The Collector by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    â€œFor big trouble, it would’ve been me. And he’d never mix pills with his bourbon,” Ash added. “He had an ex who went that way, and it scared him. One or the other, not that he wouldn’t go too far with either, but one at a time.
    â€œIt doesn’t hold. It doesn’t,” he insisted. “You said you’d seen them together over there, watched them.”
    Uncomfortable with the truth of that, she shifted. “I did. It’s a terrible habit. I need to stop.”
    â€œYou saw them fight, but he never got physical with her.”
    â€œNo . . . No, she was more physical. Threw things, mostly breakables. She threw her shoe at him once.”
    â€œWhat did he do?”
    â€œDucked.” Lila smiled a little, and he caught the tiny dimple—a happy little wink—at the right corner of her mouth. “Good reflexes. My take was she yelled—and she shoved him once. He did a lot of fast talking, gestures, smooth. That’s why I called him Mr. Slick.”
    The big, dark eyes widened in distress. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”
    â€œNo, that’s accurate. He was slick. He didn’t get mad, threaten her, get violent? Shove her back?”
    â€œNo. He said something that made her laugh. I could see, sense, she didn’t want to, but she turned away, tossed her hair. And he came over and . . . they got physical together. People should close the curtains if they don’t want an audience.”
    â€œShe threw something at him, yelled at him, pushed him. And he talked his way out of it, talked his way into sex. That’s Oliver.”
    He never responded with violence, Lila considered. They’d had some sort of argument or fight every day, some disagreement every day, but he never struck her. Never touched her unless it was a prelude to sex.
    And yet. “But the fact is she was pushed out the window, and he shot himself.”
    â€œShe was pushed out the window, but he didn’t push her—and he didn’t shoot himself. So, someone else was in the apartment. Someone else was there,” he said again, “and killed both of them. The questions are who, and why.”
    It sounded plausible when he said it, just that way. It seemed . . . logical, and the logic of it made her doubt. “But isn’t there another question? How?”
    â€œYou’re right. Three questions. Answer one, maybe answer all.”
    He kept his eyes on hers. He saw more than sympathy now. He saw the beginning of interest. “Can I see your apartment?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe cops aren’t going to let me into Oliver’s place yet. I want to see it from the perspective you had that night. And you don’t know me,” he said before she could speak. “Have you got somebody who could be there with you so you wouldn’t be alone with me?”
    â€œMaybe. I can see if I can work that out.”
    â€œGreat. Let me give you my number. Work it out, call me. I just need to see . . . I need to be able to see.”
    She took out her phone, keyed in the number he gave her. “I have to get back. I’ve been gone longer than I meant to be.”
    â€œI appreciate you talking to me. Listening.”
    â€œI’m sorry about what happened.” She slid out of the booth, touched a hand to his shoulder. “For you, his mom, your family. I hope whatever the answers are, you get them. If I can work things out, I’ll call you.”
    â€œThanks.”
    She left him sitting in the narrow booth, staring into the coffee he’d never touched.

Three
    S he called Julie, and dumped the entire story while she tended the plants, harvested tomatoes, entertained the cat.
    Julie’s gasps, amazement and sympathy would’ve been enough, but there was more.
    â€œI heard about this when I was getting ready for work this morning, and it was the Big Talk at the gallery