Stealing Justice (The Justice Team) by Misty Evans, Adrienne Giordano Page A

below. Maybe she could take her for a stroll.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    Slowly, her mother shifted and gazed up, her hazel eyes cloudy and dull. Medicated. Forget the stroll.
    “He’s here,” Mom said.
    Of course he is . Sighing, Sydney dragged a chair over and sat close. So much for positive thoughts. She squeezed her mom’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom.”
    “The bad man. He’s here. You should go. It’s not safe.”
    Oh, Mom. “It’s over now. You’re safe. No one can touch you here.”
    “That’s not what Number Two says. She says we’re not safe.”
    Number Two. One of the personalities rooted into her mother’s mind. “I’m sorry Number Two feels that way, but really, you’re safe here.”
    “Shut up,” Number Two said from somewhere deep within her mother’s tortured mind.
    “Number Two, I’d like to speak with my mom alone. Would you give us some privacy please?”
    Her mother stared out the window again and Sydney waited. She never knew just how many personalities she’d be dealing with. Hopefully, with her mother’s obvious medicated state, only a couple.
    “Mom?”
    “She’s gone,” Mom whispered.
    “Good. Now we can have a chat.”
    Mom stared. Cocked her head sideways. “Hello, Sydney.” Her voice had gone raspy—the smoker’s voice.
    Considering her mother had never once smoked a cigarette, Syd was continuously baffled by the sound. Once again, a little piece of her died. It would be one of those days. All she wanted was a quiet visit. A day where traces of the single-mother she remembered, the one who laughed at silly jokes and curled under a blanket with her to watch romantic comedies would return. The mother who taught her men were nice to have around, but a woman could support herself and her child without them. That’s the woman Sydney craved. And grieved for. Instead, today would be about navigating the bombsite that had become her mother’s existence.
    “Hello, Number Seven,” Syd said. “Would you mind giving us privacy?”
    Number Seven swung a disgusted gaze over Sydney’s gray slacks and silk blouse. “You look like a slut. You know what happens to sluts, don’t you?”
    “Yes, Number Seven, I know. I’ll do better next time.”
    Arguing with a schizophrenic never accomplished much, so Syd typically patronized the abusive Number Seven in hopes she’d go away.
    Number Seven huffed and then the harsh stare was gone. That fast, Mom was back, her body visibly relaxing as she leaned forward and whispered. “You don’t look like a slut. You know Number Seven is crazy, right?”
    At this, Syd laughed. So did Mom, and Syd wanted nothing more than to capture this moment, to enjoy the brightness of it. So much of their time had been spent in dark places and these little breaks offered solitude and hope for a teenager who had grown into a woman robbed of her mother.
    And then— dammit —Syd’s throat clogged, the tears backing up because she refused to cry. Life had dealt them a shitty hand. They’d lived with it. For many years. Today would be no different. They were still that mother and daughter managing their way through life.
    It just wasn’t the life most people had.
    Mom cupped her hand over Syd’s cheek. “Don’t cry, my girl. I’m still here.”
    Syd’s tears gripped her, pulled her further down, dragging her under until her breath was gone. Nothing left . Nothing. Syd doubled over in her chair and concentrated on deep breaths. She’d been here before, understood the emotional blackness that came with it and would pull herself out.
    Yes, her mother was still here. Patches of her anyway. She’s still here . And she was safe from the predators of the world. Syd focused on breathing. That’s it, Syd, settle down .
    She leaned over and hugged her mother. “I love you.”
    Mom patted her back. “Oh, my sweet girl, I love you too.”
    And Syd squeezed her eyes shut. Just for a minute. One. Small. Minute. That’s all she needed. Then she’d finish the visit and