Read Online The Night Before by Lisa Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Jackson
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heartbreaks and psychoses of patients he’d never met. Nothing caught his eye or made him think that this was the case that she was certain would change the course of her life.
He glanced at his watch. He’d been here nearly forty-five minutes and heard the sounds of shuffling feet and scraping chairs from an office down the hall. He checked to see that he’d locked the door, so that no one searching for an office or the rest room might burst in and see him; then he crossed to the windows. From the third-floor view, he caught a glimpse of the alley below and a neighboring house. An elderly lady wearing a straw hat and dressing gown was watering her geraniums. He slid out of her view before she looked up; didn’t want to have to explain himself. At least not yet. Not until he had some answers himself.
He’d probably have to lie to get those answers.
So be it.
Adam believed that lies came in differing shades, hues and textures. There were black lies and white lies and a variety of shades of gray lying in between. Some were thick and sticky, others thin and gossamer, but as far as he could remember, there had never been a good lie. And yet, he decided as he slid a pick into the locked cabinet and, with a sensitive touch he would never admit to having, sprung the simple latch, sometimes a lie was necessary.
With a click the drawer opened.
If a lie was necessary to get to the truth . . . was it such a bad thing?
There is no such thing as a “white lie,” his grandmother had preached often enough. “A lie is a lie and if you can’t tell the truth, then there’s something very wrong with you.” She had looked at him with her unblinking hawklike eyes, searching for a glimmer of deceit in his gaze, and he had stared straight back at her, refusing to squirm even though they’d both known he was lying through his teeth.
Norma Hunt had been a fair woman. When she had been unable to prove that he wasn’t telling the truth, she had been forced to pretend to believe him.
He wondered what she’d think of her only grandson now as he opened the top file drawer, flipping through the tabs, smelling the dry, musty odor of unused documents. His fingers riffled over the names; then he closed the drawer and opened the lower one . . . and there, taking up half the space, were the documents that might help him on his quest. Thick files. Packed with notations and information:
BANDEAUX, Caitlyn Montgomery .
How had he missed it on the computer? Quickly he turned to the flickering screen and sorted through the files again, but Caitlyn was definitely missing in action. He did a quick cross search and found all the other patients’ records, but not one solitary entry on Caitlyn Bandeaux. A search didn’t bring up any files. He even looked through the computer’s “recycle bin,” but nothing on Caitlyn had been recently deleted.
It was almost as if she’d never been an active client.
But the thick paper file in his lap argued the point. And Rebecca had mentioned the name Montgomery in one of their conversations.
He leaned back in Rebecca’s chair. Why wouldn’t the information in the paper files be transferred to the computer? He flipped through the pages and found a photograph, a snapshot of a striking woman of about thirty-five. Long red-brown hair was blowing over her eyes as she balanced a child on one hip. The little girl’s head was thrown back in laughter, pink ribbons slipping out of curly brown hair and the woman, presumably Caitlyn Bandeaux, appeared carefree. Wearing an identical white sundress to the child’s, the skirt billowing against her legs in the wind, Caitlyn stood upon the sweeping lawn of a grand antebellum house of white clapboard and brick. The sky was ominously dark with clouds, but mother and child didn’t seem to feel the threat of the impending storm.
Adam stared at the image for a long time.
She was one more puzzle to figure out.
He slipped the photograph into his pocket.
“So
He glanced at his watch. He’d been here nearly forty-five minutes and heard the sounds of shuffling feet and scraping chairs from an office down the hall. He checked to see that he’d locked the door, so that no one searching for an office or the rest room might burst in and see him; then he crossed to the windows. From the third-floor view, he caught a glimpse of the alley below and a neighboring house. An elderly lady wearing a straw hat and dressing gown was watering her geraniums. He slid out of her view before she looked up; didn’t want to have to explain himself. At least not yet. Not until he had some answers himself.
He’d probably have to lie to get those answers.
So be it.
Adam believed that lies came in differing shades, hues and textures. There were black lies and white lies and a variety of shades of gray lying in between. Some were thick and sticky, others thin and gossamer, but as far as he could remember, there had never been a good lie. And yet, he decided as he slid a pick into the locked cabinet and, with a sensitive touch he would never admit to having, sprung the simple latch, sometimes a lie was necessary.
With a click the drawer opened.
If a lie was necessary to get to the truth . . . was it such a bad thing?
There is no such thing as a “white lie,” his grandmother had preached often enough. “A lie is a lie and if you can’t tell the truth, then there’s something very wrong with you.” She had looked at him with her unblinking hawklike eyes, searching for a glimmer of deceit in his gaze, and he had stared straight back at her, refusing to squirm even though they’d both known he was lying through his teeth.
Norma Hunt had been a fair woman. When she had been unable to prove that he wasn’t telling the truth, she had been forced to pretend to believe him.
He wondered what she’d think of her only grandson now as he opened the top file drawer, flipping through the tabs, smelling the dry, musty odor of unused documents. His fingers riffled over the names; then he closed the drawer and opened the lower one . . . and there, taking up half the space, were the documents that might help him on his quest. Thick files. Packed with notations and information:
BANDEAUX, Caitlyn Montgomery .
How had he missed it on the computer? Quickly he turned to the flickering screen and sorted through the files again, but Caitlyn was definitely missing in action. He did a quick cross search and found all the other patients’ records, but not one solitary entry on Caitlyn Bandeaux. A search didn’t bring up any files. He even looked through the computer’s “recycle bin,” but nothing on Caitlyn had been recently deleted.
It was almost as if she’d never been an active client.
But the thick paper file in his lap argued the point. And Rebecca had mentioned the name Montgomery in one of their conversations.
He leaned back in Rebecca’s chair. Why wouldn’t the information in the paper files be transferred to the computer? He flipped through the pages and found a photograph, a snapshot of a striking woman of about thirty-five. Long red-brown hair was blowing over her eyes as she balanced a child on one hip. The little girl’s head was thrown back in laughter, pink ribbons slipping out of curly brown hair and the woman, presumably Caitlyn Bandeaux, appeared carefree. Wearing an identical white sundress to the child’s, the skirt billowing against her legs in the wind, Caitlyn stood upon the sweeping lawn of a grand antebellum house of white clapboard and brick. The sky was ominously dark with clouds, but mother and child didn’t seem to feel the threat of the impending storm.
Adam stared at the image for a long time.
She was one more puzzle to figure out.
He slipped the photograph into his pocket.
“So
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