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

ALSO BY LISA GARDNER

NOVELS

The Perfect Husband

The Other Daughter

The Third Victim

The Next Accident

The Survivors Club

The Killing Hour

Alone

Gone

Hide

Say Goodbye

The Neighbor

Live to Tell

Love You More

Catch Me

Touch & Go

Fear Nothing

Crash & Burn

Find Her

Right Behind You

Look for Me

SHORT WORKS

The 7th Month

3 Truths and a Lie

The 4th Man

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Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Gardner, Lisa, author.

Title: Never tell : a novel / Lisa Gardner.

Description: New York, New York : Dutton, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, [2019]

Identifiers: LCCN 2018042977| ISBN 9781524742089 (hardback) | ISBN 9781524742096 (ebook)

Subjects: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3557.A7132 N48 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018042977

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

In memory of Wayne Rock, exceptional detective and human being.

We miss you, my friend.

Contents

Also by Lisa Gardner

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: EVIE

Chapter 2: D.D.

Chapter 3: FLORA

Chapter 4: EVIE

Chapter 5: D.D.

Chapter 6: FLORA

Chapter 7: EVIE

Chapter 8: D.D.

Chapter 9: FLORA

Chapter 10: EVIE

Chapter 11: D.D.

Chapter 12: FLORA

Chapter 13: EVIE

Chapter 14: D.D.

Chapter 15: FLORA

Chapter 16: EVIE

Chapter 17: D.D.

Chapter 18: FLORA

Chapter 19: EVIE

Chapter 20: D.D.

Chapter 21: FLORA

Chapter 22: EVIE

Chapter 23: D.D.

Chapter 24: FLORA

Chapter 25: EVIE

Chapter 26: D.D.

Chapter 27: FLORA

Chapter 28: EVIE

Chapter 29: D.D.

Chapter 30: FLORA

Chapter 31: EVIE

Chapter 32: D.D.

Chapter 33: FLORA

Chapter 34: EVIE

Chapter 35: D.D.

Chapter 36: FLORA

Chapter 37: EVIE

Chapter 38: D.D.

Chapter 39: FLORA

Chapter 40: EVIE, D.D., AND FLORA

Chapter 41: EVIE, D.D., AND FLORA

Chapter 42: EVIE

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1 EVIE

BY THE TIME I PULL my car into the garage, my hands are shaking on the wheel. I tell myself I have no reason to feel so nervous. I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong. I still sit there an extra beat, staring straight ahead, as if some magic answer to the mess that is my life will appear in the windshield.

It doesn’t.

With a bit of care, I can still slide out of the driver’s seat. I’m bigger, but not that much bigger. I fight more with my bulky coat, the strap of my oversized purse, as I ease out from behind the steering wheel. Conrad bought me the purse as a Christmas gift last year. From Coach. Real leather. At least a couple of hundred dollars. At the time, I’d been so excited I’d thrown my arms around him and squealed. He’d laughed, told me he’d seen me eyeing the bag in the store and had just known he had to get it for me.

When I’d hugged him then, he’d hugged me back. When I’d laughed that day, and giddily opened up the huge, gray leather bag to explore all the compartments, he’d laughed with me.

Christmas morning. Nearly one year ago.

Had we hugged since? Laughed since?

The bulge in my belly would argue we’d found some way to connect, and yet, if not for the streams of bright colored lights and gaudy decorations covering my neighborhood, I’m not sure it would feel like the holidays at all. As it is, we’re one of the last undecorated houses on the block. A wreath on our door; that’s it. Each weekend we promised to get a tree. Each weekend, we didn’t.

I take my time hefting my purse over my shoulder. Then I turn and face the door leading from the garage into the house.

Dead man walking, I think. And something crumples inside me. I don’t cry. But I’m not sure why.

The door is open. Cracked slightly. As if on the way out, I didn’t pull it hard enough shut. Letting out all the heat, my father would say, which causes me a fresh pang of pain.

I push through the interior door, close it firmly behind me. That’s it. I’m home. Standing in the mudroom. Another day done. Another night to begin.

Hang up the purse. Shrug out of the coat. Ease off the boots. Bag on the bench. Jacket on the coat rack. Shoes on the mat. I fish my cell phone out of my bag and set it up on the side table to charge. Then, I take a final moment.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Listening for him.

The kitchen? He could be sitting at the table. Waiting in front of a cold dinner. Or pointedly taking the last bite. Or maybe he’s moved into the family room, ensconced in his recliner, feet up, beer in hand, eyes glued to ESPN. Sunday is football. Go Patriots. I’ve lived in Boston long enough to know that much. But Tuesday night? I never got into sports. He’d watch; I’d read. Back in the days when we spent so much time glued together, it seemed natural to also have some time apart.

I don’t hear the clinking of silverware from the kitchen. Nor the low rumble of TV from the family room.

Door open, I remember. And my left hand flattens on the relatively small, but noticeable, curve of my belly.

The hall leads me to the kitchen. A spindly table sits in front of the back window. No sign of dinner. But then I notice a rinsed plate lying neatly in the sink.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I should have a story, I think. An excuse. A lie. Something. But in the growing silence, my thoughts churn more, my brain spinning wildly.

Dead man walking. Dead woman walking?

I’m going to vomit. I can blame it on the baby. You can blame anything on pregnancy. I’m sick, I’m tired, I’m stupid, I lost track of time. Baby brain, pregnancy hormones. For nine whole months, nothing has to be my fault. And yet …

Why did I come home tonight? Except, of course, where else do I have to go? Ever since I first met Conrad ten years ago … He noticed me. He saw me. He forgave me.

And I loved him.