Free Don't Ever Tell by Brandon Massey Page B

Punctured the skin with the knife’s tip.
“Please.” Breathing harder. “ I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in three years.”
“When did she leave?”
“About a year after you went to prison.”
“Why?”
“She wanted a fresh start.”
“A fresh start.” With my goddamn money.
“I truly don’t know where she’s gone,” Betty said. “She said...it wouldn’t be safe for me to know. Because of you.”
“Have you talked to her on the phone since she’s left?”
“No,” Betty said quickly. Too quickly.
He drew the blade down her forearm, opening another thin cut.
“It was earlier this year!” she cried. “On my seventieth birthday. She called me.”
“From where?”
“There was no number on Caller ID, and she knew better than to tell me where she was calling from, or to give me her number.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was doing fine.” Betty sniffled. “She said that she loved me . . . and missed me something terrible.”
“I’m touched. But I’m not sure I believe you have no clue whatsoever about where she’s gone, or how to get in touch with her. No, I don’t believe that at all.”
Betty blinked away tears. “But I’ve told you the truth.”
“I know my wife. She adores you. She would never sever her ties with you and call only once a year.”
He surveyed the living room, the hallway, and the kitchen beyond.
“There has to be something,” he said.
“There’s nothing, I promise you.”
He detected an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice. He’d interrogated enough suspects to know the tone of a lie.
“Where’s your little black book?”
“Pardon?”
“Your address book, you old bitch. It’s a black, leatherbound book. I’ve seen it here before.”
“It’s in the study. Look on the desk, near the telephone.”
In the study, he found the book where she’d said it would be. It lay near a cordless phone and a stack of envelopes.
He flipped through the address book. Underneath his wife’s name, the last address listed was of their house in Chicago. The phone number was their old number, too.
He noticed the pile of envelopes beside the phone. Most of them were recent utility bills and bank statements, but one of the letters had been sent from Thad Harris, in St. Louis, Missouri. It had a postmark of December 11, one week ago.
The envelope had already been opened. Inside, he found a personal check written from Thad to Betty, in the amount of one thousand dollars.
He scrutinized the check like a bank teller suspicious of fraud. He found an entry for Thad in Betty’s address book. The phone number and address were the same as the information printed on the check.
Beside the stack of envelopes lay a faded checkbook. He paged to the registry. In her careful handwriting, Betty had entered a series of deposits, each in the amount of one thousand dollars, which she had notated every month for the past year.
He returned to the living room and waved the check in Betty’s face.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“What is it? I can’t read without my glasses. Since you’re so smart you must remember that about me.”
“It’s a payment from Thad Harris to you, for one grand,” he said. “I remember Thad. He worked with my wife at the salon in Chicago. He was a fag, but a good friend of hers. Why is he sending money to you every month?”
Betty’s gaze slipped away from him.
“He’s...he’s paying me back for a . . . for a loan I once gave him.”
He cut her—a quick, clean slash down the side of her face. She shrieked, and blood began to flow in bright rivulets.
“I appreciate honesty,” he said. “It’s a simple matter of respect, Betty.”
Betty’s lips worked, but no words came out. Blood trickled from the cut and into the corner of her mouth.
He picked up the cordless phone off the nearby end table. He settled on the coffee table in front of Betty again.
Betty watched him like a cornered animal.
“Listen up,” he said. “My wife has money that belongs to