Damage Control by Robert Dugoni Read Free Book Online Page B

in a mother who had just lost a child. Her body collapsed under the weight of her agony.
    “He’s dead, Mom. James is dead,” Dana said, and she knew she would hear the echo of those words as well for many years.

9
    T HE DOGWOOD SHADED the kitchen a parlor gray as the sun dipped below the top of the foliage. Dana stood at the slate kitchen counter filling a teakettle with water and staring out into the backyard. The patio furniture had rust along the legs of the table and chairs. They would need to be cleaned, the seat cushions removed from storage, the white pop-up tents erected. There would be another gathering at the Hill home on the shores of Lake Washington. An Irish Catholic wake. Break out the liquor.
    The adrenaline that had fueled her through the initial trauma and given her the strength to identify James’s body, to tell her mother, and to call the appropriate relatives and friends had given way to a dull lassitude. Some friends and relatives had already heard the news. They wanted to talk to her about it and ask her questions, but she had no answers for them and no desire to try to explain. Some offered to come to the house. She politely declined. Reporters called. She told them the family had no comment. Then she unplugged the telephone.
    Her mother lay in her bedroom upstairs, behind the closed door at the end of the hall. She had collapsed in the kitchen, toppling from the edge of her chair, and would have crashed to the floor had Dana not caught her. Jack Porter, for years the Hill family doctor, did not hesitate when Dana called him. He came to the house and gave Kathy Hill something to calm her nerves and to lower her blood pressure.
    The hot water from the faucet overflowed the top of the teakettle, stinging Dana’s hand. She turned it off, drained water from the top of the kettle, and turned instinctively to where the stove had once been but where now was a tiled counter. Her mother had remodeled the kitchen after her husband died, along with the three bathrooms. The stove, a restaurant-size range with eight burners and a grill big enough to cook for an army, was now located in a center island below a hood from which hung pots and pans. Dana had never understood why her mother had waited to remodel until she was alone in the house. Now Dana thought she understood perfectly. It was the same reason her mother had persisted in cleaning a self-cleaning oven: She needed things to do.
    Dana put the kettle on the front burner. It ignited with a small pop and brought the faint odor of gas. Blue-yellow fingers lapped at its copper bottom until Dana adjusted the flame. She heard the sound of car tires turning in to the driveway, and stepped to the Dutch door. The blue BMW rolled to a stop next to her Explorer. Grant emerged carrying Molly, who was eating a chocolate ice cream cone, remnants smeared on her face and down the front of her blue dress. Dana looked at her watch; Molly would never eat her dinner. She shook her head. It suddenly seemed so unimportant.
    She opened the door and walked outside. Upon seeing her, Molly ran forward, smiling brightly, the chocolate around her lips giving her a clownish appearance. “Mommy.”
    The site of her little girl brought Dana to tears. She crouched and hugged her. When she pulled away, Molly asked, “Why are you crying, Mommy?”
    Dana wiped her tears. “Mommy’s sad, honey.”
    “Don’t be sad.” Molly held up the melting cone. “Do you want a taste?”
    Dana took a small taste.
    “Is that my little girl? Is that my Molly?” Kathy Hill came through the Dutch door wearing a white bathrobe and slippers, her hair flowing down her back. Makeup did not hide her puffy red eyes.
    “Mom, Dr. Porter told you to stay in bed.”
    Her mother walked past Dana and took Molly in her arms. “Is that my baby? Hello, my angel.”
    “I got an ice cream, Grandma.”
    “Yes, angel, I see that.” Kathy closed her eyes, cradling the little girl.
    “Hi, Kathy,” Grant