Read Online You Don't Know Me by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page A

come back. Me, I was relieved.”
    She paused, drew in a breath, and he knew a secret when he saw one.
    “Dylan showed up a few times after that, often three sheets to the wind, demanding to see his son, but I wouldn’t let him—not in that condition. One night he got behind the wheel drunk and hit a local man head-on. Dylan died when his car went over the edge of the highway into the river, off the Cutaway Creek Bridge. The other man—Moe Jorgenson—died on impact. His son Shawn played football with Nathan, and my son quit immediately. He never played again. And . . . and this town never forgot the Decker name.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “Nathan and Annalise and their kids are enough for me. I don’t care what the town says about us. As long as I have my family, my life is whole.”
    He gave in to the urge to reach out and touch her hand. She had strong, soft hands, a little chilly under his. She didn’t move away but didn’t turn her hand to hold his, either.
    The moment passed and he heard only the tick of the clock.
    Helen gave a small shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I’m being . . .” She pulled her hand out, patted his. “You’re a nice man, Frank. Thank you for listening—”
    “What is going on here?”
    Frank jerked his hand away. Out of reflex he found his feet, tipping over his chair in the process.
    A woman who could be a more padded, shorter version of Helen let the screen door slam behind her as she stalked into the kitchen. She wore a brown fleece jacket open over a sweatshirt with a purple flower embroidered on the front, her hair pulled back with a knit headband. She stared at Helen as if she’d caught her necking in the backseat of his old Mustang.
    And where had that thought come from?
    “Please come in, Miriam.” Helen stood, glanced at Frank. “This is Annalise’s uncle, Frank Harrison.”
    Miriam had a round face, tight, thin lips, and cold eyes that grew inexplicably colder as she turned to him. “Hello. I’m Miriam, Helen’s sister.”
    He picked up his chair. “Nice to meet you.”
    “So odd that after all these years, a relative of Annalise’s shows up.”
    He wanted to cheer when, right then, his phone rumbled in his pocket. He pulled it out, checked the number, and kept his voice even. “I need to take this. Please excuse me.”
    Helen gestured to another room, and he accepted the escape, opening the phone.
    He kept his voice low. “Did you talk to him?”
    “Hello to you, too, Frank.”
    “For crying out loud, Boyd, I know it’s you. Did you talk to Blake? What does he know?” Six years of working with Parker Boyd and Frank still couldn’t get the word rookie out of his head.
    “Actually, boss, there’s a problem.”
    This had probably been Nathan’s room—the walls brown, the single bed covered with a quilt, a framed photo of Annalise and him on their wedding day on the old bureau.
    “What kind of problem?”
    “Blake Hayes is dead.”
    Frank sat down on the bed and cradled the phone against his head. “Say again?”
    “He’s been murdered. He’s been dead maybe a day at most. The coroner is just getting here. Looks like he’s been tortured—he’s tied to a chair, and . . . well, he’s missing parts.”
    Garcia. Frank didn’t speak it out loud, but he knew the man’s MO.
    “And the place has been tossed like the perp was looking for something.”
    A letter, perhaps? One dated twenty years ago? He ran his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. Probably a remote chance, but Blake might have hung on to Deidre’s address for insurance against Garcia’s sudden reappearance.
    Oh, how he hoped she hadn’t told her old boyfriend her new name.
    “Could be a random murder,” Frank said, more hope than truth in his words.
    “Could be,” Boyd said softly. “Boss, I think we have to move Annalise—”
    “Stop talking. Just . . . let me think.”
    How would Garcia have found Blake? He couldn’t have known . . . unless Blake refused to