Free Fool Me Once by Harlan Coben Page B

the door. “Maya?”
    “One second.”
    The screen on her phone came alive, giving her a live feed of the yellow room. You would think Maya would have had enough with the surveillance videos for one day. But no. She turned her phone on the side to make the picture bigger. Lily was there. Safe. A caregiver—later Maya could look her up and read her bio—was stacking blocks with her and a boy about Lily’s age.
    Maya felt relief course through her. She almost smiled. She should have insisted on putting Lily in a place like this months ago. Having a nanny left you dependent on one unsupervised person with few checks and balances. Here, there were witnesses and security cameras and socialization. It had to be safer, right?
    “Maya?”
    It was Kierce again. She closed the app and put the phone in her pocket. They both stepped inside. There were two other people in the room—a female DA assigned to the case and a male defense attorney. Maya tried to focus, but her mind was still swirling from the nanny cam and Isabella. The lingering effects of the pepper spray were still playing havoc with her lungs and nasal membranes. She sniffed like a coke addict.
    “I wish to once again put my protest on the record,” the male defense attorney said. He had a ponytail halfway down his back. “This witness has admitted she never saw their faces.”
    “So noted,” Kierce said. “And we agree.”
    Ponytail spread his hands. “So what’s the point?”
    Maya was wondering that too.
    Kierce pulled the cord and the shade came up. Kierce leaned into a microphone and said, “Bring in the first group.”
    Six people walked into the room. They all wore ski masks.
    “This is silly,” Ponytail said.
    Maya had not expected this.
    “Mrs. Burkett,” Kierce said, speaking up as though he was being recorded, which, she figured, he probably was, “do you recognize anyone in this room?”
    He looked at her and waited.
    “Number four,” Maya said.
    “This is bullshit,” Ponytail said.
    “And how do you recognize number four?”
    “‘Recognize’ might be too strong a word,” Maya said. “But he is the same build and same height as the man who shot my husband. He is also wearing the same clothes.”
    “Several other men in there are wearing the exact same clothes,” Ponytail said. “How can you be sure?”
    “Like I said, they’re the wrong build or height.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes. Number two matches the closest, but he’s wearing blue sneakers. The man who shot my husband was wearing red.”
    “But just to be clear,” Ponytail continued, “you can’t say for certain that number four is the man who shot your husband. You can say you recollect that he’s relatively the same size and build and is wearing similar clothing—”
    “Not similar,” Maya interjected. “The same clothing.”
    Ponytail tilted his head. “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    “You can’t possibly know that, Mrs. Burkett. There must be more than one set of red Cons out there, am I right? I mean, if I put four red Cons out there, are you going to be able to tell me for certain which ones the assailant was wearing that night?”
    “No.”
    “Thank you.”
    “But the clothing isn’t ‘similar.’ It isn’t as though he’s wearing white Cons instead of red. Number four is wearing the exact same outfit as the shooter.”
    “Which brings me to another point,” Ponytail said. “You don’t know for certain it’s the shooter, do you? That man in the ski mask could be wearing the same clothing and be the same size as the shooter. Isn’t that correct?”
    Maya nodded. “That’s correct.”
    “Thank you.”
    Ponytail was done for now. Kierce leaned into the microphone. “You can leave. Send in the second group.”
    Six more men came in wearing ski masks. Maya studied them. “It’s most likely number five.”
    “Most likely?”
    “Number two is wearing the same clothing and is nearly the same height and build. My recollection would be that