Cracked by Barbra Leslie Page A

my blood pressure and in general getting in the way. “Ha,” I said. “Told you somebody hit me.”
    “How did this happen,” Darren said to Miller. All of a sudden he looked threatening again. I was seeing a whole new side to my brother in the last twenty-four hours. “With a house full of cops.”
    Miller sighed. “I honestly don’t know. Officers are securing the perimeter.” He looked down at me. “How do you feel?”
    “Other than a headache, fine,” I answered truthfully. I did. It surprised me. I wanted crack. Later I would smoke some crack. If I could get away from everyone, I would go to the Sunny Jim, where Ginger died, and I would smoke. The thought made me stronger.
    Miller was leaning over pretty close. I could smell Old Spice and cigarettes. I liked it.
    “There are too many people in this house,” Darren said. “Who all was here? And I haven’t walked through this whole place yet. Is there another way out, other than the front stairs? I haven’t seen anything.”
    Miller shook his head. “There’s a third floor, which of course is being checked now, but unless we hear something from one of my men in the next five seconds, I think we can assume that it’s empty.”
    At that moment, a cop from far, far down the hallway, around the corner and out of sight, yelled, “Third floor, clear!” It was kind of exciting. Anything to take me out of my head. My head was not a good place to be.
    Miller smiled. “See?” He leaned against the wall. “Within a couple of minutes the house and property will have been checked. It is possible that the man who did this to you—”
    “Or woman,” I interrupted.
    “Do you think it was a woman?” Miller asked quickly.
    “No. I mean, I have no idea. But I wanted to be politically correct.”
    He nodded. “The perpetrator could have come in a second-floor window from a ladder and left the same way. This house,” he said, looking around, “has a lot of rooms. But there are more than a dozen officers on the property at the moment, apart from myself and Detective French. We’ll find something.” He patted my knee gently, as the EMTs insisted on loading me onto a stretcher. I had my purse clutched tightly onto my lap. I made sure it was zipped up.
    Darren was pacing. He followed my stretcher down the stairs, telling the EMTs to take it easy. Under the circumstances, it was comforting. It had been a long time since someone had looked out for me like that.
    Outside, Darren tried to climb into the ambulance with me. “No,” I said. “Darren. Go to the morgue.”
    “Hey, drama queen,” Darren said. “You’re not that bad. I think you’ll make it.”
    “F-U-C-K-U,” I said. I closed my eyes. The headache seemed to be getting worse. “Go and see Ginger. Okay? And find the boys. Please. And take one of the detectives.”
    “Why?”
    “I have a bad feeling about this, Darren. Please. Just take Miller. Or French. She’s kinda hot, if she smiles at you,” I added, just before the EMTs closed the doors.
    “I noticed,” Darren yelled. I laughed and closed my eyes.
    I could feel Ginger with me. She wanted me to laugh. She had the most generous soul of anyone I had ever encountered.
    And I would find whoever took her life, and took the boys. I promised Ginger that, as we rode to the hospital.

7
    Obviously a slow day in the E.R. I was seen right away, and it was determined that I did not, in fact, have a concussion or any other brain damage.
    “Can I get that in writing,” I said to the doctor. “About the brain damage, I mean. I might need to prove that some day.” The Cleary sense of humor: my nephews have been kidnapped and my twin sister murdered, but I will still crack wise. Inappropriate coping mechanisms? Me?
    The doc looked at me. Apparently, he wasn’t used to our brand of humor.
    “I will of course forward copies of our reports to your family doctor,” he began, and I stopped him.
    “Not necessary. Let’s get this whole payment thing