Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,141

all of Conrad’s usernames, they could now rebuild his own activities online, uncovering the very dangerous dance that Conrad had started, thinking he was thwarting a hired assassin, but instead unwittingly exposing himself and his activities to Mr. Delaney, who then decided Conrad had grown too dangerous to live.

I don’t get to hear about it as much, but I’ve caught snippets of conversation between Flora and D.D.—the feds are reworking Jacob Ness’s computer. In fact, they are using some of Conrad’s usernames to track Ness’s online activities during Flora’s abduction. A local expert, Keith Edgar, is helping. I only know this because D.D. likes to say Keith’s name to watch Flora blush. Interesting.

Flora is waiting for something. Wants something. From time to time she snaps at D.D., have you heard anything new, what the hell is Quincy doing anyway? D.D. counsels patience. She is clearly waiting for information, too. But I can tell she’s much more worried about what the information will mean.

The truth hurts. I know that. Sergeant Warren knows that. Flora will figure out it, all in good time. And when she does, D.D. and I and maybe this Keith guy will be there for her.

My husband is gone.

We loved each other. We created a home together. We made a life together. And we lied and we lied and we lied.

I miss his smile. I miss the solid strength of his arms. I miss the look of wonder on his face when he contemplated the swell of my stomach, the mystery of our unborn child.

And now I will raise our baby alone.

I think I will teach. Return to my classroom and my brilliant, lazy, frustrating, hormonal, but never boring students. I feel like if I don’t put one stake in the ground, one piece of something familiar, I will become completely untethered and float away.

Too much of my life has been lies. I get to own that. Too much of my life has been isolating. I get to own that, too. And too much of my life has been spent running away instead of running toward. I want something to run toward. My child. A community. Friends.

I think Flora and I are friends. She doesn’t know it yet, but once my lawyer sorts everything out, Flora will be coming into an inheritance of her own. I’ll disguise it somehow. Anonymous gift, legacy from a long-last aunt. There’s always a way.

But she saved me. I wouldn’t have gotten out of the burning house without her. She saved me and she saved my unborn child.

My baby lives.

This, I can process. I can feel him or her each night, a swelling of my own body, making way for this new, incredible force. I can close my eyes and see each little finger and toe, resiliently forming, then growing, growing, growing. Arms, legs, nose, mouth, delicately curving ears.

My baby lives. We talk. We love. We share. No more lies. No more walls. My father was brilliant, my mother was melodramatic, my husband was a hero and a liar, my family was complicated.

No more.

I want to buy a cute town house in a normal neighborhood. Maybe one with a park nearby. And given my improved fortunes, I will have a nanny for the early years, then day care when my child is older. Or maybe I’ll meet a nice older woman who’d love to help out a single mom living on the same block. I will host barbecues where I can get to know my neighbors’ names, and let them learn a little bit about me.

And I won’t stand in a corner anymore. I will step up. I will become part of the world I live in, even when it’s scary. Because life is scary, but it still beats the alternative.

Flora turns down another road, then another.

She’s not humming anymore, but her finger is tapping impatiently on the wheel. We’re getting close, I think. I wonder if Flora knows that she is smiling.

Then a house bursts into view. Two stories, painted a charming yellow with slightly eccentric lavender shutters. The wraparound farmer’s porch offers an array of benches, and rocking chairs with all sorts of brilliantly colored pillows, while the front door is a bright cherry red.

The car hasn’t even parked when the front door bursts open and a woman I can only presume is Flora’s mom comes hopping out, still pulling on her second boot. Half her hair is on top of her head, half is trailing down her back, and she