Blood Memory. Greg Iles

      “You heard me.”

      “But … how? I mean, you’re on the pill, right?”

      “Yes. I was. But I took those antibiotics for my bladder infection, and that interfered with my pills.”

      He nods for a few moments, then stops. “Didn’t you know that could happen?”

      Here it comes. The accusation. “I only took three Cipros. I didn’t think that would make a difference.”

      “But you’re a doctor. I mean—”

      My composure snaps like brittle glass, and suddenly I’m screaming. “I didn’t do it on purpose, okay? You gave me the goddamn infection! You’re the one who wanted to have nonstop sex for three days!”

      Clearly unprepared for this level of anger, Sean takes two steps backward. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose, Cat. It’s just … a lot to get my mind around. How long have you known?”

      “Three days, I think. Almost four now. I’m not sure anymore. My sense of time isn’t working too well. I’ve been off my meds for three days. I know that for sure.”

      “Off your Lexapro?”

      “And the Depakote. Depakote can cause spina bifida if you take it in the first twelve weeks.”

      “Okay, but shit, you have to get back on the Lex. You know what happens when you skip.”

      Yes, I go manic …

      “You stopped drinking when you found out you were pregnant,” Sean thinks aloud.

      I can’t think of anything to say.

      “But you’re drinking again now. Did you lose the baby?”

      “No. I couldn’t tell you I was pregnant without a drink. Isn’t that pathetic? I’ve been taking Valium, too.”

      His eyes narrow in anger. “What the hell for?”

      “To keep from getting the d.t.’s.”

      He tries to take the glass of vodka from my hand. When I resist, he grabs my wrist and jerks at the glass with his other hand. I let him take it, but then I get the bottle from the table. “Try to take this away and I’ll brain you with it.”

      He starts toward me, then stops. “Jesus, Cat. Think about the baby, will you?”

      My laughter rides an undercurrent of hysteria. “Is that what you’re thinking about? Or are you thinking about the wife and kids you already have? And whether you can still keep me a secret through all of this?”

      He rubs his forehead with both hands, drags his fingertips back through his hair. I see more gray when he does that. “Look, I just need some time to absorb this. To think about the implications.”

      “The implications,” I echo. “Let’s see … they’re pretty straightforward. A: I’m pregnant. B: I’m keeping the baby. C: a baby needs a father as well as a mother. D: this baby either has a father or it doesn’t.”

      “It sounds simple,” Sean agrees. “But it’s not. You know that. Look, my honest answer right now is that I’m not sure what to do.”

      “Yeah, I got that.”

      He gives me a pleading look. “Did you think I’d know in the first five minutes?”

      “I hoped you would.”

      He tries to come to me again, but I hold up my hands. “Just go, okay? Leave me alone.” The next words spill out almost of their own accord. “And leave your key here when you go.”

      “What? Cat—”

       “You heard me!”

      Sean stares at me in silence for nearly a minute. In his eyes I see a long history of hurt and confusion. He looks away, then pulls his key from his pocket and lays it on the glass table. “I’m going to check on you tomorrow. Even if you don’t want me to.”

      Then he goes downstairs.

      When I hear his car start in the garage, I feel my chest caving in. But I have the antidote for that. Taking the Grey Goose bottle from the bag, I go down to my bedroom and lie on the duvet. With my free hand, I rub a little circle on my tummy.

      “Just you and me now, kid,” I say in a desolate voice. “Just you and me.”

      I sip from the bottle, savoring the anesthetic bite as it spreads across my tongue. I hate myself for doing it, but I swallow anyway. Self-hatred is a familiar emotion to me, and familiarity brings comfort. As the chemical warmth diffuses through my veins, I hear the sound of rain again. The rain from my waking dreams. Not the soft hiss of drops falling on my shingles, but the hard percussive patter of rain hitting a tin roof.

      I hope oblivion comes soon.

      I awaken to the hiss of rain, but this time the sound is real. My bedroom window stands open, and Sean Regan is leaning in through it, his hair and shoulders soaking wet. A corona of gray light shows behind him. I look at my alarm clock: 11:50 A.M. Sixteen hours have disappeared down a hole.

      “You wouldn’t answer your phone,” Sean says.

      “I’m sorry about last night,” I reply, my throat dry and croaking. “That’s not how I wanted to handle it.”

      “That’s not why I’m here.”

      The bottle of Grey Goose spilled during the night, saturating my sheets. Self-loathing fills me like poison. “Why are you here?”

      “Our boy hit again this morning.”

      “No way.” I rub my eyes, not really believing it. “It’s only been two days. Are you sure?”

      “The victim was a fifty-six-year-old white male. Bite marks all over him. No forced entry, body found by the maid. We don’t have a ballistics match yet, but we do have this.”

      Sean holds up a piece of paper and extends it toward the bed. It’s a photograph. Even from this distance, I can see that it’s of a window. On the glass above the sill, written in blood, are the words MY WORK IS NEVER DONE.

      “Holy shit.”

      “We never released that to the media,” he says. “So I’d say the ballistics match is pretty much a formality. Same for the bite marks.”

      I roll over and try to rise, but my whole body feels sore. Maybe after three days sober, the vodka was a shock to my system. Still, there was enough left to soak my sheets, so I didn’t drink all of it. “Where was Nathan Malik last night?”

      “Home all night. Under surveillance.”

      “Are you sure he was in his house the whole time?”

      “We didn’t have anybody sleeping with him. But he was there.”

      I wave Sean inside and push myself up to a sitting position. “What should I do? I want to do something. I want to help.”

      He climbs through the window and sits on the floor, his legs crossed Indian-style. The posture makes him look twenty years younger, but his drawn face betrays his age. From the shadowy circles under his eyes—eyes that carry twice the spiritual burden they did yesterday—I’d guess he’s slept three consecutive hours since I last saw him.

      “Do you want to talk about the baby?” he asks.

      I close my eyes. “Not right now. Not like this.”

      “Then we’ll do what we always do.”

      “What?” I ask suspiciously.

      “Work the case. Right here.”

      I feel relief and a strange spark of excitement. “The kitchen table?”

      “It’s worked before.” He picks the television