Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  “Gonna tell your true-crime group?”

  He appears offended. “I signed a nondisclosure.”

  “Make them pinky promise to keep the news to themselves.”

  “I signed a nondisclosure,” he repeats, his tone firm.

  “What will you do now?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to go home,” he says. “I’m too wired. There are a few things I could research, of course. That this Conrad Carter is actually Carter Conner and his father a murdered cop . . .” He’s nodding to himself. “Have some digging to do there.”

  I study him for a long moment. “Want to get a drink?” I hear myself say.

  My newest admirer and/or possible serial killer breaks into a smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  —

  KEITH HAS AN app for one of the ride-sharing services. He also claims to know a bar. I know plenty of bars myself, but probably not the type he’d feel comfortable frequenting. Not to mention that at quite a few of them, his computer would be stolen in minutes.

  If I chased down the robber, took him out with a flying tackle and gallantly returned to Keith with his computer bag, would that earn me a look of adoration, or end the evening abruptly? In movies, everyone loves the kickass heroine. I’m less convinced the average man wants one in real life. Keith looks like he works out, but at the end of the day he’s a tech guy. And I’m, well . . . me.

  Keith takes me to Boylston Street. This is pretty Boston. With high-end boutiques nestled in between historic churches, the architecturally significant public library, and of course, dozens of restaurants and bars. Each window is framed in twinkling Christmas lights, while the ornate streetlamps are capped with glittering wreaths and the row of trees wrapped in dazzling holiday cheer. Keith leads me up four steps to an old stone building, very dark and subdued compared to its neighbors. Which should be my first hint.

  We are greeted by a man in a tuxedo who could be anywhere between forty and a hundred. He nods at both of us, his face perfectly impassive. I note two things at once. Keith, in his cashmere sweater and finely tailored slacks, blends perfectly with the wood-paneled foyer. I do not.

  Keith is already shedding his outerwear. I remove my ratty down jacket with more reluctance. I like my coat. It has many pockets, each a treasure trove of tools and resources for the vigilante on the go.

  The maître d’ holds out his hand. At the last minute, I can’t do it. I clutch my coat to my chest. “I get cold easily,” I say, to justify my decision.

  Tuxedo man says nothing, merely turns, hangs up Keith’s coat. Then he leads us into a much larger room, also covered in exquisitely carved walnut panels, and dominated by a gorgeous curved bar bearing a gold-flecked marble top. Around us is a collection of seating areas, some white-draped tables, some antique furniture pulled close for a more intimate feel. A fire crackles impressively from a massive fireplace against the far wall. Our host walks straight toward it, indicates a private arrangement of a single love seat with a spindly coffee table, then stares pointedly at my coat again.

  If anything, I clutch it tighter.

  “Thank you,” Keith says. Our silent guide nods in acknowledgment, then disappears.

  “What is this place?”

  Keith has already taken a seat. His legs are so long he has to stretch them out at an angle to avoid the coffee table. I perch awkwardly on the other corner, not liking this seating arrangement at all.

  “It’s a private club. There are many of them around the city. Representing various Ivy League universities, special groups—”

  “Elite groups.”

  “My father’s a member. I picked this bar because I thought it would be quieter, a more private place for us to talk.”

  I’m not sure what I think of that. Private is good. But this . . . This isn’t me. And if he was paying attention at all, surely he recognized that. Meaning this place was what? His way of showing off? Look at my success? Look at what I can buy you?

  Mostly, I feel very uncomfortable and wish I’d gone hunting instead.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asks.

  “Seltzer water.”

  He doesn’t comment, just flags down another man in a white tuxedo jacket, this one bearing a silver tray. Keith orders seltzer for me, a single malt for him. I wonder if this is the kind of place women aren’t allowed to order for themselves, or again, if this is Keith’s idea of making a great first impression.

  “Do you know the others in the room?” I ask.

  Keith looks around. I’ve already taken inventory. The only obvious egress is the arched doorway through which we entered. I would guess the wood paneling on the surrounding walls disguises other options, and I have to fight the temptation to circle the room and feel out all the seams for myself.

  “No,” he says at last.

  “Come here often?”

  “No.”

  “But tonight, hanging out with a girl dressed like me”—I gaze down at my gray sweatshirt, worn cargo pants—“this seemed like a good idea?”

  “No one cares,” he tells me.

  Which makes me scowl because, of course, I care, but like hell I’m going to admit that.

  “If someone came up to you, how would you introduce me?” I press.

  “Given you’re someone who appreciates your privacy, I would say you were a visiting friend.”

  “No name?”

  “Only if you want me to.”

  I give him slightly more credit for this answer, then resume my working theory that he’s a serial killer, and this is how he lures future victims back to his place. By pretending to be courteous and charming and sensitive. Ted Bundy with access to an elitist club.

  “I’m not claustrophobic,” I say abruptly.

  He seems to consider the statement, and the second tuxedo man returns with a tray bearing our drinks. He also has a small bowl of what appear to be wasabi-coated nuts. After the pizza, I’m happy with my seltzer, lime wedge perched artistically on the rim.

  Keith holds up a heavy crystal tumbler of amber liquid. We toast, not saying a word.

  “People always assume I’m claustrophobic. You know, all that time in the coffin. Except that’s the point. I spent so many days, weeks, in a pine box, I had no choice but to grow comfortable with it. Make it my home.”

  “I still wear scarves,” he says at last.

  It takes me a moment; then I get it. His cousin was strangled with a silk scarf. Touché.

  I raise my seltzer in acknowledgment, allow myself to relax a fraction on the too-low, too-small love seat.

  “Bring any of your true-crime buddies here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We generally meet at someone’s house. When you’re spreading out crime scene photos, it tends to disturb others.”

  “I think Jeeves could take it.”

  “Jeeves?”

  “The guy who greeted us.”

  “His name is Tony.”

  “Really? That doesn’t seem right at all.”

  He shrugs, takes a sip of his scotch. “Now who’s typecasting?”

  I almost stick my tongue out him. At the last minute, it occurs to me that would be childish, and I’m supposed to be the serious avenger sort.

  “I think you can fit in this room,” he says shortly, his gaze directly on mine. “I think you’re strong and smart and can go anywhere you want to go and be anything you want to be.”

  “No.”

  The word comes out hard and matter-of-fact. Keith doesn’t push it, just waits.

  “I work at a pizza shop. Which, oh shit, I was supposed to be at this afternoon. So from that alone, I’m not even a good pizza employee. I never finished college. I’ll never get a degree.”

  “In the tech world, you’d be amazed how
many business owners don’t have them.”

  “But I’m not a techie either. I’m just . . . me.”

  Again, he waits.

  “People think trauma is mental,” I say abruptly. “I’m mentally scarred, damaged, take your pick. And with enough therapy, time, my mind will heal and, ta-da, one day I’ll be all better again. But trauma isn’t just mental. It’s physiological. It’s an adrenal system that’s totally burnt out, so that I spend days at a time in fight mode.” I realize as I’m describing this that one of my knees is bouncing uncontrollably. “Followed by crashes where I can barely get out of bed.

  “I can’t function in crowded rooms. I never take the T during rush hour. I can’t stand the stench of other bodies. I’m hypervigilant to the point there’s no way I could pay attention to a lecturer in a classroom environment, let alone start and finish an assignment. It’s not in me.”

  “You stayed on track today.”

  “We moved around today. From idea to idea and building to building. I need that kind of action. Plus, I’m better when I’m with Samuel.” I pause. “And I almost like D.D. Almost.”

  “So, the right people, the right mix of activities, and you can function. Ever thought of becoming a cop?”

  “No way. Real policing requires a degree, for one. So that whole college thing is an issue. Plus, ask Sergeant Warren, the paperwork alone would kill mere mortals. It’s the whole advantage of being a CI. I get all the fun, none of the legal responsibility. Besides, why should I become a detective, when it’s only a matter of time before I convince D.D. to join me on the dark side?”

  Keith nods. “Based on what I know from my detective friends, you have a valid point. Are you happy?” he asks me abruptly.

  “I don’t aspire to happiness.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not something I feel.”

  “Survivor’s guilt?”

  “Maybe. Or again, burnt-out adrenals. Highs are hard to come by.”

  “Your family?”

  “Love me despite me.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “You’re an obviously successful computer guru. What’s not to love?”

  “My blog. My intense interest in violent crime. They find it . . . distasteful. So do a lot of women, I might add. In the beginning, when I first mention my true-crime club, it sounds like a cool hobby. But then when they start to understand that it’s real work, with photos of corpses and sketches of crime scenes and analysis of blood spatter . . . I enjoyed today,” he says suddenly. “Today, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone in a crowded room.”

  The way he says the statement, so quiet, so matter-of-fact, makes me catch my breath. Then, in the next instant, the alarms start ringing in my mind. It’s too perfect. It’s too exactly the right kind of thing to say to a woman like me. Almost as if he’s been studying me. Which we both know, for the past six years, he has.

  “I have to go.” I put down the seltzer. My hand is shaking. I hate that. But then I snatch up my jacket and immediately feel better. The inside left pocket contains my homemade pepper-spray concoction. I reach for it without even thinking, let my fist close around it.

  Keith is blinking, as if I’ve confused him. But I don’t buy the act anymore. At least, I think it’s an act. I don’t know. I wish he didn’t look the way he looked. I wish I didn’t know the things I know.

  The worst part of being a survivor: There’s no security blanket anymore. You can’t assume the worst won’t happen, because it did. And none of your screaming changed that. Meaning that just because I don’t want to believe this handsome, smart guy has nefarious intentions doesn’t mean for a second that I’m safe.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Keith is saying, climbing awkwardly to his feet.

  “No, thank you.”

  “At least let me call you a Lyft.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Flora—”

  I don’t wait for him. I’m already weaving my way out of the room. In the dark foyer, the greeter, Tony, I guess, snaps to attention. “Nice digs,” I inform him, before pushing through the heavy wooden door.

  Keith catches up with me outside. Did he even stop to pay the bill? Maybe elite clubs don’t bother with things as common as money. They just run a tab into perpetuity.

  He grabs my arm. I whirl sharply, pepper spray out.

  He immediately drops his hand, steps back. “I don’t understand,” he says at last.

  “I’m not your puzzle to solve.”

  But I can already see in his face that I’m exactly that. His riddle to answer. His trophy to win. His prey to snare.

  The look on my face makes him take a second step back.

  “I just want to help,” he states carefully.

  “Why Jacob Ness?”

  “The other missing girls, I already explained . . .”

  “Not really.”

  “I. N. Verness. If my intentions were evil, would I have given you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all good predators bait the trap.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Good night.” Then, before this conversation can drag out any longer, before he can talk me into doing things I know I shouldn’t do, I turn and race up the block. At the last minute, I turn back. I shouldn’t. But I do.

  He’s standing exactly where I left him on the sidewalk. Staring straight at me.

  He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t appear frustrated.

  He looks . . . lonely.

  It’s too much for me. I take off running again and, this time, keep on trucking.

  CHAPTER 28

  EVIE

  I KNOW IT’S MORNING WHEN I wake up to the sound of the Cuisinart whirring away downstairs in the kitchen. Probably more green goo supplemented with flaxseed, coconut oil, probiotics, antibiotics, maybe a horse salve or two. All the better to grow the little genius that had better be occupying my womb.

  I roll onto my side, already feeling sulky and rebellious. What is it about returning to my mother’s house that immediately turns me into a five-year-old?

  The clock next to the bed glows seven A.M. The sky is just beginning to lighten. I don’t know how my mother can do it, knock back so many vodka martinis the night before and still be the first one up in the morning. It occurs to me, there’s a lot of things I don’t know how she does. Such as roll around this huge, empty house, day after day. Like find the energy to decorate each room with its own Christmas theme, when her only family, Conrad and me, hadn’t even committed to coming over for the holidays. We probably would’ve. Arriving late and leaving early and clenching our jaws in between.

  I’m going to have to learn this. How to live in a house all by myself. How to get up day after day, just me and my soon-to-be-born child. Does my mom think about my father every day? Does she still picture him in his study, which remains largely untouched? Or lounging in the front parlor, waiting for me to take up position at the piano? Or sitting on the front porch, puffing away on the occasional cigar?

  I miss my house. Yet I don’t know if I could’ve continued living there without seeing Conrad in every room. And I don’t know what would’ve hurt more. Memories of Conrad laughing at his first attempt at laying floor tiles, which didn’t go anything like the video showed, or dead Conrad, brains on the wall, gun in his lap in the upstairs office?

  What was my husband doing? And what kind of woman marries a man like that?

  I imagine I’ll get another visit from the police today, and that as much as anything motivates me to roll out of bed.

  I shower, taking my time because I’m in no hurry to face my mother or start the day. I don’t have the answers when it comes to Conrad. Flora Dane met him in a bar. A kidnapping victim and my husband, meeting up in the South. I can’t wrap my mind a
round it. Crazier, Flora thought he might have been trying to send her a message in Morse code. How did Conrad even know Morse code?

  I feel like I’ve spent years trying to unravel the riddle of my husband. If I haven’t figured it out by now, it’s not going to happen. Instead, I have a different target in mind. My father. Maybe the first step to understanding what my life has become is to go backward, to try to solve the question of what happened sixteen years ago, when everything first went so wrong.

  My mother gave me names of some of my father’s colleagues from that time. I think it’s time I give them a call.

  I complete my shower, getting to use the toiletries I purchased yesterday, my own brands versus my mother’s, and that minor show of strength bolsters me until I open the closet and contemplate the full lineup of brand-new maternity clothes, all in tasteful pale shades and in order from barely pregnant to hot-air balloon.

  That’s right, my mother is batshit crazy.

  But also clever. The perfectly appointed house. The meticulously outfitted nursery. Just how far would she go to get her daughter back—or really, to get her future grandchild all to herself?

  I never saw who shot Conrad. I have no idea who might have been in the house before me. I can’t picture my mom opening fire on my husband any more than I could picture her aiming a shotgun at my father. But then, my mother has never been one to do her own work. That’s what underlings are for. Particularly men, whom, from my earliest memory, she’s been able to manipulate with a single crook of her finger.

  I always thought my parents loved each other. But did they? All marriages have ups and downs. If she thought for a moment that my father was losing interest, might even leave her . . . Who was the female professor my mother mentioned?

  I pick a heavy cable-knit sweater in a light caramel, because I’m suddenly chilled and not liking at all where my thoughts have taken me.

  * * *