The Dead Will Tell by Linda Castillo Read Free Book Online

and cold surround me.
    I reach for the lamp on the end table.
    “Don’t,” he says.
    I motion toward the bottle at his side. “That’s not going to help.”
    “Yes, it is.” His laugh is a harsh sound. “I know that bucks conventional wisdom, but believe me, it’s helping.”
    “I know you’re hurting—”
    “That’s not quite the right word.”
    I don’t agree with him. A man can’t endure the kind of hell he did without pain becoming a constant in his life. But I don’t argue. “Tell me what to do.”
    When he doesn’t respond, I gesture in the direction of the door. “Let’s sit on the porch and talk.”
    “I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.”
    “Then we can just sit.”
    “I’m not very good company right now. Why don’t you go on upstairs and get some sleep?”
    “I’m not leaving you alone.”
    He utters another laugh. “I don’t think that’s up to you.” As if realizing the words were harsher than he intended, he softens. “Look, I’m all right. I just need some time alone to think. That’s all. You’ve got an early morning. Go to bed. I’ll join you in a while.”
    I stand there, debating, trying to figure out who needs whom, because at that moment my need for him is twisting my gut into a knot. “I’m worried about you.”
    “I’m okay. I can handle this. I’ve handled worse.” He shrugs. “I don’t want to bring this to what we have here. Just give me some space, all right?”
    It’s difficult, but in the end I opt to honor his request. “I’m going to take a shower.”
    When he leans close and presses his mouth against mine, his lips are cold.
    *   *   *
    I wake before daybreak to find Tomasetti gone. At some point during the early morning hours—without coming into the bedroom to say good-bye—he got into his Tahoe and left. Usually, if for whatever reason we don’t connect during the day, he’ll leave a note next to the coffeemaker. That’s become our routine for touching base when we don’t actually see each other. This morning there’s no note. He didn’t even make coffee. The house is cold and damp, and when I walk into the kitchen, I’m accosted by an unbearable sense of aloneness.
    I make a pot of coffee, lingering longer than I should in the hope he’ll return. When I dump yesterday’s grounds in the trash, I find the empty bottle of Crown Royal along with a half a dozen cigarette butts. Neither are a good sign.
    I tell myself not to worry and remind myself that Tomasetti is a strong man with a good head on his shoulders. Chances are, he went to his office at the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Richfield because he couldn’t sleep and wanted to get a jump on his day. But I am worried. I know Tomasetti. He’s come a long way in the three years since his family was killed. But I’m ever aware that he has a dark side. An unpredictable side that, in the past, has been triggered by pain and injustice and all those gnarly emotions in between.
    I’m the only person in the world who knows what he did in the months following the deaths of his wife and children. I know he turned to pills and alcohol—and spent some time at a mental health facility. I also know he took the law into his own hands and the killers paid hard for what they’d done. The knowledge isn’t a burden; I’m glad he trusted me enough to share it, but this morning it’s at the forefront of my mind. Right or wrong—moral or not—I’ve learned to live with what he did. Maybe because I understand his motives. Because I know he’s a good man, and like him, I see the world in stark black-and-white.
    The need to call him is powerful, but some inner voice advises me to wait. A call from me now would be seen by him as evidence of my lack of trust, an admission of my fear that he’s going to fall off some emotional cliff. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t fully trust him.
    I arrive at the police station at 7 A.M . to find my