Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,99

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.

The worst part of being a survivor: There’s no security blanket anymore. You can’t assume the worst won’t happen, because it did. And none of your screaming changed that. Meaning that just because I don’t want to believe this handsome, smart guy has nefarious intentions doesn’t mean for a second that I’m safe.

“I’ll walk you home,” Keith is saying, climbing awkwardly to his feet.

“No, thank you.”

“At least let me call you a Lyft.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Flora—”

I don’t wait for him. I’m already weaving my way out of the room. In the dark foyer, the greeter, Tony, I guess, snaps to attention. “Nice digs,” I inform him, before pushing through the heavy wooden door.

Keith catches up with me outside. Did he even stop to pay the bill? Maybe elite clubs don’t bother with things as common as money. They just run a tab into perpetuity.

He grabs my arm. I whirl sharply, pepper spray out.

He immediately drops his hand, steps back. “I don’t understand,” he says at last.

“I’m not your puzzle to solve.”

But I can already see in his face that I’m exactly that. His