Hush by Kate White Read Free Book Online Page A

subway stations had cameras. What if the cops watched the tapes to see who’d entered any station within a certain radius? She ducked into the dark doorway of a building to calm herself. She felt short of breath, like she was being smothered. Calm down , she told herself. The best thing to do, she realized, was to walk—for blocks and blocks. And finally, when she was far enough away, she would find a taxi.
    With her head lowered, she made her way to Broadway and then turned north. She walked fast, so fast a stitch came and went in her side. But she didn’t dare run—or else someone might take notice. She felt like one of those lost dogs she sometimes saw at night in the city, trotting along without ever stopping. Every half block, she checked behind her, terrified someone might be following.
    For a while she saw practically no one. Sometimes a car or a delivery van would drive by and she’d duck in a doorway. At Houston Street she turned west and made her way to Seventh Avenue. Once there, she crossed the street and headed north. People began to emerge from apartment buildings, bound for work. She kept her eyes trained on the ground, not daring to make eye contact. In the east, she noticed, the sky began to grow light.
    Just before six-thirty, she reached Twenty-third. Spots on her feet were raw from walking so far in her sandals, and though she was wearing only her trench coat, her back felt damp with sweat. A cab came barreling down Seventh and she hailed it, telling the driver to turn around and head to the Upper West Side. As she leaned back into the seat, tears of relief pricked her eyes.
    She started to give her address and then stopped herself. The driver would have a record of it. Plus, she couldn’t let her doorman see her coming in at this hour. I have to go somewhere, she thought, but where ? The driver glanced back at her through the Plexiglas.
    “You gonna give me an address?” he said.
    “Yes, yes,” she said. She blurted out the cross streets of a diner twenty blocks south of her apartment, where she sometimes took the kids before school. She would wait there and go home closer to eight, when the doorman would be busy hailing cabs for people.
    The diner was half full. Some people sat in groups or pairs, but most were alone, reading the Post or Daily News or a paperback book. She made her way toward the back, to a table in the corner. Without thinking, she started to unbutton the top of her trench and then realized she had nothing but her panties on underneath. The thought almost made her laugh manically. She rested her head against the tips of her fingers, trying to regroup. On the table was a smudge of hardened ketchup, and the sight recalled the huge, horrible stain next to Keaton. Tears welled in her eyes again. He had touched her, made love to her. And now he was dead.
    She ordered coffee, and though the taste nearly made her ill, she forced herself to drink it. She needed the caffeine, she needed to break through the dense fog of terror and think . For the first time she asked herself why—why was Keaton dead? Was it a burglary gone awry? There had been no sign of forced entry; the apartment hadn’t looked “tossed.” The murderer must be someone who knew him, Lake deduced. Keaton looked as if he’d been attacked as he slept. That meant someone had gone there with the sole purpose of slashing Keaton’s throat. And if she had been in the bed with him, she would be dead now, too. She let out a gasp at the thought. Her kids—it would have ruined their lives.
    For a few moments Lake fought with the idea of calling the police after all. Her failure to get in touch before now wouldn’t be hard to explain—she’d fled in panic, worried that the killer had still been in the apartment. And the forensic evidence would confirm that she didn’t kill Keaton.
    But would it? What if the weapon was still in the apartment—abutcher knife, for instance—and it had been wiped clean? They’d think