You Don't Know Me (6 page)

Frank nodded, ignoring the twinge inside.

“Nathan says you were in the military? Where?”

He poured the milk in, stirred it. “All over, really. Mostly stuff I can’t talk about.”

“Oh, some sort of secret agent?”

He liked the way she teased him, even if it felt wrong to lead her astray. “Something like that. I was away too many years, unfortunately. My poor wife went for weeks without hearing from me.”

Her smile dimmed at the mention of his wife, and he saw her glance to his ring finger, so he just said it. “She passed away about eight years ago from cancer.” He ran his thumb over the handle of the coffee mug. “We have one daughter who lives in California.”

“I’m so sorry, Frank.”

He lifted a shoulder.

She seemed as anxious to change the subject. “Annalise has a cousin? Another relative she hasn’t mentioned.”

Nice, Frank.
That was the problem with lies—they were like trying to seal leaks in a submarine. “They haven’t seen each other in years, I’m afraid.” He’d have to alert Annalise to that tidbit.

“Shame. Nathan has cousins all over the county. The Decker family has been in the area for nearly five generations. My former
husband’s grandfather came here in the early nineteen hundreds as a trapper, settled down in Deep Haven, married a local Ojibwa girl, and, well, now if you throw a rock, you hit a Decker relation.”

“A lot of people throwing rocks at the Deckers?”

He meant it as a joke, but something he’d peg as sadness edged her eyes. She picked at her pie. “Unfortunately, yes. Nathan and I are the black sheep of the family.”

“I hardly see you as a black sheep, Helen.”

She looked up and smiled at him, and for a second his world moved—just a little—a feeling he’d nearly forgotten. “You’re sweet. The truth is, I was married thirty years ago, to Dylan Decker. A local boy who wooed me into marrying him and then broke my heart.” She pushed her pie away. “We divorced after thirteen years of marriage—Nathan was twelve. I still remember him standing in the family room, holding a football, watching his daddy drive away. He spent the summer sitting on the steps, waiting for him to 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 stay hidden. Unless Blake had contacted his cohorts from so long ago.

“Look into Blake; see if he’s made contact with any of Garcia’s old gang.”

“If this was Garcia, then he’s on the move, and he could be heading her way.”

“Alert the airlines—”

“I did that when we discovered he had jumped parole.”

“Which means he’s traveling by car. How long does it take to get from Fairbanks to Minnesota?”

“I don’t know, maybe a few days? Hang on; I’ll MapQuest it.”

Outside the door, he could hear Miriam’s voice. “What’s going on, Helen? Was he holding your hand?”

Helen answered with a sibilant
shh
. But Frank moved toward the door anyway.

“I just invited him over for pie!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I’m not dead—I’m divorced.”

“Exactly. Something you should think about before you jump into another relationship—”

He stepped away from the door, stared at the pictures on the wall above the bed, one of Helen and her grandchildren. She was crouching between them on the steps he’d just repaired, arms over their shoulders, grinning into the camera.

“It’s sixty-seven hours, give or take a few.”

“So maybe three days?”

“He’s gotta avoid the main roads, and if he’s traveling alone, he’ll need sleep. There’s a storm moving in from the north that will slow him down . . . Still, I think you’ve got five days max, boss.”

Five days.

Five days to tell Annalise to pack up her life. To give her a new identity, find her a new place to live, create a new life for her. With or without her family. He stared at himself in the mirror, hearing the voices of the past.

He had to move her if he wanted to keep her alive.

And he very much wanted to keep Annalise alive.

“Find him, Boyd,” he said and clicked off.

He looked again at the picture, hating this job and people like Garcia. Hating that in five days he’d take everything away from Annalise.

From Helen.

Unless . . .

Unless he could convince Helen to trust him. To put her life in his hands. To let him build her a new identity along with Annalise and her family.

“What, are you going to invite him to the dance tonight?”

He paused, listening, suddenly wondering about the answer.

“I—”

And then, not caring because he’d found a way to fix this, he opened the door and pasted on a smile. “Actually, I’m inviting
her
to the dance.” He met Helen’s eyes. “Will you go with me?”

It almost felt like a real date when she smiled at him, eyes shining, and said yes.

How Nathan had landed in the doghouse, he didn’t know. But he’d done something to make his wife betray him.

Okay,
betray
didn’t seem fair. But he hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond when she’d turned to him this morning and said, “Are you sure you need me at today’s luncheon? You’re running for mayor, not me.”

What was that supposed to mean? They were a team, and frankly, there wasn’t a person in Deep Haven who didn’t like Annalise Decker. He knew she’d been campaigning for him at every PTA meeting, every soccer match. Through every volunteer hour at the Goodwill, at the hospitality committee meetings at church, on the theater board, and at the blood drive.

Her words had burrowed into him all morning, especially
during the hour on the breakfast show today with Isadora Presley, local talk show host turned political interviewer.

Annalise was his secret weapon, and he needed her more than ever if he hoped to beat Seb Brewster.

Until today at 9 a.m., Nathan Decker had believed he’d be the next mayor of Deep Haven. Then Jerry—tricky Jerry Mulligan—just had to show up, right there on the radio show, and endorse Seb Brewster’s late-entry run for mayor.

Nathan should have guessed. The man had been threatening a run since he returned to Deep Haven over a year ago.

Which meant that Nathan needed every vote he could get. He glanced at the calla lilies on the seat beside him. They filled the Ford with a freshness, a grace, that his marriage suddenly needed.

Truth was, Annalise had been acting remote, even jumpy, since her uncle arrived yesterday. He’d nearly startled her out of her robe when he found her at the window this morning, watching Frank pick up apples in his mother’s yard, a strange look on her face, and when Nathan came up beside her, she gave a small yelp.

Very reminiscent of those first years of their marriage, when he’d walk into a room and she’d spook like he might be a bandit. Or worse.

“Sorry,” he’d said, and she gave him a tepid smile as though still returning from wherever her thoughts had taken her.

Maybe across the street, where her uncle was hitting on his mother.

Yes. He saw the way his mother laughed. The way Frank took the basket from her hands, Mr. Chivalrous. It tightened something inside him.

He’d have to keep his eye on the guy. Maybe Frank
had
put Annalise on edge.

Still, it was Nathan’s job to fix it.

He pulled up to their ranch house and didn’t bother to park the car in the garage. Her SUV took up the other side of the driveway. He hoped to catch her in the shower, getting ready for the luncheon. Maybe even rekindle some of the old, impromptu moments. He missed their closeness, but that’s what happened when you lived a busy life.

He stepped past the pumpkins lining the steps, the pot of red chrysanthemums on the bent twig bench on the porch. She’d hung a wreath made of fall leaves and grapevine on the door.

Nathan recognized the pungent smell of fresh paint the moment he opened the door. Oh no.

Toeing off his shoes, he walked across the Berber carpet into the kitchen, then down the stairs to the basement. “Lise!”

He’d blame Uncle Frank for this sudden urge toward home renovation. Not that Annalise needed much of an excuse. His wife thrived on remodeling. She’d single-handedly refaced the old cupboards in the kitchen, turning it into a French Renaissance style, and retiled the backsplash not only in the kitchen, but in both main floor bathrooms. She’d repainted their bedroom twice and each of the children’s rooms three times as they grew out of Thomas the Tank Engine, Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer, and then through the Marvel Comic stages until finally letting them choose their own themes. With supervision, of course.

In the family room, she’d painted the walls red and a burnt-yellow faux stucco and replaced the carpet with Berber. He couldn’t count how many times they’d resurfaced the driveway, and he never thought he’d survive digging up and re-laying the brick walk or the patio pavers in the backyard.

Sure, the house dated from the early fifties, and the foundation
had a few cracks, but she was always slapping paint over it, as if she’d never quite get it right.

Not that he minded. But it all cost money.

More, it wasn’t like they’d ever sell the place. Or leave Deep Haven. Their life was here, in this small town, in this old ranch-style house. They had to make the best of it.

But for Annalise, it had to be better. Perfect.

Down in the basement, she had draped plastic across the carpet and had nearly finished covering the brown paneling with what looked like eggshell-white paint. She wore one of his old sweatshirts, her hair tied up in a high ponytail, protected with a blue bandanna. The nip of the October breeze snuck into the room through the open windows, tempering the odor of paint.

“Lise, now? You’re painting now?”

She stepped off the footstool, holding a roller. “Have you ever noticed how dark it is down here? And those old sofas—they stink, you know.”

“Yes, like Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and sweaty boys playing Xbox. Trust me, we’re not replacing them until after our children are out of the house.”

She set the roller in the pan. “I know. I just . . . I can’t bear to look at this dark paneling one more second.”

He pulled the flowers out from behind his back. “I’m sorry for being testy this morning.”

She gave him a soft smile, and suddenly his world slowed. Righted. Sometimes, when their life seemed to overflow with school events and church board meetings and mayoral races, he forgot the easy, simple days when just looking into her eyes made him feel as if he already had everything he needed.

As if he was already someone.

She picked up a rag, wiped her hands on it, then came over to him and took the flowers. “They’re beautiful, Nathan. Thank you.”

Her words curled around him, empowered him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Are you okay? You just seem so distant, even angry.” He tried to wipe away a smudge of paint with his thumb, but it wouldn’t clean off. “I’m not sure what I have to do to get your vote, Mrs. Decker, but I’m willing to try.”

“Really. How hard?”

Oh, he could meet that challenge. He tipped up her chin, held her eyes for a moment, and kissed her.

She had a way of making him believe that he could save her with his touch, that when he took her in his arms, he became a hero. Maybe it was her surrender, how she usually molded herself to him, her fingers looping in his hair. He could get lost in the little sounds she made, soft sighs, like he could put all things right.

Not today.

Today she gave him what he called her duty kiss, the one where he knew she was thinking about the laundry or signing permission slips or what new pillows she’d buy for the old slipcovered sofas.

Like kissing him was on her to-do list, the one she kept to make her life ordered and perfect.

He let her go. “Okay, what did I do?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. I could be kissing a walleye for all the love here.”

“Nice. Thanks.” She shoved the lilies back at him. “I have to finish painting before the kids get home.”

“Lise.” He dropped the flowers onto a table. “C’mon, that isn’t fair. You’ve been acting strange. What did you mean when you said you’re not running for mayor? You might as well be—this town looks up to you.”

“They shouldn’t—”

“Yes, they should. And I need you at the luncheon. You know how much this means to me.”

She picked up the roller, drove it into the paint, then turned to the wall, her movements brisk. “That’s what I can’t figure out. Why do you have to be mayor? You’re already so busy. You already miss soccer games, and . . .”

“Once. I missed one game.”

“And you missed a volleyball game.”

“I had a church board meeting.”

“Exactly. And now you’ll be mayor.”

“That’s right. I’ll be mayor.
Mayor
of Deep Haven, Lise.” He wanted to grab her, make her listen to him. But she kept painting.

And sighing.

How he hated the sighing. “What?”

She rolled until the paint ran out on her roller, then turned to plunge it back into the paint tray. “You know, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You’re not your father, and everyone knows that. You’re Jason and Colleen and Henry’s dad. And my husband.”

“It’s not enough.” He said it without thinking, just let the words slide out, and hated himself the moment they emerged.

She drew in her breath. “Thank you for the honesty.”

“Lise, I didn’t mean it like that.” He reached for her, but she moved away. “I just want more for us.” Oh, he was making it worse. “Not that I’m not happy—”

“I need to finish this.”

“Could you just shower and get dressed for the luncheon? We can talk about this later.”

She stood there, paint dripping onto the plastic, her shoulders stiff.

“I need you there. The voters expect to see you, to see us. And with Seb Brewster running . . . please, Lise.”

“Seb Brewster is running?”

Had she not even listened to the radio show? He tried not to let her question spear him through the chest, but it must have shown on his face because she shook her head and made a sound of defeat.

“Fine. I’ll be there.” She dropped the paint roller into the tray, grabbed the rag. “But I don’t really care if you win or lose, Nathan, because I
am
happy with our life. And your being mayor just might destroy all that.”

Her words jolted him. What—?

A door upstairs slammed, and he heard footsteps on the landing before a voice called, “Annalise?”

Frank.

“Down here!” she called, nothing of welcome in her voice.

Nathan would agree that her relative had lousy timing. He heard Frank’s footsteps thump down the stairs.

“Annalise, I have to—”

Nathan turned at Frank’s clipped sentence.

“Nathan. Uh, what are you doing home?”

Nathan couldn’t help his tone. “I live here.”

Frank had seemed friendly when he showed up, sort of an unassuming man, the kind who might take his kids fishing. Now the old man pulled himself up and for a second looked like, indeed, he had military training. His eyes went cold, his mouth tight.

Then it passed and he nodded. “Right. Sorry. I need to talk to Annalise. Family stuff.”

“I’m her family.”

Funny, though, the way Frank looked at him, Nathan didn’t feel that way. The eerie feeling climbed back into his belly, latched
on. For a moment, it seemed that he stood outside a secret, that he knew nothing of a sacred, even terrible truth.

It reminded him of the way people looked at him that day so many years ago when he went to school, unaware of the wretched news of his father’s death.

Then Annalise saved him like she always did. “Oh, for pete’s sake.” She dropped the rag and brushed past him, leaving the calla lilies behind. “I have to get to the luncheon. Whatever it is, I’ll talk to you tonight, Uncle Frank.”

Strange, the way she said
Uncle
. Like it might be a threat.

But as Nathan watched Frank’s eyes on him, perhaps it was.

Annalise had stood, hands folded in front of her, Nathan’s hands hugging her hips, and tried to find a real smile. Something that didn’t betray panic.

“One more shot,” Erland said, looking over his camera.

She’d tried to manufacture an expression that would make her unrecognizable to anyone who might have once known her. Like Luis Garcia.

Or her mother.

She hadn’t realized how much of her life had gone public. Viral, even, if Lorelei’s words as Annalise escaped to the punch bowl held any truth. “I love Nathan’s new Facebook page. Such a cute picture of you and the family. When did you have the photo taken?”

Annalise scrolled back to the last time they’d all been in one place, with clean shirts, combed hair, and smiles.

Maybe this summer, when Jason had his senior photos taken.
She’d asked the photographer to snap a few shots of their family. The one with them sitting on the rocks with the lake in the background and Nathan holding her hand had turned out well.

The perfect family.