Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Whatever she’d seen—and she’d seen, she had, she could not erase that memory, more like half a memory, but still indelibly drawn—whatever she’d seen, whatever she’d witnessed, she’d have to tell. She’d dialed her cell phone, fearing Tom’s reaction, eager for his reaction, knowing his love for her would outweigh his anger. He’d be angry, yes, but only because he loved her. I am Tom and you are Willow.

  No answer. Should she leave a message? “I’m okay,” she’d whispered. “I’m coming home.” Where was Tom? What if that man had already—

  Without thinking, without planning, panic taking over again, she’d flown down the fire stairs, out through the lobby, into the urban darkness, neon, and headlights. The hotel’s front door was deserted. The street sign at the corner said Boylston and Clarendon. Cab. She needed a cab.

  And one arrived, because it was meant to be and soon she was home and that’s why she stood here, in her own entryway of their own house, safe, she hoped, in The Reserve.

  She paused, listening. Tom might be upstairs, asleep.

  She checked her phone again. But of course no one had called her—this was her prepaid, the one she’d used to contact Olive, and later to tell her never mind. And probably why Tom hadn’t answered. The number would show up as “unknown.” They were trained never to answer unknown calls.

  She tiptoed up the stairs, light still off, hating to awaken Tom, listening through the darkness for his breathing, or the rustle of sheets, or some sound reassuring her she’d done the right thing. Had he heard her message?

  Tom would take care of her. They were in this together.

  Down the hall, the bedroom light flipped on.

  Her heart filled. He must have known it was her. He was there.

  “Willow?”

  She couldn’t find the voice to answer. She dropped her bag onto the floor, had to get there more quickly, threw herself down the hall and around the corner until she was facing him.

  Tom was standing by the side of the bed. Fully dressed.

  Pointing a gun at her.

  “No!” She screamed it, her throat closing her mind exploding her world ending—and she steeled herself for what was to come, the pain and the answers, that the reality of life wasn’t always what you expected. “No!”

  “No, no, Willow, Willow.” Tom was holding her, and the gun was on the floor, and she was in his arms. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I got your message—where were you?—and Olive’s, too. About what happened. But I didn’t know it was you on the stairs. When you didn’t answer, I thought it was—”

  The man. She almost said it out loud.

  But she was crying then, full out, the day and the night and the fear and telling the secret of what she’d seen.

  46

  JANE RYLAND

  Jane pulled her car out of the parking lot behind her condo again, muttering. Some moron had parked in her space. Now, just after midnight, she would have to risk a ticket by parking on the street.

  She was too darn nice, she berated herself. She should call, get the car towed, and reclaim the space she paid way too much for. She drove up Corey Road, top down, searching for a spot. The drapey silver maples rustled in the August night. Blue lights of flickering televisions glowed from the windows of her neighbors’ brownstones and an occasional horn bleeped from Beacon Street a block away. Parking was a pain, but she was still floating from the night’s success.

  Great pictures. She’d already rewound the video and seen the club, the music, the drinks, the bar, the whole up-too-close-and-personal atmosphere. Isabel, after whatever emotional bump in the road she’d encountered, seemed to regroup, and went off with Elaine and her pals, assuring Jane and Fee she’d be fine. Plus, Jane had a pretty darn great shot of Jake and D and that guy they’d corralled. Maybe Jake was already here, upstairs, with a glass of wine for her. And plans.

  Head on a swivel, she drove all the way up to Winthrop—nothing—then pulled into a driveway to make a U-turn. Every spotlight on the exterior of the house flashed on, blasting her with light. Motion detectors. Sorry, sorry, I’m leaving, Jane thought, and backed into the street to try again.

  Bingo. Not half a block away from her building, a spot. She gunned her Audi—not that there was anyone else vying for the space at this hour—raced ahead, and snagged it. Checking the rearview, she parallel-parked in one try.

  Put up the top, she reminded herself. She checked the rearview again, and laughed. She still didn’t look like herself, in the ball cap and ponytail. Her dumb glasses. The convertible top whomped into place, and she clicked the latches, grabbed her bag, opened the car door.

  Paused.

  The street was deserted, cars lining each side, streetlights creating a string of orange pools alternating with shadows. Up the street, the motion sensor lights flipped off, deepening the darkness.

  She took out her cell phone. Clicked it on. Slammed the car door closed and locked it. An ambulance screamed up Beacon Street, flaring the side street with a sudden bath of red light, its wail fading as it headed toward Kenmore.

  She snapped her head around, noticing another change in the darkness. A light inside a parked car. Down the street, a blue or black car. She fingered her cell phone as she walked. Three floors up, her windows were still in semi-gloom, only the fool-the-burglar light she always left on glowing protectively. Jake wasn’t there.

  “Get a grip, sister,” she whispered. Trying to laugh at herself, she trotted toward her building, feeling the ponytail jouncing, the short skirt still strange. She made it up the front steps, and hearing the front door lock securely behind her, grabbed her mail, some of it on the floor as always, and took the stairs to her apartment two at a time.

  All good, all good. Coda greeted her at the door. No Jake. She flipped on the lights—nothing, no intruders, no sense that anyone had been here. Not that anyone would have been.

  She stashed the phone, dumped her tote bag, hefted her newest stack of bills and magazines and added them to the dining room table pile with the ones Neena had delivered the night before. She’d look at all of it tomorrow.

  Well, maybe just a quick look now. Bill, bill, circular—and then, in Neena’s pile …

  A plain white envelope.

  White, sealed. No stamp. Addressed to her. She turned it over. No return address.

  She slid a fingernail under the right corner, peeled it away, ripped it open, Coda curling around her ankle.

  “I don’t like this, cat,” she said.

  She unfolded the single piece of white paper.

  Black ink. Three words. Block letters.

  SAY NO MORE.

  47

  JAKE BROGAN

  “D? Can you hear me?” Jake knelt beside his partner, felt for the carotid pulse. Weak. D’s face had gone gray, green, sweat coursing down one cheek, his skin clammy, hot and cold at the same time. Eyes closed. Breathing? Barely.

  “What’s happening?” Trey Welliver cringed in his chair, as if something he did had triggered this.

  “Use that black phone on the table,” Jake ordered Trey. “Push zero. Say ‘Interview room C, we have an officer down.’ Got it? ‘Officer down, room C.’ Now. Now. Now.”

  With his own heart slamming against his ribs, willing his hands to work and his brain to function, Jake rolled D—D!—onto his back, opened his collar, loosened his belt, watching his friend and partner changing into a wraith, a ghost, a … Jake thought of all D’s cryptic phone calls, that surreptitious texting.

  “You okay, D?” he whispered. “Stay with me here, bud.” He heard Trey on the phone, saying what Jake had told him to, already heard footsteps in the corridor hall thudding toward the room.

  Aspirin. I need to give him an aspirin. He patted the pockets of D’s jeans, felt a lump. Pulled out a flat pad of folded tissue, opened it. Aspirin. He put one under D’s tongue, wondering if this was a myth or if it would really help.

  CPR. Do it. He cleared D’s airway, adjusted his head, and started pumping
his chest. The door slammed open and three uniforms pointed their weapons at Trey.

  “Hands in the air!” one yelled. “Freeze!”

  “No!” Trey yelled.

  “No!” Jake yelled, too, realizing what this must look like. “He’s not a shooter! It’s D. I think he’s having a heart attack.”

  How many bodies—people—had Jake seen, lifted onto stretchers, strapped in by medics? How many oxygen masks and chest compressions? It was all part of the deal, part of his day, part of what he’d signed up for. But this—was D.

  The medical team flooded into the room, moving Jake aside to begin the swift efficiency of their lifesaving dance.

  “Thanks, Jake, we got this now,” one EMT said.

  During emergencies, Jake’s mind always worked triple-time, torqued up, the pressure and the speed and the uncertainty, the need for instant decision-making all part of his skill and training. But this was D. This was different. This was the other side of the equation. And Jake was full-blown angry now. The medics were pushing him out of this, all by the book—this wasn’t his job, he understood that—but he had to go to the hospital, go with D, and they were saying no.

  “Why the hell not?” He grabbed a medic by the arm, demanding. “He’s my partner, for crap sake.”

  “You’re interrogating a suspect, Jake. You can’t just leave him,” she said. “And we can’t wait for your backup. Sorry, Jake. We’ve got DeLuca, okay? Got him. Rely on it.”

  Forget that. He’d go to the damn hospital on his own, haunt the place if he had to. They were partners. EMTs were already powering D away, racing down the hall on the rumble of metal wheels.

  “Uh, sir?”

  Trey. Right, Trey. Standing there, looking annoyed, or bored, or confused. Trey, the polar opposite of DeLuca. Young, strong, wealthy, privileged, with the rest of his life ahead of him. And a criminal.

  Tell his parents? Jake remembered the kid’s imbecilic threat. He’d better tell his parents to get a lawyer. A fricking good one.

  “Theodore Welliver.” Jake spat the words, furious with the whole ridiculous unfair world, a world where happy endings were rare, a world that was unreliable and could take away a colleague—a brother—before you knew what happened.

  He had one more thing to do, damn it, before he raced to the hospital.

  “Yeah?” the kid said. “So can I go?”

  Jake focused on him. He should clear this with the DA, of course. Jake knew the protocol. But screw protocol.

  “Theodore Welliver? You are under arrest for the murder of Avery Morgan. You have the right to remain silent.…”

  THURSDAY

  48

  JANE RYLAND

  Jake. It had to be Jake. Jane almost fell out of bed, grabbing the phone. Six A.M. The emptiness of the space beside her had kept her touching only the edge of sleep all night, every sound she heard or imagined she heard startling her hyper-awake, hearing the rattle of his key in the door, willing it, waiting, disappointed. And that second note. Another three-word note. She needed to tell Jake. And McCusker. But what could either of them do?

  “Hello?” She willed herself into clarity, propped on her elbow. No answer. No answer? The note. The blue-or-black car with the light on.

  Coda slept, oblivious, in her spot by Jane’s left foot. Where was Jake? If he weren’t a cop, she’d be worried. She was worried anyway. She touched Gramma Brogan’s diamond, hoping it’d telegraph, somehow, if something was wrong. Jake had to be fine. But where was he? She’d texted, but he hadn’t answered.

  “Hello?” Silence. A million horribles slithered through her mind. “Hello?” And then the phone connection clicked into life.

  “I thought you were the one with the cop shop source, sister.”

  Fiola. Not Jake. Not a bad guy. But cop shop?

  “What’s wrong?” Now Jane’s heart actually leaped, she felt it, and her hand flew to her chest to hold it in place. Coda blinked, resettled herself. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, ‘wrong’ depends on who you are.”

  Jane heard the tone in Fee’s voice, wry and amused.

  “Your friend Detective Jake Brogan—”

  “Fee.” Jane had to interrupt, fear twisting her voice. “What about him?”

  “—made an arrest for the Avery Morgan murder. Last night. So say my sources.” Fee was clearly proud of herself.

  “He did? Last night?” Jane stood, went to the window overlooking the courtyard. If she twisted the right way, she could see a sliver of street. The blue-or-black car was gone.

  “It’s not public yet,” Fee went on. “So we can’t use it. Yet. But apparently it’s all teacher-student intrigue, secret assignations, unrequited lust, and jealousy. He killed her Monday afternoon between two and four, so says the source. Got to love it.”

  “Who’d Jake arrest? When? Where? Why?”

  “You forgot ‘how many,’ Miss Journalism School,” Fee said. “And the answer to that is ‘one.’ One kid, a senior, guy named Theodore Welliver. They call him Trey.”

  A kid. A college kid. Jane knew where Jake had been earlier that night—the Spotted Owl. And she’d seen him and DeLuca with a “kid.” Jake was probably still processing the guy. He couldn’t have texted her about it—that would have been way out of bounds. Though he had texted “developments.”

  Could she have videotaped the actual arrest? She knew exactly how to find out.

  “Photo?” Jane asked.

  “Looking,” Fee said.

  “Because, Fee? Last night at the Spotted Owl, did you see…” No, Fee hadn’t seen Jake, Jane realized. Because first of all, Fee had been in the bathroom, and besides, she’d never met Jake.

  And Jane hadn’t told Fee about seeing Jake, because she might assume Jane had divulged where they’d be. Which she hadn’t, though no one would believe that. Another example of why the cop/reporter relationship was dangerous.

  It took Jane thirty seconds to get rid of Fee—ignoring the producer’s efforts to get more deets but promising to come in to the station—so she could call Isabel. Yes, it was too early. No, that wouldn’t stop her.

  She could hear Isabel breathing on the other end of the line as Jane told her all she knew. Which was not much except for the kid’s name.

  “So?” Jane wrapped up. This was a story, a big one. This was where breaking news kicked in, no matter what other assignments a reporter had. Jane had to tap any source she could. “Whatever you say is confidential. But do you know him? Anything about him?”

  Silence.

  “Isabel?”

  “Can you come over?” Isabel said.

  Great. “Sure. Like, now? Is it too early?” Jane yanked off her T-shirt as she juggled the phone and headed toward the shower, trying to move as quickly as possible. She’d decided to tell McCusker about the new note. But this came first.

  “It’s fine,” Isabel said. “See you soon.”

  “I’ll hop in the shower,” Jane went on, undressing as she went, “throw on jeans, and come over, a-sap. Thirty minutes. But, so, you know him? This—”

  She stopped, naked now, in the middle of the still-dark hallway, Coda’s cold nose nudging her ankle. “Isabel?”

  Dial tone. Had Isabel hung up? Maybe she’d thought the conversation was over.

  It took less than thirty to get to her apartment. The glass front door to Isabel’s building was unlocked, as it had been the other time Jane was there. In the dingy marble lobby, its walls covered with taped-up notices for guitar lessons and tutoring and lost laptops, Jane jabbed the elevator button, impatient. No creepy Sholto guys, or any guys, had been skulking around her condo, and there was no parking ticket on the car she’d left illegally on-street all night. No way was she going back outside last night, not after getting that note.

  Had someone waited for her, but been confused by her disguise? She should have called Jake about it, but she’d expected him home any minute. Then fallen asleep. Kind of asleep.

  The elevator doors op
ened. Two texting girls in cutoffs came out, ignoring Jane. In a minute she was at fifteen, at Isabel’s door. Which was open. Less than an inch. But open.

  “Isabel?” Jane stepped inside, one step, easing the door open across the pile of the pale blue carpet.

  “Isabel?” she called out, her curiosity edged with a wisp of uncertainty. “You okay?”

  “No.” Isabel’s voice, from deep inside. “I’m not.”

  49

  JAKE BROGAN

  What if he had been in California? And all this had happened? Jake couldn’t face another cup of coffee, but this time of night—morning—and in this situation, waiting helplessly in Boston City Hospital, what else was he gonna drink? He’d had zero sleep. But he wasn’t dead.

  And neither was DeLuca. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking. Though that reality was inconceivable. An array of white-coated doctors had shown up, grim-faced and talking jargon, but Jake decided he could translate their doctorese into cautious optimism. Emphasis on “cautious,” Jake realized, and wondered again whether he might have done anything more. Better. Lifesaving.

  “You did all you could,” the receiving ER doc had assured him. DeLuca’s cell produced a raft of texts from doctors, and from Kat, urging him to take it easy, cut back, slow down. That’s what his partner had been hiding. Jake had called Kat, woke her up, tried to break the news without terrifying her. She, privilege of a doctor, was already in D’s room.

  Jake zipped his jacket up, then down. He smiled, even now, remembering how Jane always teased him about his nervous habit. He’d call her, too, soon as it was halfway appropriate. She slept with the phone by her bed, like he did, so she’d awaken if he texted. For now, six A.M.? Let her sleep.

  Down the hall Grady dozed, groggy but coming out of his drugged haze. With Trey Welliver under arrest, Grady was no longer even a marginal suspect in the Morgan murder. As for his connection to Violet Sholto’s death, that verdict was still out.

  Had Grady gone back, over to the dark side? And if so—Jake tried to replay their supposedly private conversations—when?