Lisa Gardner - Love You More

The Perfect Husband

The Other Daughter

The Third Victim

The Next Accident

The Survivors Club

The Killing Hour

Alone

Gone

Hide

Say Goodbye

The Neighbor

Live to Tell

Love You More

Love You More is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gardner, Lisa.
Love you more : a novel / Lisa Gardner.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90811-4
1. PoliceMassachusettsBostonFiction. 2. Boston (Mass.)Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3557.A7132L68 2011
813.54dc22 2010042093

www.bantamdell.com

Cover design: Scott Biel
Cover photo: portrait of a woman by Jason Homa/Photographers Choice/Getty Images

v3.1

Who do you love?

Its a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of ones days. Simple, elegant, encompassing.

Who do you love?

He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my troopers hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip.

Who do you love? he cried again, louder now, more insistent.

My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us.

Dont do this, I whispered, one last shot at reason.

He merely smiled. Too little, too late.

Wheres Sophie? What did you do?

Belt. On the table. Now.

No.

GUN. On the table. NOW!

In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side.

I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting.

Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished.

Who do you love?

He was right. Thats what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?

GUN! he boomed. Now, dammit!

I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. Love you, Mommy, she always whispered.

Love you, too, baby. Love you.

His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon.

One last chance

I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time.

Who do you love?

I made my decision. I set down my troopers belt on the kitchen table.

And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire.

1

S ergeant Detective D. D. Warren prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasnt simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then theyd definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here.

D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of bloodwhich, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.

Today, however, she wasnt going to do any of those things. Today, she was spending a lazy Sunday morning dressed in gray sweats and Alexs oversized red flannel shirt. She was camped at his kitchen table, clutching a thick clay coffee mug while counting slowly to twenty.

Shed hit thirteen. Alex had finally made it to the front door. Now he paused to wind a deep blue scarf around his neck.

She counted to fifteen.

He finished with the scarf. Moved on to a black wool hat and lined leather gloves. The temperature outside had just crept above twenty. Eight inches of snow on the ground and six more forecasted to arrive by end of the week. March didnt mean spring in New England.

Alex taught crime-scene analysis, among other things, at the Police Academy. Today was a full slate of classes. Tomorrow, they both had the day off, which didnt happen much and warranted some kind of fun activity yet to be determined. Maybe ice skating in the Boston Commons. Or a trip to the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum. Or a lazy day where they snuggled on the sofa and watched old movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.

D.D.s hands spasmed on the coffee mug. Okay, no popcorn.

D.D. counted to eighteen, nineteen, twent

Alex finished with his gloves, picked up his battered black leather tote, and crossed to her.

Dont miss me too much, he said.

He kissed her on the forehead. D.D. closed her eyes, mentally recited the number twenty, then started counting back down to zero.

Ill write you love letters all day, with little hearts over the is, she said.

In your high school binder?

Something like that.

Alex stepped back. D.D. hit fourteen. Her mug trembled, but Alex didnt seem to notice. She took a deep breath and soldiered on. Thirteen, twelve, eleven

She and Alex had been dating a little over six months. At that point where she had a whole drawer to call her own in his tiny ranch, and he had a sliver of closet space in her North End condo. When he was teaching, it was easier for them to be here. When she was working, it was easier to be in Boston. They didnt have a set schedule. That would imply planning and further solidify a relationship they were both careful to not overly define.

They enjoyed each others company. Alex respected her crazy schedule as a homicide detective. She respected his culinary skills as a third-generation Italian. From what she could tell, they looked forward to the nights when they could get together, but survived the nights when they didnt. They were two independent-minded adults. Shed just hit forty, Alex had crossed that line a few years back. Hardly blushing teens whose every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of each other. Alex had been married before. D.D. simply knew better.