Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“I want to explain why I left without saying goodbye,” I tell him. “That night we met, you — well, you took my breath away. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped into bed with you way too soon. And the next morning, I felt... ashamed.”

His gaze instantly softens. “Why?”

“Because I’m not that kind of girl.” Actually, I am that kind of girl, but he doesn’t need to know that. “When I woke up the next morning, I knew what you probably thought of me, and I couldn’t face you. I was too embarrassed. So I climbed out of bed, put on my clothes, and...” I let my voice trail away and I sink onto his sofa. It’s a beautiful black leather sofa, very comfortable and certainly expensive. Not something I could ever afford.

Another point in his favor.

He sits down next to me and takes my hand. “Holly, I understand exactly what you’re saying,” he says quietly. “I may be a guy, but I felt the same way, jumping into bed with you so soon. I was afraid you’d think I was just using you. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of jerk. Because I’m not.”

“I never thought so.”

He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Okay, shall we start over?” He holds out his hand. “Hello, I’m Everett Prescott. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

We shake hands and grin at each other. Instantly, everything’s all better between us. I feel warmth flood through me, not a sexual flush this time but something deeper. Something that takes me by surprise. A connection. Is this what it’s like to fall in love?

“So tell me, why did you come back?” he asks. “Why today?”

I look down at our hands, joined together, and decide to tell him the truth. “Something awful happened. I saw it on the news this morning.”

“What happened?”

“There was a man murdered on Christmas Eve. They found his body on Jeffries Point pier.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“The thing is, I knew him.”

Everett stares at me. “God, I’m sorry. Was he a good friend?”

“No, we just went to school together, in Brookline. But the news shook me up, you know? It reminded me that anything can happen to us. At any time.”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me against him. I press my cheek against his soft flannel shirt and sniff the scent of laundry detergent and aftershave. Comforting smells that make me feel like a little girl again, safe in Daddy’s arms.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Holly,” he murmurs.

It’s something my father always says, and I don’t believe him either.

I sigh against his shirt. “No one can make that promise.”

“Well, I did.” Everett tucks a hand under my chin and lifts my gaze to his. He’s studying me, trying to understand what has shaken me so deeply. I’ve told him about Tim, but that’s only part of the story. He doesn’t need to know the rest of it.

He doesn’t need to know about the others who’ve died.

“What can I do to make you feel safe?” he says.

“Just be my friend.” I take a breath. “That’s what I need right now. Someone I can count on.” Someone who won’t ask too many questions.

“Would you like me to go with you to the funeral?”

“What?”

“For your friend. If you’re this upset about his death, you should go. It’s important to acknowledge grief, Holly. It will give you closure, and I’ll be right beside you.”

There could be advantages to having him accompany me at Tim’s funeral. He’d be an extra pair of ears to listen in on gossip, to gather information about how Tim died and what the police are thinking. But there’d be dangers as well. At Sarah Byrne’s funeral, I’d been quick to slip away. At Cassie Coyle’s funeral, I was able to pass myself off as a college classmate named Sasha, because no one recognized me. But Everett knows my name is Holly. He knows a bit of the truth, not all of it, and that’s enough to complicate any lies I need to tell. There’s an old poem that goes: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, but that’s all backward. Real problems don’t come from deception; they come from the truth.

“I can be your rock, Holly, if you want me to be,” he offers.

I look into Everett’s eyes and see the definite gleam of infatuation. Yes, he could be useful, in ways I’m only now considering.

“What do you think?” he says.

I smile. “I think I’d like that very much.”

But as our lips meet in a kiss, it suddenly occurs to me that a rock isn’t just something to cling to, something to keep you safe. It’s also something that can drag you down, down under the waves.

“This is the only mechanism of death that makes sense to me,” said Maura. “The problem is, it’s almost impossible for me to prove.”

Maura looked across the Boston PD conference table at forensic psychologist Dr. Lawrence Zucker, whose expression offered little indication whether she’d convinced him. Both Jane and Frost had remained silent, allowing Maura to present her theory without interruption. Now she had to defend it to a man whose face she’d never been able to read. A familiar visitor to the homicide unit, Dr. Zucker was the psychologist whom Boston PD consulted when they needed help understanding a perpetrator’s behavior. While Maura respected him as a fellow professional, she had never warmed to him, and no wonder. With his coldly probing gaze, he seemed more android than human, a machine designed to drill deeply and dispassionately into the mind of whoever sat before him.

And that gaze was now focused on Maura.

“Do you have any evidence to support your proposed mechanism of death?” Dr. Zucker asked, pale eyes unblinking.

“The swab of the victim’s neck turned up traces of polyisoprene as well as a C5 hydrocarbon component,” said Maura. “Both of these are commonly used in duct-tape adhesives. Inorganic materials are also common components, and that’s what made the residue visible under the CrimeScope.”

Jane said, “You can see the residue outline in the photos of his neck,” and she turned her laptop to face him.

Zucker squinted at the image. “It’s pretty subtle.”

“But it’s definitely there. Evidence of tape adhesive on his skin.”

“Maybe the tape was used to restrain him.”

“His neck showed no bruising and no scratches,” said Maura. “There was nothing on his hands to indicate a physical struggle. I believe he was already unconscious when he was killed. The lab confirmed there was alcohol and ketamine in his blood, just like we found in Cassandra Coyle. But the blood levels weren’t high enough to kill. Only to incapacitate.”

“So what was the tape on his neck for, if not to restrain him?”

“I believe it was used to fix something in place against his skin. Something that needed a fairly airtight seal. When I realized that was adhesive residue on his neck, I immediately thought of Heaven’s Gate. And I’m not referring to the Michael Cimino movie.” She paused, waiting to see if Zucker recognized the reference.

“I assume you’re referring to the cult in San Diego?” said Zucker.

Maura nodded and looked at Frost. “It happened in 1997. Heaven’s Gate was an oddball New Age cult led by a man named Marshall Applewhite, who believed he was descended from Jesus Christ. He told his followers that the world was about to be destroyed by aliens and the only way to survive was to leave earth. The comet Hale-Bopp happened to be approaching around that time, and Applewhite believed that in the comet’s tail was an alien spaceship, waiting to beam aboard their souls. But to board that ship, they first had to abandon their earthly bodies.” She paused. “I think you can all guess what that entailed.”