Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,56

of the smartphone. Keith doesn’t touch me. But he does reach over and gently wipe the moisture away.

I end the call.

Chapter 16

EVIE

THE FIRST THING THAT HITS me when I get out of my lawyer’s car is the smell. Charred wood, slightly smoky, and not unpleasant. It brings to mind Sunday afternoons cozied up before a nice fire, sipping tea, listening to the Pats game on TV.

I have to stand perfectly still before I can fully process that it’s not a barbecue in front of me, but the remains of my home.

Mr. Delaney lets me be. He answered my call in the middle of the night without hesitation. No doubt used to odd hours, given his job as a defense attorney. And no doubt understanding that it took that long for me to finally be free from my mom, who had to complete her nightly martini ritual before turning in for bed.

It’s seven thirty, the sky just starting to lighten given the short days this time of year. The temperature remains below freezing. We are both bundled up in wool coats, hats, and gloves. Half of my neighbors still have their Christmas lights on from the night before, twinkling borders around their roofs, windows, ornamental shrubs.

It gives the whole scene a surreal feel. Merry Christmas! P.S. All that remains of your life is a charred shell of collapsing wreckage.

Then the police arrive and it’s time to get the party started.

Sergeant Warren climbs out of the car first, bundled up in a puffy blue down coat, embroidered BPD on the chest. She finishes wrapping a lighter blue scarf around her neck, then pulls on black leather gloves and a knitted hat. She still shivers slightly as she waits for the driver, a younger detective with a shock of red hair, to untangle himself from the front seat. He heads straight for the trunk, removes a rake and a shovel before pulling on a pair of heavy workman’s gloves. Gotta love the Boston PD. Prepared for anything.

D.D. gives me a look, then heads for my lawyer. She addresses her opening comments to him, as if I’m nothing but a signpost. Posturing. As a high school teacher who spends my days working with teens, I’m unimpressed. She can only pretend I don’t matter, whereas I have dozens of students who for months at a time honestly believe I don’t. Till they fail their first test, of course.

“Your client understands that the terms of our initial search warrant still stand, meaning we have the legal right to seize any items relevant to the source of the fire, as well as any additional evidence the fire may have exposed relevant to the shooting which was missed the first time around,” D.D. is rattling off.

Mr. Delaney’s answer is equally crisp: “I’ve discussed the matter with my client. She understands that as owner of the property, she is entitled to anything that isn’t considered evidence in the case. Furthermore, the police bear the burden of proving an item is evidence. Otherwise, it goes to her.”

Mr. Delaney had walked me through it last night. I couldn’t just return to my former residence and search for Conrad’s firesafe filing box. The police would take exception and seize whatever I discovered as a matter of principal. So invite them over. Make a show of cooperating fully with the authorities. They would open the SentrySafe box, but the contents should belong to me. Not like the ignition source of the arson fire was in the middle of a fire-resistant safe.

All I wanted was our financial records, including the copy of the life insurance policy Conrad took out when he learned I was pregnant, as well as our homeowners’ policy. The box also contained our passports, which—in lieu of my now melted driver’s license—I could use as photo ID.

As I told myself last night, I might be sad, but I will not be helpless. I have my unborn child to consider, and my crazy-as-a-fox mother to outmaneuver.

The redheaded detective heads for the pile of charred wood, rake in hand. D.D. refers to him as Neil. He looks like he’s about twelve. Maybe the police are recruiting straight out of elementary school these days. I often thought about teaching the lower grades. My particular math skills, however, would be lost there. And for all my moments of sheer exasperation with high schoolers, every semester I have at least a few students whose potential comes to life. An equation that for the first time clicks