Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(49)

“Why in the world would I arrange to burn down my own home, especially with my cell phone, purse, and all personal possessions inside?”

“People do stupid things.”

“Then I must be a real idiot,” I finally snap, “to burn down my own home after already being discovered holding the gun that killed my husband.”

“Maybe you decided shooting the computer—what was it, twelve times?—wasn’t enough.”

Standing behind us, Mr. Delaney clears his throat. D.D. isn’t supposed to be asking questions about the shooting, and she knows it. She’s just trying to rattle me, see what she can shake loose.

“Maybe this isn’t about me,” I say finally. “Maybe this is about Conrad. All spouses have secrets. Just ask your husband.”

The redhead finishes clearing one pile, moves on to the next waist-high collection of rubble. At least the house didn’t have a basement, given the high water table in the area. Some of our neighbors did, and the constant flooding drove them insane. Conrad had liked this house particularly for its slab construction, plus the one-car garage. I had liked its cozy size, the charm of the hardwood floors, even if they’d been trashed at the time.

We’d been happy the day we signed the papers on this home. Bought a bottle of champagne, which I’d clutched to my chest as Conrad carried me over the threshold. I’d been laughing, demanding that he put me down. It all seemed so ridiculous and silly and … perfect. A great day for a young couple, with so many great days ahead.

D.D. is still watching me. I shouldn’t get emotional in front of her. I shouldn’t let her know that standing here right now, looking at the destroyed remains of so many dreams, hurts.

The redhead shouts her name. She gives me one last look, then jogs into the debris field toward her fellow detective.

I will have my papers soon enough, I think.

Except a heavy black SentrySafe is not what the redhead has discovered.

—

THIS LOCK BOX is thin. Maybe an inch tall with roughly the same dimensions as a pad of paper. At first glance, it looks like a tablet computer, which gives me an unsettling thought—I’d shot up a computer, but had I shot up the computer? I don’t know anymore, and this isn’t the time or place to wonder.

The outside of the box is covered in soot and charred along the edges. It doesn’t appear heavy-duty enough for a fire-resistant or waterproof rating; then again, I don’t recognize the box at all.

The redhead detective clutches it tightly against his stomach. I’d sent the detectives for a file cabinet. They’d discovered a small lockbox. All parties are equally confused—and equally suspicious.

D.D. starts the negotiations: “You got a key?”

“Of course not. I don’t even have a fucking cell phone.”

If the profanity bothers them, no one says anything. “The key was kept in the lock,” I lie eventually. “Dig a layer deeper. You’ll find it.”

“Neil,” D.D. orders, taking the box from him.

The twelve-year-old returns to the blackened debris field, rake in hand.

“You said you were looking for a fireproof safe,” D.D. states shrewdly. “You know, like one of heavily reinforced boxes discovered in airplane wreckages.”

I ignore her, keep my eyes on the redhead: where he’s digging, his approximate location in the house … He’s standing under Conrad’s office, I determine. Which leads me to my next thought: all those wooden filing cabinets, chock-full of boring customer files. What if it wasn’t the files that had mattered? What if beneath them had sat this flat, nondescript box?

I want to believe I would’ve seen it. On my many, many missions, working through the cabinets, shoving manila folder after manila folder aside in sheer frustration. Then again, a container this thin could’ve been tucked beneath one of the filing cabinets itself; I’d never thought to lift an entire thing. Given the size and weight of the broad, double-drawer units, I’m not even sure I could’ve. But Conrad, fit and muscular …

Would I have noticed the disruption? A slight change in positioning of the cabinet, a fresh scratch on the old hardwood? Or maybe I had, which is why I’d kept coming back. Because just like Conrad had sensed the disturbance in his locked office every time he returned, I’d also sensed something had changed every time I returned. And around and around we’d spun.

Secrets.

Had my husband ever loved me? Or had he married me because once he knew the true story behind my father’s death, he’d assumed I would be the type to forgive and forget?

Shouting. The redhead Neil is now attacking a pile of rubble with renewed vigor, clearly having spotted something. Slowly but surely, I make out the compact shape of a fireproof safe. The filing box is not huge, but it is heavy as hell, as I can relate from personal experience. Dragging it out of the master closet was like dragging a boulder, only to stick in a few insurance docs, then—several deep breaths later—heave it back into place.

Neil tosses aside the rake and shovel. He’s cleared the area around the box. Now he has both arms around it. Two or three staggering steps later, he’s on the move, having to carefully navigate his way through the ruins with the bulky SentrySafe clutched against his chest.

As he approaches, I can tell the fireproof, waterproof safe has lived up to its heavily warrantied reputation. There’s barely a scratch on it. In comparison to the flat metal lock box, the SentrySafe still has a key dangling from the front lock. The key is now black and singed, but a key is a key.