Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  Suddenly, my mom’s grip on my hand tightens. Except this time, she doesn’t tug. She yanks me backward. I stumble, falling halfway through the open bathroom doorway. Just as my mother, my platinum-and-pearls mother, ducks her head and charges.

  She plows straight into Delaney, his pistol, the black smoke.

  “Run, Evie, run!” my mother cries.

  Then she and Delaney disappear into the flames.

  * * *

  —

  YOU SPEND ENOUGH time chasing a dog to get back a precious black boot, you start to think like a dog. Spend the rest of your time chasing criminals, and you learn to think like a criminal.

  Rocket was going over the wooden privacy fence across the street. D.D. knew it. He was counting on his youth and athleticism to launch himself up and over and leave his chaser in the dust.

  D.D. couldn’t beat him to the fence. Nor was she swinging over tall wooden structures anytime soon. Ten years ago, maybe, but now she’d be kidding herself.

  What she could do was tap him, just enough. Vaulting took timing, balance, and a proper launch. Rocket knew how to start a fire; D.D. knew how to take someone out.

  A last burst of speed on her part. Her lungs did not appreciate it and she made a mental note to get back to morning runs, even if it was snowy and cold and she hated winter. Sound of a vehicle up ahead. Rocket heard it the second she did. He made his move, a mad dash in front of the vehicle, which he most likely assumed would slam on its brakes—or, better yet, swerve and hit D.D. instead.

  D.D. smiled.

  Just as Phil turned right into Rocket’s path, the kid slammed into the side of the hood. Then D.D. was on him, yanking both arms behind his back, as Phil flew out of the front and, weapon drawn, covered her.

  “Just like old times,” she gasped as she cuffed her prey. Being an administrative sergeant, this was her first takedown in a bit. It felt good, even if she couldn’t catch her breath and was dangerously close to ruining the moment by vomiting.

  “Anything for my partner.”

  Carol who? D.D. thought. She and Phil shared a smile. Then both of their attentions turned to Rocket, facedown against the hood.

  “Who hired you?” D.D. demanded to know.

  “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “Yes, you do. And if you want any help saving yourself after today’s fire show, you’d better start talking.”

  “I don’t know his name,” Rocket hedged.

  “Sure you do.” She leaned closer. “We know, Rocket. We know everything. Now the question is, who makes the deal first? You? Or some criminal lawyer who played you from the very beginning and won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus? Talk.”

  Rocket’s eyes widened. “You know about Mr. Delaney?”

  “Mr. Delaney? That’s interesting. Keep going.”

  Rocket did. About burning a crime scene, then about the attorney who deactivated his own security system so Rocket could have access. Followed by the distraction fires to pull everyone into Harvard Square. Exposing his real target. A fucking awesome Colonial in Cambridge.

  “Those old homes,” Rocket said with a gleam in his eyes. “Man, do they burn.”

  Phil and D.D. exchanged a glance. They could hear sirens in the distance.

  “Flora’s already there,” D.D. said.

  Phil didn’t need her to explain anything more. He threw Rocket in the back of his car, and they headed for the fire.

  * * *

  —

  I REACH THE second platform of the fire escape easily enough. The metal is already heating up from the flames inside the home. Smoke pours up from the windows below me and I can smell the undertones of grease, like that night Rocket and I tossed bottles of vegetable oil into the fire drum.

  The fire escape on this level leads to an old double-hung window. The neighbor had said she saw someone in the second-story bath. I’m tempted to shatter a pane of glass, reach through to unlatch the window and open it up. But at the last second I hesitate.

  I’m not an expert, but I know fire likes oxygen. If I burst open a window and introduce a huge gulp of fresh air into an inferno, I’m pretty sure something bad happens.

  I don’t know if this is my best idea or worst, but I keep climbing. Third level of the fire escape. Much smaller window. A tight squeeze—but not a problem for a woman whose nervous energy keeps her on the emaciated side of skinny.

  I have some experience smashing windows. Briefly, I think of another time, another place, another girl dying in front of my eyes as I desperately try to break us both out of a house. Then I force it from my mind. Elbow is your best tool. If you’re a female in a hand-to-hand combat situation, an elbow is better than your fist any day of the week. Let alone what you can do with your knee, or the heel of your foot.

  I turn my head away, count on my heavy coat for protection as I jab my elbow into the middle of the pane. Glass rains down. Quickly, I shrug out of my down coat, wrap it around my forearms, and use it to clear the rest of the glass from the pane. Then, for good measure, I lay my jacket over the bottom sill as I shimmy headfirst through the narrow space.

  I land with a thud. No graceful tuck and roll, more like ass over teakettle. But I’m in. I cough instantly, smelling the smoke.

  Okay, now I just have to make it down a level, find Evie, her mother, whomever, and watch out for a homicidal defense attorney. I tell myself I’ve been in worse situations. But the fire still makes me uneasy. Rocket Langley is right: Flames have a lethal sort of magic all their own.

  The door of the room is closed. I have a vague memory from childhood fire safety drills that I should touch the door with the back of my hand first before tugging it open. It’s warm, not hot. I stand behind the door, then yank it open.

  Nothing. But beneath me I hear an ominous sound. Sort of a scary cackle, like a witch, or blades of flame, sensing the fresh input of oxygen from above, and greedily changing course.

  Quick, I realize. Whatever happens next, it’d better be quick. The fire will give me one shot at this. Then it’s coming up these stairs one way or another. I’ll be out first with whomever I can find, or that will be that.

  If I survive this, I find myself thinking, I really should call my mom.

  I head down the stairs, keeping my head down as the smoke builds. I’m not even at the bottom before my eyes sting and the smoke feels like a crushing weight against my chest. I rip off my hoodie and tie it around my mouth and nose, though I’m not sure that will help. I just hit the second-story landing when I hear coughing that’s not my own.

  My steps quicken, but again, I’m very aware of what D.D. said: If Dick Delaney is in this house, he’s a threat as big as the fire.

  Then, before I can move, a person emerges from the smoke down the hall and nearly crashes into me. She is weeping and coughing and . . . wet. Wet towels, I realize. Her head, her shoulders.

  “Evie?” I ask.

  “My mom,” she gasps, heaves. “She went after him. Shoved him down the stairs I think.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “He killed my father. He killed my husband. Please”—cough cough—“find my mom.”

  “Okay, we’re getting you”—short pause for my own hacking fit—“out of here—”

  “My mom!”

  “Evie! Listen to me. You’re a mom!”

  My statement startles her. Immediately her hands drop down to her belly, and I can tell with everything going on, she’d forgotten that fact.

  “Your mom did what she had to do for you.” Rasp, wheeze, hack. “Now you’re going to do . . . what you have to do . . . for your baby.”

  “My mom hates me.”

  “No mom hates her daughter, Evie. Some of us just don’t understand one another.” I’m tugging her down the hall. Prattling a little because I need her to be moving and movin
g fast. I don’t want her to look behind her. I don’t want her to see the column of flame that just figured out there’s an open window upstairs.

  I don’t want her to realize that if her mother really ran backward into that . . . there is nothing Evie or I can do for her now.

  “You should meet . . . my mom,” I rasp out. We can’t go up. Pregnant Evie will never fit through that window. Which leaves us the second-story egress. A room at the end of the hall, I’m guessing. It’s one thing to study a house from the outside. Another to be inside a smoke-filled abyss and still keep a sense of direction.

  “She would love you,” I continue. I pass a doorway on the right. Jerk it open. Discover a linen closet. Keep us moving.

  “My mom’s a farmer.” I adjust my hoodie over my mouth. The smoke is so thick, cloying, stinging. “Her happy place is . . . nurturing a daughter who continuously puts herself in harm’s way . . . bane of her existence. You . . . she could feed. Me. So sorry.”

  New doorway. Please let this be the one, because I hear a roaring sound now. Nothing good comes from that sound. Not to mention, my eyes are tearing so hard I can’t really see. And the pressure on my lungs . . .

  I falter, go down.

  Oxygen. The greedy fire has consumed all the oxygen. We think we have air, but we don’t.

  Evie is tugging at me. She still has her wet cloth around her head. Smart girl.

  I find myself wondering what it would be like to be an expectant mother. Have a baby to take care of. A life to grow, versus my daily mission of obliteration.

  I think I’m going to pass out.

  She slaps me. Actually slaps me. I sputter. Try to get myself up. I can’t seem to do it.

  “Fire escape,” I manage. “Last bedroom. Window.”

  She nods. Then, she looks up, past my shoulder, and I see fear widen her eyes.

  It’s coming now, for both of us. But she can still make it.

  I think my mother will like her very much.

  They will be happy together.

  She’s gone. I don’t see her leave as much as I feel her absence. But it’s okay. Because the heat is fierce now. Like a lover, licking at my face.

  I think I hear laughing. And I know who is in those flames. Jacob. Walking through the fires of hell himself. Having the time of his afterlife. He always did love pain and suffering.

  That, as much as anything, makes me start crawling again. Because I know in my heart of all hearts, no amount of good I’ve done in the past six years will ever be enough. The real reason I don’t sleep, I don’t eat. Because those flames of hell, they are waiting for me, too. Someday, I will join Jacob there. Just as he promised.

  But not yet. Not yet.

  Then, fresh air. I feel it, gulp it greedily. Evie, she’s opened the window. She’s found the fire escape. She and her baby are going to make it.

  I have a sudden terrible premonition of what’s going to happen next. Fresh air, hitting those flames.

  I flatten on the floor, throw my hands over my head as if that will make a difference. Just as something flat and wet smacks against my arms.

  “Run,” Evie screams hoarsely in front of me. “Goddammit, move!”

  She stumbles for the far window. I’m up, making a crooked dash. The roar the roar the roar. The searing heat against my back.

  She dives awkwardly through the window. I think she’s screaming. I think I’m screaming. But all I hear is the howl of racing fire.

  I throw myself at the opening, falling against the frame.

  Just as a hand snaps through the opening, grabs my wrist, and pulls hard.

  “You will not fucking die on me!” D. D. Warren growls as she drags me through the window. The upper glass shatters. We flatten against the metal platform as flames explode above, and a spray of shockingly cold water shoots us from below, blasting back my hair. Firemen to the rescue.

  I’m clutching D.D. Or maybe she is clutching me.

  I think we are both now laughing.

  But then we are both crazy.

  “Evie?” I manage to ask.

  “Phil’s got her.”

  I don’t talk anymore. We wait till the firemen beat back the flames enough for us to slide down to the ground. Then we lie in a puddled mess for a long time.

  I look up at the sky. I think of so many things. Jacob, being sent back to the hell he came from. Keith, who is maybe more dangerous than I originally thought, but for entirely different reasons.

  Evie. Motherhood. Mothers.

  I make a decision. Then I close my eyes, because I’m simply too exhausted to think anymore.

  Jacob is laughing again. But this time, I’m the one who lets him go.

  CHAPTER 42

  EVIE

  WHEN FLORA SAID HER MOTHER lived on a farm in the wilds of Maine, she wasn’t kidding. We have been driving forever. A good four hours at least, heading farther and farther north out of Boston.

  Flora is at the wheel. It’s my car, as she doesn’t own a vehicle—but she’s the pilot, as I don’t know where we’re going. Getting out of the city had been . . . interesting. Flora drives the same way she moves: quickly, impulsively, aggressively. I might have actually let the older couple cross the street, but hey.

  Flora doesn’t talk much. It’s okay. These days, I don’t often feel like talking.

  Once Boston was behind us, she headed for Route 1 up the coast. Longer drive, but more scenic. It had been nice, watching the quaint towns and ocean views pass before us. Lobster rolls for lunch. She knew a place, total dive, which of course meant it had the best lobster in New England.

  I settled for a simple garden salad. One month after our fiery experience, we are both recovering. Flora’s throat still holds a rasp. I cough up black soot that makes me fear for my baby. Medically, however, we’ve both been checked up, down, and sideways. My health is good, my baby amazing. No more gentle swelling; I now have a firmly established baby bump and I couldn’t be more grateful. Every day I start the morning talking to my baby. Letting him or her know how happy I am to be a mom. How I can’t wait to finally meet in person. How much I’m already totally in love.

  “And your daddy loves you, too,” I always whisper. Because in my heart, I know that is true. Conrad had his secrets. But they were merely painful, not sordid. My husband was a good man. A great man, many might say, working quietly and discreetly for others.

  Sergeant Warren tells me they’re still piecing it all together, but with information from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office and testimony from the ex-wife Conrad was helping keep hidden, the Boston PD had been able to track down several other women Conrad had assisted over the years. Flora could’ve been one of them. She doesn’t talk about it. And I don’t pry. We are both women who understand there’s no point to the coulda, woulda, shouldas of life.

  Flora makes the transition from Route 1 to another windy rural road, then another and another. She is humming slightly, her fingers tapping the wheel.

  We’ve spent some time together these past few weeks, first at the hospital, then being debriefed by the police, then just . . . because. The day I was discharged from the hospital, she and D.D. seemed to have already worked out a plan: a month-to-month rental of a cute little home in Waltham. Maybe not the best location ultimately, given my job, but then again, I haven’t been to work in months and, with the baby coming and no family of my own to say do this, stay there, think about that, the rental was as good a start as any.

  Who knew there’d come a time when I’d miss my mother’s overbearing ways?

  I had lunch with the school principal and my friend Cathy Maxwell last week. It was awkward, as I expected. And yet . . . They were both so kind. We’re so sorry we didn’t know. What can we do? How can we help?

  I feel like I’ve spent my life putting up walls, hiding behind my preconceptions while judging people for the
ir own. I’m too shy to have real friends. And who would like some awkward woman most notorious for having shot her own father?

  I told them the truth at lunch. About all of it. My dad. Conrad. The men I loved. The people I lost. The mother who died for me even though I’d gone most of my life feeling as though she didn’t even like me.

  They cried. They got up, gave me hugs. They asked about what I wanted to do with my future and, of course, I needed to think about my baby, but bear in mind I’m a gifted teacher and the students love me and they both hoped I’d come back to work, even if it wasn’t until the fall.

  I cried. I hugged them back. We scheduled a time to get together again, and it occurred to me, this could be my life. This could’ve always been my life. I just have to reach out. I have to keep some doors open.

  Especially after losing so much.

  Now, Flora. She’s been working on me for weeks. I need to meet her mother. Her mother needs to meet me. We will love each other.

  My first instinct, of course, was to decline. I don’t want to be a bother, I’ve already taken up so much of Flora’s time . . . So of course I forced myself to say yes. I’m not trying to replace my mother, I remind myself firmly. Because to picture her at all, her last determined rush into the flames, taking Mr. Delaney with her . . .

  I still can’t think about it. On my bad days, I’m angry. The whole thing was her fault anyway. The selfish, narcissistic witch, plotting Katarina Ivanova’s murder in a fit of envy, then letting me carry the burden of my father’s death for the sake of his legacy. Myself, even my baby—we were merely stage pieces in the theater that was her life. She dashed into those flames, I tell myself, because that was the dramatic thing to do, and she always loved a good drama.

  My mother died. The police recovered her and Mr. Delaney’s bodies at the foot of the stairs. Still tangled together. Completely and totally burnt to a crisp.

  My mother died.

  My mother told me to run. My mother charged Mr. Delaney and plunged them both into the inferno.