Chapter 42 Maggie
Maggie
Monday
Her jaw throbbed, and after all the narcotics they’d given her in the emergency room, she was so unsteady that she had to lean against Declan for support. But she was alive.
Unlike the woman who was now on her way to the morgue.
Hannah Murray’s blood had soaked into the kitchen’s century-old floorboards, and no matter how thoroughly Maggie scrubbed the floor, she knew this blood could never really be washed away.
Traces of it would always cling to the cracks and crevices, joining the stains left by a century’s worth of splatters and drips that had seeped into the pine planks.
How will I ever clean up this mess? Maggie thought as she surveyed her kitchen, where a half-dozen crime scene investigators were now at work, huddled over blood and broken glass.
After all that had happened tonight, hers was a ridiculously trivial concern, but that’s where her mind went, to the unavoidable drudgery of sweeping and scrubbing and mopping.
Merely a coping mechanism, to avoid thinking about how close she herself had come to dying tonight.
It was far easier to focus on the messy kitchen floor than on the memory of Hannah Murray’s gun at her head.
“You shouldn’t be here, Maggie. It’s a crime scene,” said Jo, crossing toward them, her paper booties whooshing over the kitchen floor. “And you look like you should be resting in bed right now.”
“She’s staying with me,” said Declan. “We’re just here to pick up a few of her things. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. Look, why don’t we go into the living room? I think Maggie needs to sit down.”
Maggie suddenly wobbled against Declan. He caught her and supported her as he guided her into the living room and set her down on the sofa.
She was relieved to see that this room, at least, had not been disturbed, and everything was in order.
Unlike the kitchen, it did not smell of violence and death.
Declan sat down beside her and grasped her hand, as if afraid she might float away from him. Tonight, she almost had.
Jo sat in the armchair facing them. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay out of your house until the crime scene unit is finished here.”
“How long will that take?” asked Maggie.
“A few days, at least. Their unit is pretty overwhelmed right now. Two different death scenes to process—this house as well as the cottage on Lake Cameron. Agent Minnihan’s over there now, but he’ll have questions for you later, about what happened. A few details he needs to clear up.”
“What details?”
“To start off with, why are you still alive? Why did she let you live?”
Maggie was silent, pondering the same question that she had been asking herself.
She still ached from the blows to her face, and Hannah had threatened that there’d be more pain to come.
Maggie had truly believed that she would die in the cabin, that her fate had already been decided, and nothing she could do would change that.
She’d seen the same weary look of acceptance in Hannah’s eyes.
Hannah knew she had come to the end of her own journey.
After years of faithfully serving her country, after a lifetime of bloodshed, she wanted only to go home.
Perhaps she’d finally had enough of death, enough of doing the bidding of her masters.
“Maggie?” asked Jo.
“I think she had a better use for me alive,” said Maggie. “I served as a distraction. A way to pull everyone’s attention from her real target: Ingrid.”
“I suppose that makes sense. That’s one question answered.”
“Are there others?” asked Declan.
“Yes. Minnihan wants to know what happened here, in this house.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not entirely. We have a corpse with two bullet wounds from two different weapons. How did that happen?”
Maggie looked at Declan, who simply shook his head. “We weren’t here, Jo,” said Maggie. “We can’t answer that question.”
“Does it really matter how the woman was killed?” said Declan.
“It will matter to the FBI. Or to Minnihan, anyway.”
“Sometimes the end justifies the means.”
“Jesus,” Jo sighed. “I’m actually starting to agree with you people.”
Declan squeezed Maggie’s hand. “I need to get Maggie home to bed,” he said, and stood up. “Sit with her, Jo. I’ll go up and get her things.”
“My toilet case,” said Maggie. “And underwear.”
“Be right back.” He didn’t need to ask where to find her intimate garments; he already knew.
Jo’s mouth tilted up in a smile as she watched him leave the room. “You know, I always used to think that man was Mr. Cool. I’ve never seen him panic, never seen him even break a sweat. Until tonight, when he learned you’d gone missing. That was a different Declan Rose I saw.”
Maggie looked up toward the creak of Declan’s footsteps moving in her bedroom. “Everyone has an Achilles’ heel.”
“Yeah. His would be you.”
And for better or worse, Declan is now mine, thought Maggie.
This was a new vulnerability she had not expected to acquire so late in life.
Long ago, she had learned that the best way to avoid grief was to shun attachments, to harden one’s shell.
But even the hardest shell can be cracked, and somehow, Declan had managed to break through hers.
Dawn was still an hour away when she and Declan walked out of her house.
It was a cold, clear night, and the Milky Way arched overhead in a brilliant bower of stars.
She paused beside Declan’s old Volvo and looked up at the shimmering veil.
Thought about how differently this night could have turned out, and what a miracle it was that she was standing here, still alive.
Suddenly that dizzying view of the heavens made her sway like a drunken woman, and she tipped sideways.
As always, Declan was there to catch her.