Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,69
I would’ve done anything to make happy.
I turn back to the window, wipe hastily at my cheeks.
“You didn’t pull the trigger,” Delaney states now.
“No. He’d already shown me how to load and unload the Remington. I wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. But as it was, Mom and I weren’t even home.”
“Was he expecting anyone? A TA, a fellow professor?”
“Not that he told us. When we left, he was holed up in his study, standing at a whiteboard, muttering away. You know how he could be. We called out to him that we were off to run errands. I don’t even remember if he answered. We drove away. When we came back …”
Mr. Delaney nods. “You walked into the kitchen first,” he fills in quietly. “Then came your mother, who took one look and fell apart.”
“She told me what to say. She told me what had to be done. In the moment, I never questioned it. Maybe …”
“It’s okay, Evie. I understand. You’d just lost one parent. Of course you went out of your way to make your surviving parent happy.”
I’d never thought of it that way, but it made sense.
“You and your mother were together?”
“Yes.”
“But according to what we just heard from the police, your father didn’t commit suicide. There had to be another person in the house. Was the door open when you walked in?”
“The back door was always unlocked during daylight hours. Often because so many students were coming and going.”
“I think you should prepare a statement. Write down in your own words what you can remember from that day. Then give it to me for proofing. Ultimately, we’ll deliver it to the police.”
“So they can charge me in my father’s murder as well?”
“Did you shoot your father, Evie? Remember, anything you tell me is protected.”
“No.”
“Did you shoot your husband? Again, anything you tell me is protected.”
“No.”
“But you pulled the trigger.”
“I shot my husband’s computer.”
Delaney takes his eyes off the wheel long enough to give me a look. “Interesting. Well then, sounds to me like we have some work ahead of us.”
“Why do I only love men who leave me?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, honey. Some of us just aren’t lucky in love.”
• • •
MR. DELANEY TAKES me to lunch. A sandwich place he knows downtown. He doesn’t fuss over me as openly as my mother, but he adds orange juice to my salad order and refuses to utter a word until at least a quarter of my food is consumed. His own choice is a rare roast beef sandwich with horseradish mayo. Once, I would’ve ordered the same. Now, in my delicate state, the sight of the bloody beef makes me nauseous. I do my best to focus on my lunch, take small bites, chew thoroughly. Even if I have no interest in sustenance, the baby does. Everything I do next, the whole rest of my life, this is what—this is who—my life will be about.
Again, I wonder if my mom ever felt that way about me.
“Why didn’t my parents have more children?” I ask Mr. Delaney halfway through my salad. If my question surprises him, he’s an experienced enough lawyer to hide it.
“I don’t know. Have you ever asked?”
I give him a look. He grins back. The silver fox can be charming when he wants. Already, I’d noticed several female heads turning to admire the new lunch addition. Then they scowled at me, no doubt thinking I was his much-too-young trophy wife, because handsome men are never allowed to be merely friends with other women.
“Your father was nervous,” he says at last, picking up a napkin, dabbing at his meticulously trimmed mustache. “When your mother found out she was pregnant, he was excited, but concerned. As he put it, no genius in history has been noted for their parenting skills.”
“Was I a surprise?”
“Always.”
I roll my eyes at him again. “I mean, did they want to have children?”
“I don’t think they would’ve actively sought it out,” Mr. Delaney allows after a minute, “but I would also say, you were the light of your father’s life. Your turn.” He looks at me. “Is your baby a surprise?”
“Yes. No. Kind of. We’d been trying once. But had mostly given up. And then …”
“I’ve heard that. Sometimes, not trying is exactly what a new life-form needs most. Did you love Conrad?” he asks me softly.
“Yes. No. Kind of.”
That smile again, but a bit sad this time, as if he knows exactly what I mean.