Blood Always Tells, Hilary Davidson [good book club books .txt] 📗

they came out of your mouth. Gucci and Pucci and Prada, hanging together like spoiled little princesses. Her shoes stood like little soldiers at the bottom of the closet.

All of this will need to be bagged up for charity at some point, he thought. That realization gutted him. He reeled against the wall, gasping for air, before dropping onto the bed with his head in his hands. He choked on the scent of roses lingering in the air.

When he got to his feet, his eyes landed on a photograph of the two of them, and he picked it up. It was taken the summer after Dominique graduated from high school, maybe two weeks after Desmond had brought her to New York. There was no stopping that girl when her mind was set on something. They both looked happy, Desmond’s expression tentatively so and Dominique grinning like she had a big secret she wasn’t telling. He’d taken a leave of absence when their grandmother had died, since Dominique wouldn’t turn eighteen until October, and he was the only family she had. In the photo, he was wearing his dress uniform, and he could still remember his baby sister demanding that he put it on. You look so handsome dressed like that, she told him. Daddy would be so proud to see you.

No, he wouldn’t, Desmond had told her, trying to keep his voice steady. I couldn’t do anything right in Mr. Monaghan’s eyes.

Daddy was a Vietnam vet, she pointed out. He’d have been thrilled you followed in his footsteps.

Desmond had been about to say something—something he’d thought he would regret—when Dominique put her hand over her mouth.

Oh, Des, I’m so sorry. I forgot your daddy was in the Army, too. He’d be so proud of you. He is so proud of you.

There was a little white blip at the corner of his vision, and he set the picture down. You need sleep, he told himself. You’re no good to anybody if you’re dragging yourself around half-dead. He checked his watch and realized it was after one in the morning. He turned off the lights in the apartment and locked the door behind him.

When he got down to Twenty-Ninth Street, he turned right to head to Park Avenue South. He was so worn out he was ready to get into a taxi. It was a cold night with a harsh wind blowing. He noticed a white woman with long blond hair walking toward him, with her long black coat flapping open, in spite of the chill. Her phone was in hand, as if she were texting. He stepped to one side to let her pass but she bumped into him anyway.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, smiling at him.

“No problem,” he answered, smiling back.

A split second later, a cord looped around Desmond’s neck from behind. It was pulled tight so suddenly that nothing but a wet gurgle came out of his mouth. There was blood beating in his ears. His whole body was on fire. There was no way he could last. Desmond used every bit of strength he had to throw himself backward, knocking his attacker off balance. Desmond dropped to the ground like a dead weight. The attacker stumbled back, and the cord around Desmond’s neck went slack. He hit the ground, and saw the man looming over him. He was six three and broad-shouldered, Desmond’s size, dressed in black from the balaclava on his head to the boots on his feet.

The man came forward, cord stretched between his fists, when a chorus of women started screaming. The man turned and ran toward Lexington, disappearing around the corner.

Chapter 44

He didn’t have to wait long for the cops. It didn’t even take five minutes for uniforms to get on the scene and start taking reports. The group of miniskirted, stiletto-heeled ladies who’d scared off Desmond’s attacker were still riled up.

“We’s just walking by and we see this freak, and he’s strangling a guy,” said a redhead with a particularly loud voice and strong Queens accent.

“He wasn’t just mugging the guy. It was like he wanted to kill him,” said another.

“It was sick. This is the kind of shit my mom worries about,” added a third.

Desmond sat on the sidewalk, taking it all in and trying to catch his breath. A young Asian cop sat with him. He’d tried asking questions, but Desmond couldn’t speak. When an ambulance pulled up, he patted Desmond on the back.

“Here’s your ride,” he said.

Desmond shook his head.

The cop seemed amused. “We can take your statement later, when you can speak, that’s no problem,” he said. “But somebody strangled you, and we’ve got to check you out.”

Since Desmond couldn’t really argue—at least not aloud—he gave in. At least he managed to get up and walk to the ambulance on his own. He gave the scantily clad ladies a grateful wave, since he couldn’t get “thank you” out of his mouth, not audibly, anyway.

“Take care!” one of the ladies called back.

“Feel better!”

“Hope they catch that bastard!”

One of the women was a blonde in a black coat, but she didn’t look like the one who’d bumped into him on the street. This woman was much curvier, and her hair was obviously dyed. What had happened to that slender blonde? he wondered. Did she run off out of fear, or was she supposed to be a distraction so he wouldn’t notice the thug creeping up behind him with the rope?

The hospital was only a couple of minutes’ drive away, a massive complex at First Avenue. A doctor and a couple of interns poked and prodded him before running a batch of tests. “No laryngeal fracture or upper airway edema,” the doctor pronounced. “But I’m concerned about vocal cord immobility.”

“I’m okay,” Desmond tried to say. It was like a hiss of air escaping a tire.

“You’re not very convincing,” the doctor informed him. “I’m keeping you in for overnight observation.”

As much as Desmond hated the idea, the combination of pain and