Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,58

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.

Neil drops the box on the driveway in front of us, breathing heavily. D.D. squats down beside it, also out of breath, but in her case, solely from anticipation.

“That looks like a file box,” she says, gesturing to the SentrySafe. “So what’s this other thing?” She has the charred lockbox at her feet.

“Overflow,” I state without hesitation.

She gives me a look. I stare at her right back. This is what happens when you take the blame for your father’s death at sixteen. After that, all mistruths are relative. I might have been honest once, even a Goody Two-shoes. But after what I saw, what happened next … Really, what’s the point?

The SentrySafe has a key, so we start with it first. D.D. does the