Read Online The Hidden by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B

aristocrat about his features, as if he was descended from a line of Spanish kings. She could see him wearing a conquistador’s helmet and posing for a gold coin.
    He was also charming, and quick to make her laugh. They were opposites in many ways. He was daring and quick to make friends, to dive into a situation or experience. She had been decidedly shy, at least at first, always wanting to know what made things tick. At first it had been great. He had taught her to be spontaneous, as daring as he was. She had taught him to look beneath the surface of things. They’d both learned about compromise.
    She had believed then and still did that the reason they’d stopped talking was that they were trying to be considerate of each other, to avoid upsetting each other. She’d told him that she didn’t need an explanation when he needed to work all hours. And she didn’t. But maybe that had made him think she didn’t care about his job, so he tried too hard not to bring work home.
    And then she’d lost the baby. A baby he hadn’t even known existed.
    She knew this was not the time to analyze where and why they’d gone wrong, or why she had felt the irresistible need to flee from their marriage and from him, to ask for the divorce.
    And still he was there for her the minute she called.
    Now the others were gone and it was just the two of them. He wanted to hear everything from her point of view, starting with the pictures that had mysteriously appeared on her camera and then going on to cover her experience at the police station and anything else that might be relevant. So now they were up in the apartment, at the little table in the kitchen. She’d brewed more coffee and was sitting opposite him, much as she’d sat opposite Lieutenant Gray the night before. She kept noticing his hands. His fingers were long, his nails clipped and clean. She’d always loved his hands; they looked like a pianist’s hands. Actually, he did play, but only for pleasure. He claimed he was awful, but in fact he was anything but.
    She looked away, avoiding his eyes. She’d been anxious to be alone with him so she could tell him about the mannequin. But now that the moment was here, she was afraid he was going to think she was an idiot. He dealt with true evil every day. How was she going to explain her terror of a mannequin in a way that didn’t sound ridiculous?
    Then again, how the hell had the damned thing wound up at the foot of her bed?
    Apparently he could still read her better than anyone else could, because he immediately asked, “What is it? Please, Scarlet, two people have been murdered. Tell me what you didn’t want to say in front of everyone else.”
    She couldn’t say it. Too silly. Or maybe not. There was still the possibility that someone made of flesh and blood, and in possession of a key, had moved it to terrify her.
    “A mannequin moved,” she blurted out.
    She’d expected skepticism—perhaps polite, nearly hidden skepticism, but skepticism nevertheless.
    “Okay, I saw a bunch of mannequins down in the museum,” he said. “But which one, and how did it move?”
    She let out a long breath. “Nathan Kendall—and he’s not downstairs. He’s in my living room about fifteen feet away from us. Yesterday he fell over on his own.” She hesitated, then went on. “And when I woke up this morning, he was standing at the foot of my bed.”
    To her amazement, he didn’t look at her with sympathy, as if the thin mountain air was affecting her brain.
    He simply asked, “Who has keys to this place, Scarlet? The first thing, always, is to look for the simplest and most likely possibility.”
    “To the best of my knowledge, only Ben, Trisha and myself. And I just can’t believe that either one of them would try to scare me that way.” She met his eyes as if begging him to understand. “Diego, I was never afraid to be here. I loved this place from the moment I arrived. But I swear to you, I’m not crazy. The statue was