Tell No One by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online Page B

shot Vic’s other knee. He asked him again if he had accomplices. Vic still said no. The big man shot him in the right ankle.
    An hour later, Vic begged the big man to shoot him in the head.
    Two hours after that, the big man obliged.

5
    I stared unblinking at the computer screen.
    I couldn’t move. My senses were past overload. Every part of me was numb.
    It couldn’t be. I knew that. Elizabeth hadn’t fallen off a yacht and assumed drowned, her body never found. She hadn’t been burned beyond recognition or any of that. Her corpse had been found in a ditch off Route 80. Battered, perhaps, but she had been positively IDed.
    Not by you
 …
    Maybe not, but by two close family members: her father and her uncle. In fact, Hoyt Parker, my father-in-law, was the one who told me that Elizabeth was dead. He came to my hospital room with his brother Ken not long after I regained consciousness. Hoyt and Ken were large and grizzled and stone-faced, one a New York City cop, the other a federal agent, both war veterans with beefy flesh and large, undefined muscles. They took off their hats and tried to tell me withthe semidistant empathy of professionals, but I didn’t buy it and they weren’t selling too hard.
    So what had I just seen?
    On the monitor, flows of pedestrians still spurted by. I stared some more, willing her to come back. No dice. Where was this anyway? A bustling city, that was all I could tell. It could be New York for all I knew.
    So look for clues, idiot.
    I tried to concentrate. Clothes. Okay, let’s check out the clothes. Most people were wearing coats or jackets. Conclusion: We were probably somewhere up north or, at least, someplace not particularly warm today. Great. I could rule out Miami.
    What else? I stared at the people. The hairstyles? That wouldn’t help. I could see the corner of a brick building. I looked for identifiable characteristics, something to separate the building from the norm. Nothing. I searched the screen for something, anything, out of the ordinary.
    Shopping bags.
    A few people were carrying shopping bags. I tried to read them, but everyone was moving too fast. I willed them to slow down. They didn’t. I kept looking, keeping my gaze at knee level. The camera angle wasn’t helping here. I put my face so close to the screen, I could feel the heat.
    Capital R.
    That was the first letter on one bag. The rest was too squiggly to make out. It looked written in some fancy script. Okay, what else? What other clues could I—?
    The camera feed went white.
    Damn. I hit the reload button. The error screen returned. I went back to the original email and clicked the hyperlink. Another error.
    My feed was gone.
    I looked at the blank screen, and the truth struck me anew: I’d just seen Elizabeth.
    I could try to rationalize it away. But this wasn’t a dream. I’d had dreams where Elizabeth was alive. Too many of them. In most, I’d just accept her return from the grave, too thankful to question or doubt. I remember one dream in particular where we were together—I don’t remember what we were doing or even where we were—and right then, in mid-laugh, I realized with breath-crushing certainty that I was dreaming, that very soon I’d wake up alone. I remember the dream—me reaching out at that moment and grabbing hold of her, pulling her in close, trying desperately to drag Elizabeth back with me.
    I knew dreams. What I had seen on the computer wasn’t one.
    It wasn’t a ghost either. Not that I believe in them, but when in doubt, you might as well keep an open mind. But ghosts don’t age. The Elizabeth on the computer had. Not a lot, but it had been eight years. Ghosts don’t cut their hair either. I thought of that long braid hanging down her back in the moonlight. I thought about the fashionably short cut I’d just seen. And I thought about those eyes, those eyes that I had looked into since I was seven years old.
    It was Elizabeth. She was still alive.
    I felt the tears come