Read Online Dark Lady by Richard North Patterson - Free Book Online

Brett’s expression, to stubborn loyalty. “He said he was getting out of it. That he only did it because he had nothing. God knows I wanted to believe it. To believe in him.” Silent, Caroline sorted through her thoughts. The way Brett spoke of James did not suggest murder. Unless, of course, she was a gifted actress. “Did James have roommates.”?” Caroline asked. “Or friends who might know this dealer’?.” “No roommates. Except for me, James pretty much liked being alone.” “Any neighbors?” Brett hesitated. “I met a guy named Daniel Suarez,” she said at length. “He seemed like a good person. But I don’t think he and James were close.”
    “What about women?” Brett looked startled, then defensive. With an edge, she answered, “We were together.” Pausing, Caroline wondered what had unsettled her: doubts; some problem with James; the need to sanctify a dead lover; or anger that Caroline might question a relationship that had been so sullied by his death that the police might think she murdered him. “No girlfriends,” Caroline repeated. “Just as you told the cops?”
    “Not that I know about.” Brett folded her arms. “You have to understand how beautiful James was. I don’t know what he did before I met him. Or who might have been attracted to him whether or not he cared.” Caroline raised her head, one finger to her lips, contemplating Brett. Softly, she asked, “Is there anything—anything at all—that might lead the police to believe that you had a reason to kill him?” Brett rose slowly from her chair, wide-eyed. Her voice trembled with sudden anger and emotion. “Do you know, Aunt Caroline, what James looked like when I found him? Because I remember it too clearly now.” Tears welled in her eyes. “They’d cut his throat. He was choking on his own blood—when I reached for him, his head fell away from his neck, and his blood spattered my face …. “For an instant, Brett stopped, and then she stared down at Caroline. “Despite his faults, I loved him. If you can’t believe that, or respect that, I don’t want you here.” Caroline made herself be still. “What I asked you,” she
    said coolly, “is whether the police might have a reason to believe you killed him.” Brett stood there, alone in her anger. Caroline simply waited. Anything she said or did now might drive Brett away: with an intensity that surprised her, Caroline did not want this. Brett raised her head. “There is no reason.”
    “Then sit down, please.” After a moment, Brett sat. Through her exhaustion, she gazed at Caroline with fresh resolve. Caroline’s temples throbbed. “There are things I’ll say or ask,” she said, “that I won’t like and you won’t like. Starting with my next question.” Brett squared her shoulders. Something in the gesture made Caroline’s heart go out to her. Even as she wondered how much of this girl’s volatility—the shifts in mood, the sudden flashes of temper—came from guilt, how much from merely stress and sleeplessness. “This spurt of blood,” Caroline asked softly, “how would you describe it.”?” Once more, Brett’s eyes widened; but for that, her expression did not change. “It wasn’t a spurt.”
    “But when they photographed you, there was blood on your face and neck and torso.” Still no expression. “Flecks of blood.” Caroline leaned back. “So the spurt—or spray—wasn’t heavy.”
    “No.” Caroline expected Brett to ask why it mattered. But the girl’s anger seemed to have depleted her. Even her eyes held no curiosity. Caroline stood, reaching for the light switch, and turned on the lamp on a nearby end table. Night was falling fast now. As if awakened by Caroline’s movement, Brett turned, gazing through the window at the coming darkness. “That night,” Caroline asked, “how much wine did you drink?” A small shrug. “We shared the bottle.”
    “Before you smoked the joint?”
    Brett still did not turn from