This isn’t going away. Your pride is blinding you from doing the right thing here. Coming clean is the best path ahead for everyone involved.
I want to be able to look in the mirror every day and know that I fixed the mistakes I made. I don’t want to ruin any more lives. Please contact me.
Charlotte
ONE
WOLCOTT
I hear the cracking sound and look up just in time to see the splintered wood flying toward us. I drag the shrieking woman hanging on my arm out of the way as the massive branch thuds onto the pavement.
“Lionel!” she screams.
When I look up again, my partner has managed to get his footing under him, narrowly avoiding the same fate as the chunk of tree. I put my arm around the frantic woman and take her hand with my free one. “It’s going to be okay,” I say in my most soothing late-night-radio deejay voice. “My partner has it under control, ma’am.”
“But Lionel isn’t supposed to be out of the house,” she protests. “He’s scared. And confused!”
“The big guy’s going to be just fine, ma’am,” yells Silvestri. “Detective Wolcott, can you get over near the trunk here? I’m going to lower him down to you.”
“Oh, please be careful!” she insists.
“Ma’am,” yells Silvestri, “your cat is in wonderful hands, I assure you. My partner here is as steady as they come.”
I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly before I slip her grip and move toward the tree. As I do, I notice two teenage boys standing across the street, pointing their phones at us. It occurs to me that a couple of kids that age probably could have had Lionel down from the tree in about half the time it’s taken us.
Silvestri cradles the cat with one arm as he lowers himself onto his stomach. He balances himself along the length of the branch and lowers Lionel down to me. The cat appears to be paralyzed with fear, limbs jutting out like a panicked crossing guard. I take him gently around the rib cage and lower him slowly into the crook of my elbow.
His owner nearly bowls me over as she retrieves him. “Oh, Detectives! Thank you so much. I’m so glad you were passing by. You saved Lionel’s life!” She turns her attention to the cat, lavishing kisses on him as she chastens his behavior. “You’re such a bad boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Silvestri drops down from the tree and joins the lovefest, scratching Lionel behind the ears as the cat nuzzles him.
“Thank you so much, Detective!” The woman eyes my partner. “You’re so brave.” She begins whispering into the cat’s ear, all the while keeping her gaze locked on Silvestri. “Say thank you to the handsome detective, Lionel. Yes, that’s right. Say thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, ma’am.” He nods to the woman, then the cat. “Lionel. Now, you two get back inside and enjoy your day.”
* * *
“You really came through on that one, Silvestri.” I’m pulling the unmarked back onto the street as Lionel’s owner waves at us from the front porch of her house.
“Long Island’s finest, at it again,” he deadpans. He tugs his sleeves up to inspect his forearms, and I notice a smattering of tiny puncture wounds.
“Shit, man. You okay?”
“All good,” he answers, waving back to the woman on the porch. “Glad I had on the thermal, though. That situation had the makings of a fucking acupuncture session gone wrong.”
“Odd day today,” I say.
“Dead-slow week is more like it.”
“Well, you did good. And where’d you learn to climb a tree, city slicker?”
He chuckles. “It might surprise you to know that I wasn’t always the model citizen you see before you today.”
“That right?” I ask.
“I had some behavioral issues as a youth.” He flashes air quotes around the diagnosis. “My folks sent me off to one of those Outward Bound camps for the summer. You think the tree climbing’s impressive? You should see me tie a square knot. That’ll really get you hot and bothered.”
“A real outdoorsman,” I say.
“Why do you think I’m so comfortable out here in the boondocks with you?” he asks.
“And a regular Cesar Millan with the animals these days,” I add.
“The love of pets will do that to a man,” he says.
“How are Molly and Duff?”
“Big, happy, and slobbering, the both of them,” he responds, and turns to me. “Kinda like someone else I know.”
“Enough with the ass-kissing, Silvestri. It’s been a roller coaster of a morning. Let’s hit Gus’s for some sandwiches, eh?”
“Sounds good to me,” he answers. “I’ve been dreaming about that Reuben, with the fresh—” He’s interrupted by the sound of his cell vibrating inside the cup holder. He fishes it out and answers. “Detective Silvestri . . . Mmm-hmm . . . Yeah, we can be right over . . . You got it . . . Yeah, thank you.” He hangs up and turns to me. “Wolcott, we’re gonna have to put off lunch for a bit. Sorry, pal.”