PATTI COMES off my car, crosses her arms, looks me up and down, sees my belt, sees the bulge in my ankle. “Looks like you got plans,” she says.
“What’s it to you?”
“Me? Oh, nothing. You’re just my brother.”
“Heading home,” I say.
“Great. Let’s grab a beer first. My treat.”
“Not in the mood,” I say.
“I’ll cook you dinner, then.”
“Patti, don’t mess with me.”
Her chin dips, eyebrows rise. “Then don’t mess with me and pretend like you’re going home when you’re armed like you’re about to invade bin Laden’s compound.”
I don’t answer. But I don’t try to pass, either, to get to my car. Whatever it is, I need to resolve this. I can’t have her on my back all night.
“You want to bust a bunch of sex traffickers, fine,” she says. “Great. I’ll help you. The force will help you. Get Sosh and whatever crew you need, me included, and let’s take ’em down. But going in solo to take on who knows what’s waiting for you in some kind of pathetic attempt at revenge—”
“Pathetic? They killed Valerie, Patti. I’m supposed to let that go?”
She looks at me, really looks at me, searches my eyes. “You don’t know that for a fact, do you? At most, they took credit for her death. I would, too, if I were them. You have questions, fine, let’s arrest them and interrogate them. But this suicide mission—”
“I don’t have time for this.” I angle past her, but she shoves me hard, knocking me off balance, and places herself between me and my car door.
“They didn’t kill Val,” she says.
“She didn’t kill herself. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe that.”
Her eyes narrow. Her head angles to the side. “You really don’t remember, do you? You don’t remember what happened.”
“I…”
A fog. That’s all it is now, a fog. A fog that only separates in my dreams, where it comes back with vivid, crashing clarity. But they aren’t true. My dreams aren’t true. They’re just dreams.
Patti answers for me, repeats herself. “You don’t remember what happened.”
“Okay, so maybe it was a tiny bit traumatic, okay? Is that okay? And maybe that fucking bullet I took to the brain last year didn’t help—”
“Of course it’s okay,” she says, tears in her eyes. “Of course it’s okay. But Billy, do you remember the aftermath? Do you remember ever asking yourself questions?”
“Do I—did I ask myself questions? You mean questions like, why would my wife eat a bullet? Gee, sister, I only asked myself that question about a hundred thousand fucking times. And I got the same answer every time. She killed herself because she was overcome with grief and because I made her feel like shit for not being at the hospital every second of every day. She ran herself ragged trying to be there for our daughter and be there for her clients, and I gave her the guilt trip of all guilt trips. Were there other questions I was supposed to ask?”
“Billy—”
“Oh, here’s one. Maybe I was supposed to ask if someone had a motive to kill her. Maybe I should’ve looked through her case files and realized that she was about to expose a major sex-trafficking ring. Maybe if I’d been a little bit more of a detective and less of a grieving puddle of guilt and self-pity, I would’ve figured this out four years ago, and I wouldn’t be playing catch-up now.” I throw up my hands. “Were there other questions you had in mind?”
Patti closes her eyes, brings her hands together, as if in prayer, against her mouth.
“You came here to say something, Patti. Say it.”
She angles her hands toward me, as if sending her prayer my way.
“What question didn’t I ask?” I say.
She opens her eyes. Clears her throat.
She says, “How’d your Glock get out of the gun safe?”