Third excerpt from Lisa Scottoline

Part 3

Lucinda grimaced, her eyes flying open, and I realized I had said the wrong thing. We hadn’t acknowledged that Allison was fighting for her life. I hadn’t even known I thought it until it came out of my mouth.

“Mr. Bennett, you can understand, it’s unusual for one perpetrator to—”

“It’s what happened.” I raised my voice, unable to control my tone. It wasn’t like me, but I didn’t care. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Lucinda took my arm. “Honey, calm down. Really.”

Detective Willoughby pursed his lips. “Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Accusations will do that,” I shot back. I couldn’t apologize. Not tonight.

“So let’s begin at the beginning. What happened?”

“They pulled in front of us and blocked the road. Then they got out of the truck and walked toward us.”

“Were their weapons drawn?”

“No, not at first. They were talking.” I remembered something I hadn’t before. “The driver said to the passenger, ‘You go left, Junior.’ ”

Lucinda looked over.

Ethan blinked.

I added, “Good, so you know his name, or his nickname, if you didn’t find out from his wallet.”

Detective Willoughby wrote in his pad. His Cross pen gleamed in the overhead lights. “You heard him?”

“No. I was still inside the car.”

“Then how do you know what he said?”

“I read his lips. I could see his face in the headlights.”

Detective Willoughby blinked. “So you don’t know what he said for a fact.”

“Yes, I do. I read lips.”

Ethan perked up. “He really does. My sister says it’s his superpower.”

I forced a smile for Ethan, then faced Detective Willoughby. “I lip-read, as a registered merit reporter.”

“Is that like a court reporter?”

“Yes, but licensed in specialized areas.”

“What does that have to do with reading lips?”

“My job is about accuracy. Lip-reading increases my accuracy.”

“You work in court?”

“No, we’re private. Court reporters in court are state or municipal employees.” I wanted to talk about my daughter, not my job, but Detective Willoughby was taking notes.

“Your business is located where?”

“West Chester. Can we get back to what happened?”

“Okay, please resume.”

I went on to explain, telling every detail as best as I could, remaining in emotional control by defaulting to work mode, as if the question-and-answer were a transcript. I visualized my sentences the way I would write them, in the old-school Courier font we still use, so heavy on the page that it was embossed. The testimony would form an official record, considered the truth in any court of law, and on the final page of the original, I would sign under my oath, warranting that the words were true and correct.

Just then an older doctor in a white coat appeared at the entrance to the waiting room.

He had short gray hair and thick wire-rimmed glasses, and his gaze swept the room. Lucinda straightened. “Is that her doctor? Does he want us?”

I stood up, but the doctor crossed to the older couple, shook their hands, and they rose as a group and left.

Lucinda sighed, anxious. “They came in after us, didn’t they?”

I sat down. “I don’t remember.”

Ethan interjected, “It’s not like Cheesecake Factory, Mom.”

Detective Willoughby closed his folder, slipping his Cross pen inside. “Okay, I think that will do for tonight. We’ll follow up in the days to come.”

Detective Balleu flipped his pad closed. “Yes, thank you.”

“So can we talk later?” I rose, shaking their hands.

“Of course.” Detective Willoughby nodded. “We’ll keep you apprised of any developments as they occur. We’ll do our best to bring this man to justice. By the way, we ask you not to talk to any reporters. Or post about this on social media.”

“We weren’t planning to.”

Lucinda added, “Of course not.”

They both bade us a quick goodbye, and left.

In the next moment, the gray-haired doctor reappeared in the threshold of the waiting room, catching my eye behind his glasses. His somber gaze communicated something man-to-man, something primal. I didn’t know if I was imagining it. It couldn’t be. Suddenly I wondered if he’d moved the older couple to give us privacy.

No, no, no. I found myself shaking my head.

The doctor walked toward us, his lined face falling into grave folds. “Mr. and Mrs. Bennett? I’m Mark Chen, head of emergency surgery.”

Lucinda jumped up. “How is she?”

“Please have a seat.” Dr. Chen gestured to the chair, then sat down opposite us, and we both sank into the chairs.

No, I thought. No, this cannot be. No, I do not want to hear this.

Dr. Chen took Lucinda’s hands. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennett, Mr. Bennett. Your daughter passed away. We tried everything. There was nothing we could do.”

No, you cannot say that, no, no, no, and no.

My heart wrenched so deeply that I lost my breath. It felt like a shock wave blasting me in the chest. The world blurred, fuzzy and far away. The doctor, the waiting room, the TV.

“No!” Lucinda wailed, which brought me to my senses. I reacted reflexively, pulling her closer, trying to steady her. Ethan burst into tears, so I gathered him under my other arm, holding on to both of them.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to wail and howl in disbelief and fury. Lucinda sobbed, tears pouring from her eyes. Ethan cried like a little boy, a sound I didn’t know I remembered until now.

I knew we could not all fall to pieces at the same time. I was Daddy. I was the center, and the center had to hold. I tried to make sense of it. My voice came out choked. “What ... happened?”

“The gunshot severed her jugular veins and tore other vessels and muscle. She sustained significant blood loss.” Dr. Chen’s eyebrows sloped like a roof sagging under snowfall. “I’m so sorry. We tried everything.”

“Explain it to me, please.” I needed to understand. I was trying to comprehend something incomprehensible.

“The external jugular vein is large and on top of the muscle that enables you to turn your head. It was severed by the bullet, which went through the front of her neck on the left and exited out the back, causing her to lose a massive amount of blood.”

My gaze fell to the doctor’s hands. I realized they were the last to touch my daughter alive.

“A young person has roughly ten pints of blood. At a fifth of blood loss, a body goes into shock. Your daughter lost almost half.”

I flashed on the horrific memory. I couldn’t speak. I could barely hear him.

“We transfused her, but she had a cardiac arrest.”

I shook my head. “Her ... heart? Her heart is ... perfect, it’s strong. She’s an athlete, a superb athlete.”

“Yes, but with significant blood loss—”

“I tried to stop it with my shirt.”

“That was the proper protocol. You did everything right. You did everything you could have.”

I knew why the doctor was saying that. I could see it in his knowing eyes and hear it in his gentle tone. He didn’t want me to blame myself. But I hadn’t asked because I wanted absolution.

I would never absolve myself.

Ever.

Look for Lisa’s new domestic thriller, “What Happened to the Bennetts,” coming March 29. Also, look for Lisa’s best-selling historical novel, “Eternal,” in paperback. Francesca’s critically acclaimed debut novel, “Ghosts of Harvard,” is now in paperback.