Little Lamb Lost Read Free Page A

police came. Lots of them, lookin’ at everything.
Taking pictures and videos. Then the guy from the coroner came.”
    “Did Michael eat anything? Maybe he had
a reaction to something. Like an allergy.”
    “He didn’t have no allergies, and I
don’t think he ate nothin’.”
    “He couldn’t have gotten into anything?”
    “I babyproofed this house just like you
showed me.”
    That was true. All the sockets were
covered, and the last time I’d looked, all the cabinets were fitted with those
little plastic gadgets that kept the doors from being pulled open. The cleaning
supplies and chemicals were as hidden as possible. Medications, even the
over-the-counter ones, were put away in Ashley’s bedroom.
    “Well, I guess the police will give us
more answers.” I deliberately avoided the word autopsy. “Why don’t you go get
dressed? Mac and I can wait for you, and then I want to take you to Nona. I
don’t want you to be alone today. Or tonight.”
    I looked at Mac for confirmation. “That
seems like a good plan.”
    Nona Richardson was the director of St.
Monica’s Home for Recovery where Ashley had lived for her first three hellish
months of rehab. She and Nona shared a special bond. Nona would make sure
Ashley didn’t run off and get high again. I’d hate for Ashley to blow her
sobriety, and if she were ever going to, it would be today. And I couldn’t say
I’d blame her.
    Mac and I waited while the shower ran. I
began to wander around the apartment, still shaky and restless. Except for a
quick peek, I didn’t go into the kitchen. It didn’t look any different than
usual. The avocado counters were wiped down and clean dishes drained in the
sink. I don’t know what I expected to see. A chalk outline. Michael’s ghost,
maybe. Some sign he had died there.
    I paced over to the hallway, pausing by
the door to Michael’s room. It was closed, and I left it that way. I walked the
length of the living room again. On the wall above a metal cart that supported
a small TV were two collage-style picture frames for photos, the kind sold at Wal-Mart
for about seven bucks. One was dedicated to Michael. His first picture was
there, the one they’d taken at the hospital just after birth. Another was at
his first birthday party, taken by his foster mother as he blew out a candle on
a cupcake. She’d sent me a copy too. The rest were more recent snapshots of him
playing in a small plastic pool. Ashley had been absent for so much of his
young life, these were probably all the memories she’d been able to capture of
him. And now he was gone forever.
    In the second collage were some people I
recognized. One picture was of Dee, Ashley’s mom, sitting in a white resin
chair underneath a tree. Another was of Ashley’s best friend. In the third, two
girls I’d never seen before leaned on the hood of a car. A fourth showed three
guys about Ashley’s age sitting on her couch, laughing. The reminders of how
happy Ashley had been before last night made me uncomfortable, and I started
pacing again.
    Mac said, “Sit down, you’re making me
nervous.”
    “Shouldn’t we be nervous?”
    “Right now, it looks like a very
unfortunate accident. Nothing anyone could have prevented. What’s your schedule
look like today?”
    I pulled my day planner out of my
satchel. “I have an intervention meeting at two, then I have to write a court
report. I was planning to catch up on other paperwork this morning.”
    “Reschedule the IM. This is going to
take up the rest of the day.”
    “To say the least.”
    Ashley rejoined us, dressed in faded
jeans and a T-shirt, her still-wet hair tight in a ponytail. “I have to call
work.” I knew she meant the restaurant.
    “Want me to do it?”
    “No, it’s okay.” She uncradled the
cordless phone and went into her bedroom, closing the door. A few minutes
later, with evidence of fresh tears on her face, she emerged. “I’m ready.”
    She had packed a small overnight case,
which she carried