Things You Won't Say

Thank you for downloading this Washington Square Press/Atria eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Washington Square Press/Atria and Simon & Schuster.

C
LICK
H
ERE
T
O
S
IGN
U
P

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

For all the book bloggers, librarians, and readers.

Thank you for spreading the joy of reading.

Part One

Chapter One

AS SHE APPROACHED THE
traffic light, Jamie Anderson prayed it would stay green. She pushed harder on the gas, edging the speedometer’s needle as high as she dared—which wasn’t very high, because she was a cop’s wife and police headquarters was a dozen yards away. Just when she thought she’d make it through the intersection, a slow-moving Toyota cut in front of her, forcing her to hit her brakes. The stoplight blinked yellow, then red.

Jamie held her breath.
Don’t look,
she warned herself, even as she felt her gaze being yanked to the right, toward the section of sidewalk that had recently been cordoned off with crime-scene tape. The sidewalk had been scrubbed clean, but she wondered if the dark stains still showed up close.

Her three-year-old daughter’s high voice piped up from the backseat: “Pizza?”

“What? No, not today,” Jamie said. She gripped the steering wheel tightly. Why was the light taking so long?

“Pizza, please!” Eloise said, her little-girl lisp turning the
l
into a
w.

“Maybe later,” Jamie said.

Her husband, Mike, would be returning to this exact spot
tomorrow, wearing his dark blue uniform and Magnum boots and heavy patrolman’s belt. For the first time, though, his silver badge would be crossed by a black ribbon.

A blaring horn jolted Jamie and she pressed the gas pedal again. Being here was wrenching for her. How much worse would it be for Mike to return to the spot where his longtime partner, Ritchie, and a young rookie officer had been shot two weeks ago by a lunatic with a grudge against cops?

But Mike would never quit. Early in their relationship, when they’d been trading stories about growing up, he’d told her that during recess at his elementary school, the boys had split up into two groups: the good guys and the bad guys. The other kids switched between characters, but never Mike. Even back then, he’d wanted to be the one to round up the criminals. It was why he’d turned down a chance at a promotion that would mean more desk work years ago. He loved patrolling the streets, talking to citizens, giving high fives to little kids. Keeping everyone in his little strip of the city safe.

“I hungry! I want pizza!” Eloise’s whining had crossed into wailing now.

“Okay, okay.” Jamie sighed, knowing she was probably violating a half dozen parenting rules but not particularly caring. She had a little extra time before she needed to pick up her eight-year-old, Sam, and six-year-old, Emily, at their elementary school anyway.

She put on her signal to turn left and stifled a yawn. Mike had endured another nightmare last night, thrashing around before he sat bolt upright and yelled something incoherent, awakening with all the sudden violence of a thunderclap. He’d been sweating and trembling, and she’d gotten up to bring him a glass of water when he said he didn’t feel like talking. Neither of them had been able to fall back asleep. Now it was barely two-thirty, and she was exhausted, her feet hot and sore from racing around after Eloise at the playground all morning. She had a trunkful of groceries to unpack before driving Sam
to soccer practice, then there would be homework to supervise, lunch boxes to clean out and refill, a dishwasher to unload, the living room to reassemble before the tornado of kids struck again . . . plus her sister, Lou, had left two messages today. Something would have to give, and it might as well be a home-cooked dinner. She’d pick up a couple of pizzas now, give the kids a slice each for an after-school snack, and reheat the rest tonight.

Belatedly realizing she’d achieved victory, Eloise stopped mid-shriek.
A future actress,
Jamie thought. Or an opera singer, given the notes Eloise hit when she was upset.

Jamie found a parking spot near the entrance of their favorite carryout and unbuckled Eloise from her car seat. She ordered a salad for herself even though she knew she’d end up scarfing a few cheesy pieces from the two large pies she was buying, then she grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerated case. She needed caffeine. She needed a housekeeper, a cook, and a part-time driver more, but her budget covered only the soda. She was stretching out her hand to accept her change from the cashier when she heard someone call her name.

She turned around to see a slim woman with chestnut-colored hair who was dressed in black spandex and expensive-looking running shoes. Jamie had on athletic gear, too, but her outfit was chosen only because all her Old Navy T-shirts and shorts—her warm-weather uniform—were entangled in an overflowing laundry basket.

It took Jamie a moment to place the face: another mom from the elementary school. She should know the woman’s name; they’d met at a half dozen holiday performances and field trips through the years.

“Hi!” Jamie said, injecting enthusiasm into her tone to make up for her memory lapse.

“It’s
so
good to see you,” the woman said, moving closer and reaching out to grip Jamie’s forearm. “How
are
you?”

The woman was wearing what Jamie had come to think of
as a sympathy face: creased forehead, jutting chin, and wide, inquisitive eyes.

“Fine, thanks,” Jamie said, pulling her arm away and ignoring the woman’s unspoken questions. “Eloise, that’s enough napkins. Stop pulling them out, honey.”

“It was so terrifying to hear the news,” the woman continued. She clutched her chest. “In the middle of the day! I mean, you’d think a police station would be the safest place in the world!”

“Yes, well . . . some people are crazy,” Jamie said.

“How is Mike
doing
?” the woman asked.

“He’s good,” Jamie said, keeping her tone neutral. No way was she going to reveal any personal information. The details would ricochet around the school via an informal gossip tree before her pizza was even out of the oven.

“Oh,” the woman said, seeming a little disappointed. “I mean, he was right there, wasn’t he? It could’ve been him!”

Enough. Jamie smiled tightly and reached for Eloise’s hand. “Come on, honey, we need to get Sam and Emily.”

“My pizza!” Eloise protested, dropping the napkins on the floor.

“We’re coming back for it,” Jamie said. She left the napkins, grabbed a peppermint from the jar by the cash register to appease her daughter, and rushed them both to the car, feeling the woman’s stare on her back.

Yes, Mike had been right there! Was that what the awful woman wanted, for Jamie to describe the scene she couldn’t stop thinking about?

Her cell phone ringing as she was driving to pick up the kids from school—just as she was now. Her hand reaching to hit the speakerphone button and turn down the radio. Mike’s voice gasping out terrible words: A man with a hunting rifle lying in wait outside headquarters. Two officers down. A rookie dead on the sidewalk. And Mike’s partner and best friend, Ritchie, unconscious and bleeding profusely from a head wound.

Jamie’s shaking hand took two tries to fit the key into the ignition.

“Ritchie was right ahead of me,”
Mike had kept repeating.
“I didn’t see the gun! The sun—it hit my eyes . . . Oh, God, I didn’t see the gun in time . . .”

The deranged man had been taken down by another officer who was leaving the same 7:00
A.M.
to 3:00
P.M.
shift. Later, all the newspapers had reported that in the pocket of the killer’s camouflage pants was a rambling note professing his hatred of police.

And now Mike hated himself.

Maybe he should talk to somebody, Jamie thought as she drove toward the school, knowing her husband would never do it. A police counselor had offered therapy sessions, and even suggested Mike start taking antidepressants right after the shooting.

“Crazy pills,” Mike had scoffed, rolling his dark eyes. Instead he’d tried to lose himself in punishing runs and endless biceps curls and push-ups. He changed the oil in the minivan and added new insulation in the attic. He visited Ritchie in the hospital’s ICU nearly every day. He drove Jamie and the kids to bring casseroles and salads to Ritchie’s wife, Sandy, and their twins, but while the women talked and the kids played, he mowed the lawn and trimmed the hedges. No matter how hard he tried to exhaust himself, though, the nightmares persisted, and with every passing day, Jamie felt as if her husband was withdrawing a bit more, an invisible casualty of the shooting.

Maybe
she
needed to talk to somebody, Jamie thought.

A housekeeper, a cook, a driver, and a therapist. She sighed. Who could afford any of it?

She pulled into the school pickup line and waited for Sam and Emily to emerge from the red-brick building. Tonight her teenage stepson, Henry, would be staying with them, too. Jamie adored Henry, but she hoped Mike’s old girlfriend,
Christie, would stay in her car rather than come to the door during the exchange of her son, especially since Jamie’s dirty-blond hair was swept up in a messy ponytail and the swipes of mascara she’d put on this morning had long ago sweated off. Henry was the result of a brief fling between Christie and Mike a couple of years before Jamie met Mike. By the time Christie discovered she was pregnant, she and Mike had been on the verge of breaking up. They’d decided to have the baby anyway, and split custody. Against all odds, it had all worked out. Henry was a terrific boy, kindhearted and smart, and even though drama stuck to Christie like a shadow, everyone was on friendly terms. Friendly enough, anyway. At least most of the time.

“Hi, guys,” Jamie said as her older two piled into the minivan. “How was school?”

“Boring,” Emily answered, flouncing into her seat with a long-suffering sigh. Six years old going on Katy Perry was how Mike always described her.

“I’m starving,” Sam said.

“We’re picking up pizza in a minute,” Jamie said as she pulled back onto the road. She hoped the nosy woman had left the carryout. She couldn’t bear another round of questions, especially not in front of the kids, who’d spent so much time with Ritchie and his family. Sometimes Jamie had teased Mike about wanting to socialize with them on weekends. Didn’t the two men see each other enough?

Mike and Ritchie were as close as twin brothers, although they looked nothing alike. Ritchie was tall and thin, with horn-rimmed glasses and a prematurely graying Afro; Mike was short and muscular, with wavy dark brown hair. Each knew how the other took his coffee, what his opinion was on mayo versus mustard, and how he reacted in times of stress or boredom or crisis. They even teased each other about reading the sports page on the john. They’d been teasing moments before the shooting, too.

Mike had been about to walk out the building’s heavy glass door. But instead, he’d pulled it open and nudged Ritchie in the shoulder.

“Ladies first,” he’d joked.

And Ritchie had stepped onto the sidewalk, into the bright sunlight, just ahead of Mike.

•••

It was probably a safe bet that there weren’t many people in the world whose dream job included cleaning up elephant dung, Lou reflected as she picked up a shovel and got to work.

But then again, how many people had the chance to walk through the tall metal gates of a zoo in the dawn of a lush summer day, listening to the calls and chatter of the tufted capuchin monkeys, or the bone-shaking roar of a Siberian tiger? Bearing witness as the zoo came alive was a transformative experience, one that became even more meaningful to Lou as she got to know the animals, to recognize their individual sounds and gauge their moods.

“Tabitha ate about a crate of sweet potatoes last night,” another keeper called as he hosed down the adjoining pen. The four Asian elephants were out in the yard, rolling around in mud, which was their morning ritual. The early June day promised to be another hot, sticky one, and the mud would protect the mammals’ skin—more evidence to Lou that when it came to common sense, elephants trumped humans any day. Take all the women who greased themselves up in search of a perfect tan and then, a few years later, injected chemicals into their faces in an effort to undo the damage. Which was the smarter species?

“I can tell Tabby binged,” Lou said, scooping up the last of the impressive mess. “But she lost fifty pounds last week, so she needs to put a little back on.” Especially since the great mammal was pregnant. Lou always watched her animals closely, but Tabby required extra attention these days.