Tell No One - By Harlan Coben Page 0,5
night off. So come over tomorrow night, okay? I'll order in, we'll watch videos with Mark."
Tomorrow was the anniversary. Had Elizabeth lived, we'd be scratching our twenty-first line in that tree. Strange as this might sound, tomorrow would not be a particularly hard day for me. For anniversaries or holidays or Elizabeth 's birthday, I get so geared up that I usually handle them with no problems. It's the "regular" days that are hard. When I flip with the remote and stumble across a classic episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show or Cheers. When I walk through a bookstore and see a new title by Alice Hoffman or Anne Tyler. When I listen to the O'Jays or the Four Tops or Nina Simone. Regular stuff.
"I told Elizabeth 's mother I'd stop by," I said.
"Ah, Beck..." She was about to argue but caught herself. "How about after?"
"Sure," I said.
Shauna grabbed my arm. "You're disappearing again, Beck."
I didn't reply.
"I love you, you know. I mean, if you had any sort of sexual appeal whatsoever, I probably would have gone for you instead of your sister."
"I'm flattered," I said. "Really."
"Don't shut me out. If you shut me out, you shut everyone out. Talk to me, okay?"
"Okay," I said. But I can't.
I almost erased the email.
I get so much junk email, spam, bulk emails, you know the drill, and I've become quite handy with the delete button. I read the sender's address first. If it's someone I know or from the hospital, fine. If not, I enthusiastically click the delete button.
I sat at my desk and checked the afternoon schedule. Chockfull, which was no surprise. I spun around in my chair and readied my delete finger. One email only. The one that made Homer shriek before. I did the quick scan, and my eyes got snagged on the first two letters of the subject.
What the -?
The way the window screen was formatted, all I could see were those two letters and the sender's email address. The address was unfamiliar to me. A bunch of numbers @comparama.com.
I narrowed my eyes and hit the right scroll button. The subject appeared a character at a time. With each click, my pulse raced a bit more. My breathing grew funny. I kept my finger on the scroll button and waited.
When I was done, when all the letters showed themselves, I read the subject again and when I did, I felt a deep, hard thud in my heart.
"Dr. Beck?"
My mouth wouldn't work. "Dr. Beck?"
"Give me a minute, Wanda."
She hesitated. I could still hear her on the intercom. Then I heard it click off.
I kept staring at the screen:
From: [email protected]
Subject: E.P. + D.B /////////////////////
Twenty-one lines. I've counted four times already.
It was a cruel, sick joke. I knew that. My hands tightened into fists. I wondered what chicken-shitted son of a bitch had sent it. It was easy to be anonymous in emails - the best refuge of the techno-coward. But the thing was, very few people knew about the tree or our anniversary. The media never learned about it. Shauna knew, of course. And Linda. Elizabeth might have told her parents or uncle. But outside of that...
So who sent it?
I wanted to read the message, of course, but something held me back. The truth is, I think about Elizabeth more than I let on-I don't think I'm fooling anyone there - but I never talk about her or what happened. People think I'm being macho or brave, that I'm trying to spare my friends or shunning people's pity or some such nonsense. That's not it. Talking about Elizabeth hurts. A lot. It brings back her last scream. It brings back all the unanswered questions. It brings back the might-have-beens (few things, I assure you, will devastate like the might-have-beens It brings back the guilt, the feelings, no matter how irrational, that a stronger man - a better man - might have saved her.
They say it takes a long time to comprehend a tragedy. You're numb. You can't adequately accept the grim reality. Again, that's not true. Not for me anyway. I understood the full implications the moment they found Elizabeth 's body. I understood that I would never see her again, that I would never hold her again, that we would never have children or grow old together. I understood that this was final, that there was no reprieve, that nothing could be bartered or negotiated.
I started crying immediately. Sobbing