Tell No One by Harlan Coben Page B

said.
    “Yes.”
    “Like the word Goodhart was a catalyst or something?”
    “Yes,” I said again.
    “That makes sense to me.” Carlson looked at his partner. “That make sense to you, Tom?”
    “Sure,” Stone agreed, patting his stomach. “He wasn’t being evasive or anything. The word Goodhart was a catalyst.”
    “Right. That’s what got him thinking about his wife.”
    They both looked at me again. This time I forced myself to keep quiet.
    “Did your wife ever use the name Sarah Goodhart?” Carlson asked.
    “Use it how?”
    “Did she ever say, ‘Hi, I’m Sarah Goodhart,’ or getan ID with that name or check into some hot-sheets under that name—”
    “No,” I said.
    “You sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “That the truth?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t need another catalyst?”
    I straightened up in the chair and decided to show some resolve. “I don’t much like your attitude, Agent Carlson.”
    His toothy, dentist-proud smile returned, but it was like some cruel hybrid of its earlier form. He held up his hand and said, “Excuse me, yeah, okay, that was rude.” He looked around as though thinking about what to say next. I waited.
    “You ever beat up your wife, Doc?”
    The question hit me like a whiplash. “What?”
    “That get you off? Smacking around a woman?”
    “What … are you insane?”
    “How much life insurance did you collect when your wife died?”
    I froze. I looked at his face and then at Stone’s. Totally opaque. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What’s going on here?”
    “Please just answer the question. Unless, of course, you got something you don’t want to tell us.”
    “It’s no secret,” I said. “The policy was for two hundred thousand dollars.”
    Stone whistled. “Two hundred grand for a dead wife. Hey, Nick, where do I get in line?”
    “That’s a lot of life insurance for a twenty-five-year-old woman.”
    “Her cousin was starting out with State Farm,” Isaid, my words stumbling over one another. The funny thing is, even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong—at least not what they thought—I started feeling guilty. It was a weird sensation. Sweat started pouring down my armpits. “She wanted to help him out. So she bought this big policy.”
    “Nice of her,” Carlson said.
    “Real nice,” Stone added. “Family is so important, don’t you think?”
    I said nothing. Carlson sat back down on the table’s corner. The smile was gone again. “Look at me, Doc.”
    I did. His eyes bore into mine. I managed to maintain eye contact, but it was a struggle.
    “Answer my question this time,” he said slowly. “And don’t give me shocked or insulted. Did you ever hit your wife?”
    “Never,” I said.
    “Not once?”
    “Not once.”
    “Ever push her?”
    “Never.”
    “Or lash out in anger. Hell, we’ve all been there, Doc. A quick slap. No real crime in that. Natural when it comes to the affairs of the heart, you know what I mean?”
    “I never hit my wife,” I said. “I never pushed her or slapped her or lashed out in anger. Never.”
    Carlson looked over at Stone. “That clear it up for you, Tom?”
    “Sure, Nick. He says he never hit her, that’s good enough for me.”
    Carlson scratched his chin. “Unless.”
    “Unless what, Nick?”
    “Well, unless I can provide Dr. Beck here with another one of those catalysts.”
    All eyes were on me again. My own breaths echoed in my ears, hitched and uneven. I felt light-headed. Carlson waited a beat before he snatched up the large manila envelope. He took his time untying the string flap with long, slender fingers and then he opened the slit. He lifted it high in the air and let the contents fall to the table.
    “How’s this for a catalyst, huh, Doc?”
    They were photographs. Carlson pushed them toward me. I looked down and felt the hole in my heart expand.
    “Dr. Beck?”
    I stared. My fingers reached out tentatively and touched the surface.
    Elizabeth.
    They were photographs