Read Online The Wrong Man by John Katzenbach - Free Book Online

even involving Ashley’s mother or her partner, which was his preferred course of events.
    The question was how to get started.
    One of the great advantages of studying history, he reminded himself, was in the models of action that great men had taken through the centuries. Scott knew that at his core he had a quiet, romantic streak, one that loved the notion of fighting against all hope, rising to desperate occasions. His tastes in movies and novels ran in that direction, and he realized there was a certain childish grace in these tales, which trumped the utter savagery of the actual moments in history. Historians are pragmatists. Cold-eyed and calculating, he thought. Saying “Nuts” at Bastogne was remembered better by novelists and filmmakers. Historians paid more attention to frostbite, blood that froze in puddles on the ground, and helpless mind- and soul-numbing despair.
    He believed that he’d passed on much of this heady romanticism to Ashley, who had embraced his storytelling verve and spent many hours reading Little House on the Prairie and Jane Austen novels. In part, he wondered, if this might be at least a little bit of the basis for her trusting nature.
    He felt a small acid taste on his tongue, as if he’d swallowed some bitter drink. He hated the idea that he’d helped to teach her to be confident, trusting, and independent, and now, because she was all those things, he was deeply troubled.
    Scott shook his head and said out loud, “You’re jumping way ahead here. You don’t know anything for certain, and in fact you don’t even know anything at all.”
    Start simply, he insisted. Get a name.
    But doing this, without his daughter finding out, was the problem. He needed to intrude without being caught.
    Feeling a little like a criminal, he turned around and went up the stairs of his small, wood-framed house, toward Ashley’s old bedroom. He had in mind a more thorough search, hoping for some telltale bit of information that would take him beyond the letter. He felt a twinge of guilt as he went through her door and wondered a little bit why he had to violate his own daughter’s room in order to know her a little better.
             
    Sally Freeman-Richards looked up from her plate at dinner and idly said, “You know, I got the most unusual call from Scott this afternoon.”
    Hope sort of grunted and reached for the loaf of sourdough bread. She was familiar with the roundabout way that Sally liked to start certain conversations. Sometimes Hope thought that Sally remained, even after so many years, something of an enigma to her; she could be so forceful and aggressive in a court of law, and then, in the quiet of the house they shared, almost bashful. Hope thought there were many contradictions in their lives. And contradictions created tension.
    “He seems worried,” Sally said.
    “Worried about what?”
    “Ashley.”
    This made Hope put her knife down on the plate. “Ashley? How so?”
    Sally hesitated for a moment. “It seems he was going through some of her things and he came across a letter she received that disturbed him.”
    “What was he doing going through her things?”
    Sally smiled. “My first question, too. Great minds think alike.”
    “And?”
    “Well, he didn’t really answer me. He wanted to talk about the letter.”
    Hope shrugged a little bit. “Okay, what about the letter?”
    Sally thought for a minute, then asked, “Well, did you ever, I mean, like back in high school or college, ever get a love letter, you know the type, professing devotion, love, undying passion, total commitment, over-the-top I-can’t-live-without-you sorts of statements?”
    “Well, no, I never got one. But I suspect the reasons I didn’t were different. That’s what he found?”
    “Yes. A protest of love.”
    “Well, that sounds pretty harmless. Why do you suppose he was bent out of shape about it?”
    “Something in the tone, I’m thinking.”
    “And,” Hope said, with a touch