“I’m almost afraid to say this, but there’ve been no new bodies found since we’ve been pressuring Morgan,” Kelley said. “We’ve been keeping tabs on him too.”
“And we have no way of knowing how long that spray’s been on either of your cars,” Symansky added.
“But the butts were fresh,” Foster said. She stood, checked her watch. It was almost 7:00 a.m. “Let’s talk to Davies again. Maybe she’ll be a little more forthcoming if she knows we have her brother on ice.”
Li stood to grab her things, but before she could, Griffin stuck her head out of her office. “Foster. Li. Silva’s been attacked.”
“Dead?” Li asked.
“Almost. Somebody got her outside Westhaven last night. She’s been transferred to Rush.”
“Our MO?” Foster asked.
“No, but there was a red wig in the car.” She snapped her fingers at the team. “Lonergan. Bigelow. You two. At the scene. Symansky, Kelley, you’re on Westhaven.”
“Boss,” Foster said, “what time was Silva attacked?”
“The call came in a little before twelve a.m. I’m still looking into why it took so long for us to get tagged on it. Somebody somewhere didn’t pull it together. Jesus, the blockheads I have to deal with.” She slammed her office door behind her.
Foster and Li exchanged a look. “Morgan wasn’t brought in until after one a.m.,” Foster said. “He could have had time to attack Silva and get back home before Lonergan and Kelley showed up at his door.”
“But we’re watching him,” Li said.
“That squad car’s not in front of his place twenty-four seven. He’s always been free to come and go.” Foster pulled her bag out of her desk drawer. “He has motive, and he had opportunity.” She slammed the drawer shut. “And I hate stalkers.”
Li grabbed her coat. “Sometimes I hate this job.”
CHAPTER 67
Sun streamed in through Amelia’s bedroom window, warming her face, bringing calm after a restless night. She’d been worried over her messy kill. She expected more of herself. She had a lot to live up to. Her father was a master. Precise and artful, calm and selective, and ever since she’d discovered who he truly was, she had wanted to be just like him. She wasn’t afraid of him like Bodie was. On the contrary, she loved him, craving his approval. Last night hadn’t been artful. Still, the morning light put it all in perspective. She couldn’t dwell on past mistakes; all she could do was learn from them and move on. Silva was no longer a threat. That was a win. She’d made it so she’d never speak to anyone ever again. Bodie would be safe because Bodie was innocent. Her family could be whole again.
She flicked on the news, anxious for the morning report. Would her father be proud despite her hasty retreat? As she pulled clothes out of her dresser, she turned to read the news crawl at the bottom of the TV screen. TOP NEWS. DOCTOR ATTACKED. IN CRITICAL CONDITION. She read it. It registered. The room began to spin and her thoughts with it. Critical condition. Not dead.
Easing slowly down on the side of the bed, Amelia stared at the set, listened while the perky anchor read the details of an attempted robbery gone bad, of a prominent doctor stabbed and left for dead, rescued by a motorist who’d happened upon the scene and called the police. No mention of the wig. Stunned. That was what she was. Just like that she was somewhere else, someone else. She’d failed. Silva was alive.
Amelia stood to pace the room, her hands clawing through her hair. Take the initiative; that was what her father would say. Make the move. What move? There was no move. Had he seen the news already? Of course he had, and he would know that she’d failed.
“I can fix this. I just need to think.” She could feel it slipping, the normal. She’d held it in her entire life behind smiles and an easy spirit when really something else was going on underneath. Now the normal was tearing at the seams, and she could feel a shift. Like an earthquake rumbling under her feet, growing in intensity. “There’s always a solution.” She slapped her forehead violently to reboot her brain. “Find it. Find it.”
She dressed quickly and drove to her studio. She needed her canvas. She needed to touch it, smell it, see it. There were no failures here. As though the images in front of her had a hypnotic effect, she could feel herself calm the moment she saw them. Running her hands over the canvas, she closed her eyes and listened to the paint tell her story through the tips of her fingers. This painting was her, everything she was or ever would be. Life and death and transformation, and only she knew the secrets it held.
Her paint stood ready. She picked up a brush and already could feel herself come back from a dangerous place. As if approaching a lover, she stepped forward and made her first brushstroke, then a second, then a third. She painted Silva, that look of terror on her face when she’d known she was going to die. And she painted tire spikes, scattered around like they’d been on the road. Stepping back to admire her work, she glanced over at the small pink backpack in the upper left-hand corner. Everywhere on the canvas were little red rings unnoticeable to anyone who looked, but not to her.
Birds fly. People die. She recalled the childhood chant she’d made up to cope with the quiet house after it had become clear what her father was, what she was by blood. People died all the time. Why hadn’t Silva?
Lifting the brush, she painted Silva again, this time in black. Black like the night. Black like oblivion. Black like dead. Leaving the wig had been an error. She could see that now, but the fix was in her talented hands. She glanced down at them, steady now, smeared with paint. Capable hands. Genius hands.
“Red hair. Blue eyes.”
Amelia searched her canvas for those things and found them many times over. The phone rang. She let it. She couldn’t be disturbed now. Brush up.
“Birds fly, people die.”
Simple words. True words.
CHAPTER 68
Silva was in ICU hooked up to machines, barely there, after a touch-and-go surgery that might not stick. Foster and Li talked to Silva’s doctor, the attending on duty, who must have been up all night, like they had, but she exhibited no signs of fatigue. In her immaculately white lab coat, she ran through the damage that had been caused by the ferocious attack and how close Silva was to dying even now. Foster glanced down at the woman’s ID. Dr. Kiara Varadkar.
“Her age,” Dr. Varadkar began, “along with the severe injuries, combine to create a toxic brew, really. She’s stable now, but not stable enough that I’m comfortable talking about outcomes. She’s very lucky to have survived to this point. All we can do is monitor her and hope the internal bleeding does not restart. I’m simplifying things.”
Foster glanced toward Silva’s ICU bay, the curtains drawn. “Was she conscious when she was brought in? Did she say anything?”
“She was unconscious when she came into the ER. She was in and out on her way to surgery. She’s mostly out now, incomprehensible when she’s briefly in.”
“We need to talk to her,” Li said.
Varadkar shook her head. “Out of the question. I cannot allow that. She’s dancing on the head of a pin as it is . . . the stress alone could . . .”