Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [52]
“Look, I didn’t try to kill myself, if that’s what you’re afraid of. If I’d done that, both wrists would be bandaged.”
“Yeah? So let me see.” Chuck was being unusually obstinate.
“I’ll tell you the whole story, if you really insist on it.”
“Okay.”
Lee told him the whole episode of the visit to John Jay—and the sudden attack of rage that caused him to punch a hole through the glass top of the door.
Chuck listened warily, as if looking to catch him out in a lie, but when he was finished, said, “Okay. Well, maybe that’s a healthier reaction than depression. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah—right.” They both had to smile at that. It had become a little dance between them over the years: Chuck asking if Lee was okay when he obviously wasn’t, and Lee responding that he was fine. Another inheritance of his stoic Celtic upbringing: to admit weakness was itself a sign of weakness.
“What did you tell the people at John Jay to explain their broken door?” Chuck asked.
“I just said that I slipped on some water in the hall and fell against it.”
Chuck snorted. “And they believed you?”
“I guess so.”
Morton rolled his eyes. “A place full of cops and forensic experts and you get away with a lie like that.”
“I offered to pay for it, insisted actually, told them to take it out of my lecture pay, but they refused.”
“Lecture pay?”
“Oh, yeah. They, uh, asked me if I could come talk about—you know.” He didn’t want to say the words, as if they would scorch the air and burn his skin if released into the atmosphere.
“Are you up to that?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure until yesterday, but yes, I think I am.”
Chuck heaved a deep, disbelieving sigh and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “If you say so.”
“I got another call about the red dress.”
“You want us to put a trace on your phone?”
“I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but you can try. He could be calling from anywhere—last time it was a public pay phone. This time I tried star sixty-nine, but the number was blocked.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” Chuck put a hand on Lee’s shoulder. “I hate to say it, but you’re not looking all that good lately.”
It was true that the return of the depression had caused the usual problems with his appetite. His sleep had been erratic since Ana’s death, and gaunt circles had formed under his eyes.
“Yeah,” Lee said. “I’ll be all right once I get some rest.” “I don’t know,” Chuck said. “Maybe you should—” “What?” Lee said, suddenly angry. “Give up my profession? Give up the search for my sister’s killer?”
“God, Lee, I don’t—”
“And what about this killer? Christ, Chuck, three people are dead already.” “I’m just saying—”
“If I walk away from this, it’ll be worse—a lot worse. At least I’m doing something—”
“You know, Lee, sometimes you just have to walk away.”
“Don’t say that, Chuck—don’t ever say that to me!”
He was surprised at the vehemence in his own voice. So was Chuck, by the look of it. He stared at Lee, then turned away and plucked a piece of paper from the pile on his desk.
“Fine,” he said tersely. “Have a look at this.”
It appeared to be a copy of a page from a diary. The feathery scrawl was elaborate, showy.
Must confront him, It read. The words were underlined twice. Take courage—it’s the only way.
He looked at Chuck. “Ana’s writing—from her diary?”
“It was in a secret drawer hidden in her bureau. The guys who processed her house the first time didn’t find it, but the Jersey cop they posted to watch over the place got bored and started rooting around and discovered it.”
Lee had an image of Trooper Anderson wandering through Ana’s rambling farmhouse, sniffing around for clues.
“Okay,” he said. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“They’re processing it for prints,” Chuck said. “This was the last entry.”
“This could be about almost anyone,” Lee remarked.
“Maybe it refers to her abuser.”
“If she really was abused.”
“You think she lied about that?”
“Or was persuaded, or recovered false memories—anything’s possible.”
“Christ,” Chuck said. “So that whole thing could be a red herring?”
“Yep. There are plenty of