Лиза Гарднер - Never Tell - A Novel (A D.D. Warren and Flora Dane Novel)

“Flora?” Keith asks quietly. He hasn’t moved.

“Did Jacob have a partner?” I say. “In your research, is there any evidence he knew other predators, maybe connected with them online?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What does that mean ?”

“It means I’m not the FBI. I don’t have access to his laptop the way they do. Jacob was a loner. Yet, the amount he traveled, his ability to so completely cover his tracks … I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some friends, associates helping him out. Why are you here, Flora? Why are you asking these questions now?”

“You said you didn’t have access to the FBI.”

“No.”

I finally look at him. “I do.”

He regards me evenly. “Why here, why now?” he repeats. “What happened?”

“I need to know everything about Jacob Ness before I met him. Help me answer those questions, and eventually, I’ll answer yours.”

He doesn’t even blink. “When do you want to start?”

“Right now. Get your computer. We’re going to make a call.”

Chapter 13 EVIE

WHAT IS THE PERFECT MARRIAGE? When I first met Conrad, I felt like acceptance was the key. I was at a fellow teacher’s cookout. A rare public venture, since even back then my past followed me everywhere. But it was May, a beautiful sunny day after another long Boston winter, and I wanted one afternoon of feeling like everyone else. So I showed up, a young teacher, hanging out, eating slightly charred chicken in a colleague’s backyard.

I heard his laugh. That’s what caught my attention first. Booming. Natural. Unencumbered. In my family, my parents’ house … I don’t remember ever hearing anyone laugh like that.

Conrad was standing in the corner near the fence, sweaty beer in hand, ketchup stain on a blue Hawaiian shirt. He was clearly holding court, regaling the gathering throng. So I drifted closer, still on the outskirts, but listening now.

Windows. He was telling stories of windows. Of five-by-three windows that arrived being fifteen inches by thirteen inches, and custom creams that showed up pine green, which he was then informed was merely a darker shade of cream, and even better the order he placed for a fancy home in Barrington, Rhode Island, that the factory claimed it couldn’t deliver because Rhode Island wasn’t a state—surely he meant Long Island instead.

More laughter. More swigs of beers. More stories from the road.

I don’t know how long I stood off to the side before he noticed me. He glanced over once or twice, taking in the crowd, but surely not zeroing in on a slim woman with dirty-blond hair, still nursing her first beer, which was more of a placeholder than a beverage.

Then, suddenly, he stood before me. The crowd had disappeared and the man himself had appeared. Up close, he was compact, muscularly built, with light brown hair and deep blue eyes. His features were tan, and when he smiled his teeth were a flash of white against his sun-darkened skin.

He looked … strong, and capable, and funny and honest, and like all my hopes and dreams rolled up into one package.

Then he shook my hand. Reached over and simply took it, and the feel of his calloused fingers against my skin …

I wanted him right then. In a way I’d already taught myself never to want anything. I didn’t move. I didn’t smile hello. I didn’t offer my name. But it didn’t matter. He did the talking for both of us. He did the laughing for both of us. Later, he asked for a walk around the block, just so we could get to know each other, and he asked me so many questions, that I found myself answering.

None of my answers fazed him. Not my job as a math teacher ( great, a woman with brains! ), not my legendary father ( that must be interesting, I don’t have any family left ), and not what had happened one day when I was sixteen, that still left me gutted and reeling and untethered to real life ( I’m so sorry, I lost both my parents several years ago; you never get over the loss ).

By the time we hit the end of the street and were headed back, I was hooked. I wanted the boom of his laugh, the brightness of his company, the way he looked at me, truly looked at me. As if nothing I could do or say would shock him. Or make him not want me.

That’s who I fell in love with in the beginning. A guy who seemed to accept me, unconditionally.

It wasn’t until later that I realized that Conrad was also the kind of guy who seemed to get everyone. Strangers gravitated toward him in a crowded bar. Neighbors lingered just to talk to him.

It was his superpower, what made him so good at his job, traveling to job sites, spec’cing out high-end windows, soothing irate customers.

Everyone loved Conrad. Everyone felt heard and understood and acknowledged by him.

Yet how well did any of us know him? A guy who logged so many hours on the road with little or no accountability? A guy with no family to visit and tell stories about his younger years?

A guy who did all the talking but never really told you anything about himself.

Then there was the locked door.

Innocent enough. I ran out of packing tape in the kitchen. Walked up to Conrad’s office, thinking he’d have a fresh roll. He was traveling, his office door shut. No biggie, I thought. I went to turn the knob only to discover that I couldn’t.

Confusion. A locked door in my own house? Followed shortly by disbelief. Why would Conrad even bother? There was only me hanging around and it’s not like a custom window business involved state secrets. Followed shortly by … curiosity.

A locked door is a puzzle. And no self-respecting mathematician can walk away from a puzzle.

It became a game for me. Every time the door was closed, to wander by, test it. Conrad watching TV downstairs at night. Door unlocked. Gone for an afternoon meeting. Locked. Business trips, definitely locked. Two A.M. when I got up just because I had to know, locked again.

I never said a word, of course. That would imply that I didn’t trust him—wouldn’t it?

Anyway, I grew up with a mom who regularly manipulated reality to best suit her needs. I didn’t want to be told an answer. I wanted to learn it for myself.

So I did what any dysfunctional adult who is accustomed to chronic lies would do: I waited till my husband’s next business trip; then I picked the lock to his private office.

My hand shook when I first cracked open the door. My heart was pounding. I felt like Bluebeard’s wife, stepping into the very room she’d been warned about. The next thing I would see would be the hanging corpses of past wives.

I discovered file cabinets. Stacks of window catalogues. A printer/scanner. And a cleared spot on the desk where Conrad’s laptop usually lived. I went through the files. Once you’ve committed B and E you can’t just walk away. I found project files, various blueprints for homes up and down the East Coast. I found vendor files, handwritten notes on upcoming product changes, and new and improved color options.

In the end, I got on my hands and knees. I searched for documents taped under the desk, files slipped behind the cabinets, maybe even a computer code stamped to the bottom of the executive leather chair. I felt crazed. A woman having an out-of-body experience. It struck me that this was exactly what my mother would do. My poor husband was simply in the habit of locking up, and here I was, turning it into sordid drama.

Why couldn’t I simply trust him? Or was it me I didn’t trust? Did I figure that anyone who loved me the way he loved me had to have something wrong with him?

I crawled around the office on my hands and knees. I went through every single scrap of paper. If Conrad hadn’t been out of town, if he’d returned home early, there’s no way I would’ve been able to justify my behavior, the total gutting of his neat and almost hyperorganized professional space.