Free Tell No One by Harlan Coben Page A

rhymed.”
    I drank in silence for a few moments.
    “Beck?”
    “What?”
    “Your turn now.”
    “Meaning?”
    She shot me a look and waited.
    I thought about the “Tell no one” warning at the end of the email. If the message were indeed from Elizabeth—my mind still had trouble even entertaining such a notion—she would know that I’d tell Shauna. Linda—maybe not. But Shauna? I tell her everything. It would be a given.
    “There’s a chance,” I said, “that Elizabeth is still alive.”
    Shauna didn’t break stride. “She ran off with Elvis, right?” When she saw my face, she stopped and said, “Explain.”
    I did. I told her about the email. I told her about the street cam. And I told her about seeing Elizabeth on the computer monitor. Shauna kept her eyes on me the whole time. She didn’t nod or interrupt. When I finished, she carefully extracted a cigarette from its carton and put it in her mouth. Shauna gave up smoking years ago, but she still liked to fiddle with them. She examined the cancer stick, turning it over in her hand as though she’d never seen one before. I could see the gears churning.
    “Okay,” she said. “So at eight-fifteen tomorrow night, the next message is supposed to come in, right?”
    I nodded.
    “So we wait until then.”
    She put the cigarette back in the pack.
    “You don’t think it’s crazy?”
    Shauna shrugged. “Irrelevant,” she said.
    “Meaning?”
    “There are several possibilities that’d explain what you just said.”
    “Including insanity.”
    “Yeah, sure, that’s a strong one. But what’s thepoint of hypothesizing negatively right now? Let’s just assume it’s true. Let’s just assume you saw what you saw and that Elizabeth is still alive. If we’re wrong, hey, we’ll learn that soon enough. If we’re right …” She knitted her eyebrows, thought about it, shook her head. “Christ, I hope like hell we’re right.”
    I smiled at her. “I love you, you know.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Everyone does.”
    When I got home, I poured myself one last quick drink. I took a deep sip and let the warm liquor travel to destinations well known. Yes, I drink. But I’m not a drunk. That’s not denial. I know I flirt with being an alcoholic. I also know that flirting with alcoholism is about as safe as flirting with a mobster’s underage daughter. But so far, the flirting hasn’t led to coupling. I’m smart enough to know that might not last.
    Chloe sidled up to me with her customary expression that could be summed up thusly: “Food, walk, food, walk.” Dogs are wonderfully consistent. I tossed her a treat and took her for a stroll around the block. The cold air felt good in my lungs, but walking never cleared my head. Walking is, in fact, a tremendous bore. But I liked watching Chloe walk. I know that sounds queer, but a dog derives such pleasure from this simple activity. It made me Zen-happy to watch her.
    Back home I moved quietly toward my bedroom. Chloe followed me. Grandpa was asleep. So was his new nurse. She snored with a cartoonlike, high-pitched exhale. I flipped on my computer and wondered why Sheriff Lowell hadn’t called me back. I thought about calling him, though the time was nearing midnight. Then I figured: tough.
    I picked up the phone and dialed. Lowell had a cell phone. If he was sleeping, he could always turn it off, right?
    He answered on the third ring. “Hello, Dr. Beck.”
    His voice was tight. I also noted that I was no longer Doc.
    “Why didn’t you call me back?” I asked.
    “It was getting late,” he said. “I figured I’d catch you in the morning.”
    “Why did you ask me about Sarah Goodhart?”
    “Tomorrow,” he said.
    “Pardon me?”
    “It’s late, Dr. Beck. I’m off duty. Besides, I think I’d rather go over this with you in person.”
    “Can’t you at least tell me—?”
    “You’ll be at your clinic in the morning?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll call you then.”
    He bade me a polite but firm