The Stranger You Know (Forensic Instincts 3)

“Yesterday afternoon, in upstate New York. Where did you spend the night?” Rayburn wasn’t mincing words. “Not to mention the past two days. We checked. You canceled all your piano lessons.”

“Yes, I did.” Suzanne knew this would be one of the biggest hurdles. “I called all my students. I wasn’t up for work, not with Glen being charged with a whole new set of crimes and being brought to Rikers Island. The thought of him serving an even longer sentence, especially when he was working so hard on an appeal—I couldn’t bear it. I took a train out to Montauk. I sat at the lake all day and watched the boats, the way Glen and I used to. I slept on the train back. I wasn’t myself, so I spent most of the day at Starbucks, thinking.” Suzanne made sure her Starbucks cup was visible.

Rayburn drilled her. “You slept on a train and didn’t stop at home to shower or change clothes before you spent an entire day at Starbucks?”

“I was upset. An empty apartment was the last place I wanted to be.” Suzanne held up her palm, holding his questions at bay. “Please tell me about Glen. Is he all right?”

The detective studied her from narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t know. He’s vanished.”

“How? How could this happen?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.” Malcolm gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s go upstairs to your apartment. We can join the other crime scene investigators, detectives and FBI agents who are, once again, going through your home. Maybe you can answer our questions and we can answer yours. Sort of tit for tat.” His voice oozed sarcasm.

Suzanne steeled herself. She’d expected this to be hard. Her instincts now told her that it would be even harder than she’d imagined.

Stick to the script. She could hear Glen’s voice echoing in her head. Answer as briefly as you can. They have nothing on you. Don’t give them something.

She nodded politely at the two detectives and—being careful to keep her physical discomfort totally in check—led the way upstairs.

* * *

Hutch glanced up when the two detectives escorted Suzanne Fisher into the apartment. He and Brian were there, along with the rest of the law enforcement crew. Brian was talking to one of the crime scene guys, getting information on any new personal belongings that might be present now but weren’t there during their initial search.

Suzanne reminded him of a trapped bird—terrified, overwhelmed and desperately in need of escape. There was a pinched expression on her face. She was trying to hide it, but she was in physical, as well as emotional, pain.

Now that bore looking into.

Hutch walked over. “Hello, Mrs. Fisher. I don’t know if you remember me.”

“I do.” Suzanne nodded. “You’re the FBI agent I talked to. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.” She eyed him, waiting to see what he’d ask, readying herself to supply the answer. Like a kid at a spelling bee—one who’d been drilled to deliver the correct response.

Suzanne Fisher had been prepped.

And there was only one person who could have prepped her.

“Agent Hutchinson,” Hutch filled in. “And, yes, we talked a little the last time I was here. I’d like to talk to you again, if you don’t mind.” His glance darted qu

ickly from Malcolm to Rayburn, tacitly telling them to give him some time alone with the subject.

“I don’t mind,” Suzanne replied, visibly relieved when the two detectives walked away. “What is it you want to know?”

“Let’s sit down.” Hutch guided her over to the living room sofa, watching her carefully as she lowered herself to the cushion. No, he hadn’t imagined it. She was hurting—badly. Her entire body went rigid as she sat, and she gritted her teeth to bite back any sound of pain.

“Do you have any tea left?” Hutch asked, pointing at her cup.

“What? Oh. No. I finished it.” Suzanne stared at the empty cup.

“I’ll toss it for you. And I’ll bring you a glass of water.”

“Thank you.” Suzanne handed it over. She was clearly struggling for self-control. She’d been told to stay strong. And she was trying to obey that order.

Hutch went into the kitchen and came out with two glasses of spring water, one of which he pressed into her hand.

“I hope you don’t mind that I grabbed some water for myself.”

“Of course not.”

Hutch sat down on the tub chair that was positioned across from Suzanne. “I presume you’ve heard about your husband’s escape?”