Love You More: A Novel by Lisa Gardner Page A

a batch.
    Juliana Sophia Howe was that kind of friend. You could cry on her shoulder and trust her to keep your secrets. You could play in her yard and count on her to give you her best toys. You could stay in her house and depend on her to share her family.
    When I went into labor all alone, I pictured Juliana holding my hand. And when I finally held my daughter for the first time, I named her in honor of my childhood friend.
    Juliana, unfortunately, doesn’t know any of these things.
    She has not spoken to me in over ten years.
    For while Juliana Sophia Howe was the best thing that ever happened to me, turned out, I was the worst thing that ever happened to her.
    Sometimes, love is like that.
    I n the back of the ambulance, the female EMT administered intravenous fluids. She had produced a pan just in time for me to vomit again.
    My cheek burned. My sinus cavities had filled with blood. I needed to hold it together. Mostly, I wanted to close my eyes and let the world slip away. The light hurt my eyes. The memories seared my brain.
    “Tell me your name,” the EMT instructed, forcing me back to attention.
    I opened my mouth. No words came out.
    She offered me a sip of water, helped clean my cracked lips.
    “Tessa Leoni,” I finally managed.
    “What is today’s date, Tessa?”
    For a second, I couldn’t answer. No numbers appeared in my head and I started to panic. All I could picture was Sophie’s empty bed.
    “March thirteen,” I finally whispered.
    “Two plus two?”
    Another pause. “Four.”
    Marla grunted, adjusting the line carrying clear fluids to the back of my hand. “Nice shiner,” she remarked.
    I didn’t answer.
    “Almost as pretty as the bruise covering half your ass. Husband like steel-toed boots?”
    I didn’t answer, just pictured my daughter’s smiling face.
    The ambulance slowed, maybe ready to turn into the emergency room. I could only hope.
    Marla studied me a second longer. “I don’t get it,” she said abruptly. “You’re a cop. You’ve received special training, you’ve handled these kinds of calls yourself. Surely you of all people oughtta know …” She seemed to catch herself. “Well, guess that’s the waythese things go, right? Domestic violence happens across all social groups. Even those who should know better.”
    The ambulance came to a stop. Thirty seconds later, the back doors flew open and I rolled into daylight.
    I didn’t look at Marla anymore. I kept my eyes on the gray March sky rushing past overhead.
    Inside the hospital, there was a lot of activity at once. An emergency room nurse charged forward to meet us, ushering us into an exam room. There was paperwork to be filled out, including the omnipresent HEPA form advising me of my right to privacy. As the nurse assured me, my doctor would not discuss my case with anyone, not even other members of law enforcement, as that would violate doctor-patient confidentiality. What she did not say, but I already knew, was that my medical charts were considered neutral and could be subpoenaed by the DA. Meaning any statements I made to the doctor, which were recorded in those charts …
    Always a loophole somewhere. Just ask a cop.
    Paperwork completed, the nurse turned to the next matter at hand.
    Last night, I had spent fifteen minutes donning my uniform. First, basic black panties, then a black sports bra, then a silk undershirt to keep the next layer—heavy body armor—from chafing my skin. I’d rolled on black dress socks, then my navy blue trousers with their electric blue accent stripes. Next I’d laced up my boots, because I’d already learned the hard way I couldn’t reach my feet once I’d donned my vest. So socks, trousers, boots, then back to the top half, adding my bulky vest, which I covered with a state police turtleneck in deference to the weather, then topped with my official light blue blouse. I had to adjust the vest under my turtleneck, then work to get three layers—silk undershirt,