Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(84)

Keith holds up a heavy crystal tumbler of amber liquid. We toast, not saying a word.

“People always assume I’m claustrophobic. You know, all that time in the coffin. Except that’s the point. I spent so many days, weeks, in a pine box, I had no choice but to grow comfortable with it. Make it my home.”

“I still wear scarves,” he says at last.

It takes me a moment; then I get it. His cousin was strangled with a silk scarf. Touché.

I raise my seltzer in acknowledgment, allow myself to relax a fraction on the too-low, too-small love seat.

“Bring any of your true-crime buddies here?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We generally meet at someone’s house. When you’re spreading out crime scene photos, it tends to disturb others.”

“I think Jeeves could take it.”

“Jeeves?”

“The guy who greeted us.”

“His name is Tony.”

“Really? That doesn’t seem right at all.”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his scotch. “Now who’s typecasting?”

I almost stick my tongue out him. At the last minute, it occurs to me that would be childish, and I’m supposed to be the serious avenger sort.

“I think you can fit in this room,” he says shortly, his gaze directly on mine. “I think you’re strong and smart and can go anywhere you want to go and be anything you want to be.”

“No.”

The word comes out hard and matter-of-fact. Keith doesn’t push it, just waits.

“I work at a pizza shop. Which, oh shit, I was supposed to be at this afternoon. So from that alone, I’m not even a good pizza employee. I never finished college. I’ll never get a degree.”

“In the tech world, you’d be amazed how many business owners don’t have them.”

“But I’m not a techie either. I’m just … me.”

Again, he waits.

“People think trauma is mental,” I say abruptly. “I’m mentally scarred, damaged, take your pick. And with enough therapy, time, my mind will heal and, ta-da, one day I’ll be all better again. But trauma isn’t just mental. It’s physiological. It’s an adrenal system that’s totally burnt out, so that I spend days at a time in fight mode.” I realize as I’m describing this that one of my knees is bouncing uncontrollably. “Followed by crashes where I can barely get out of bed.

“I can’t function in crowded rooms. I never take the subway during rush hour. I can’t stand the stench of other bodies. I’m hypervigilant to the point there’s no way I could pay attention to a lecturer in a classroom environment, let alone start and finish an assignment. It’s not in me.”

“You stayed on track today.”

“We moved around today. From idea to idea and building to building. I need that kind of action. Plus, I’m better when I’m with Samuel.” I pause. “And I almost like D.D. Almost.”

“So, the right people, the right mix of activities, and you can function. Ever thought of becoming a cop?”

“No way. Real policing requires a degree, for one. So that whole college thing is an issue. Plus, ask Sergeant Warren, the paperwork alone would kill mere mortals. It’s the whole advantage of being a CI. I get all the fun, none of the legal responsibility. Besides, why should I become a detective, when it’s only a matter of time before I convince D.D. to join me on the dark side?”

Keith nods. “Based on what I know from my detective friends, you have a valid point. Are you happy?” he asks me abruptly.

“I don’t aspire to happiness.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not something I feel.”

“Survivor’s guilt?”

“Maybe. Or again, burnt-out adrenals. Highs are hard to come by.”

“Your family?”

“Love me despite me.”

“Mine, too.”

“You’re an obviously successful computer guru. What’s not to love?”

“My blog. My intense interest in violent crime. They find it … distasteful. So do a lot of women, I might add. In the beginning, when I first mention my true-crime club, it sounds like a cool hobby. But then when they start to understand that it’s real work, with photos of corpses and sketches of crime scenes and analysis of blood spatter … I enjoyed today,” he says suddenly. “Today, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone in a crowded room.”

The way he says the statement, so quiet, so matter-of-fact, makes me catch my breath. Then, in the next instant, the alarms start ringing in my mind. It’s too perfect. It’s too exactly the right kind of thing to say to a woman like me. Almost as if he’s been studying me. Which we both know, for the past six years, he has.

“I have to go.” I put down the seltzer. My hand is shaking. I hate that. But then I snatch up my jacket and immediately feel better. The inside left pocket contains my homemade pepper-spray concoction. I reach for it without even thinking, let my fist close around it.

Keith is blinking, as if I’ve confused him. But I don’t buy the act anymore. At least, I think it’s an act. I don’t know. I wish he didn’t look the way he looked. I wish I didn’t know the things I know.