Critical Condition by CJ Lyons Read Free Book Online Page A

her to. The killer haunted her dreams, but by the time she awoke, she never remembered anything but the terror he provoked. Her attention had been focused on her mother’s screams, the blood, the need to stay small and quiet and hidden.
    “Whatever it is, he didn’t think twice about targeting police officers.” A glower darkened Janet’s face, and Lydia knew she was thinking of Jerry. “That’s high stakes.”
    “I don’t have anything worth killing for—and neither did Maria,” Lydia protested. “We lived on the streets most of the time, were constantly on the move.”
    “Maria worked as a con artist, right?”
    “I don’t know if you’d call it ‘con artist.’ Some days I think she really believed she was psychic, but she pretty much just told people what they wanted to hear.”
    “Maybe one of her clients told her something—”
    “Something worth killing her over? Seems unlikely. And why then come after me after all this time?” Lydia flounced in the chair, frustrated, and immediately regretted the sudden movement when it jarred her sling and pain bellowed from her arm. She took the sling off—she was more comfortable without it anyway, and had worn it only to help with any recoil while she was shooting—and propped her cast on the arm of the chair so it was elevated. The throbbing quieted.
    Janet shut down her computer. “I should get back to the station. I’ll call you if I learn more.”
    Lydia remained sitting in the chair beside Sandy’s desk.
    “You okay to get home by yourself?” Janet asked. Lydia glanced up and realized the detective had already put her coat and gloves on and was standing by the door.
    “I’m fine. Just moving slowly.” Lydia nodded to her arm, as if that were her excuse. “You go ahead.”
    Janet hesitated. “Okay,” she finally said. “Drive safely.” A blast of wind and snow heralded her departure. The office felt ten degrees colder after she left.
    And still Lydia sat, thinking of the frightened teenage girl from those booking photos. Martha Flowers had been skinny—much too thin for a pregnant woman. There’d been what looked like track marks visible on her arms, and her eyes had held the sunken look of a junkie wanting a fix. No surprise to Lydia. Maria—Martha—had confessed to her daughter that she’d been a heroin addict once, but told Lydia she’d quit cold turkey when she found out she was pregnant. It was about the only fact she’d ever shared about her life before Lydia.
    Young. Her mother had been so very young. And alone. And terrified. Of what?
    Of whom?
    Lydia’s father. They’d been on the run from him since before she was born. Lydia didn’t even know his name. To her he was the bogeyman.
    When she was older she used to think he was actually a figment of Maria’s mind, an imaginary specter who allowed her to justify their nomadic existence, the way her mother dragged them from place to place, living like pieces of debris swept through the streets of L.A. by the Santa Ana winds.
    She’d blamed her mother. Thought Maria was crazy.
    The morning of the day Maria died, Lydia had threatened to leave, to turn herself in to children’s services, ask them to find her father so she could live with him instead. All she’d wanted was some normalcy, a taste of security. A bathroom with a real door on it instead of a sheet draped over a curtain rod. A place her friends could visit. A home.
    It was the worst fight they’d ever had. A few hours later, Maria was dead.
    Nausea twisted through Lydia’s gut, an echo of the awful wrenching feeling that had consumed her as she watched Maria die. For eighteen years she’d felt guilty. Even though she hadn’t made the call to children’s services, she still blamed herself that the bogeyman had found them that day—or the monster he’d sent to do his dirty work.
    Now the bogeyman was back. And he was after her.

FOUR
    GINA BOLTED OFF THE ELEVATOR, THEN SLOWED her pace to a calm, confident