The Stranger You Know (Forensic Instincts 3)

“The detectives told me. I still don’t understand. He just vanished?”

Hutch explained the details of the escape, studying her intently as he did.

“So, no one has any idea where he is,” he concluded. “We were hoping you could help us.”

Suzanne’s spine went rigid again. “How can I help?”

“Just by knowing him so well.” Hutch eliminated her defensive reaction by taking a nonthreatening approach. “He’s your husband. You know little things about him that no one else does. Does he have a favorite place to hang out? Somewhere he goes to be alone with his thoughts? Friends in upstate New York he’d go to for a place to stay?”

Hutch’s plan had the desired effect. Suzanne’s whole body eased. “We have no friends in that area,” she said. “And, as far as relaxing, I told all of you last time that Glen likes to take long walks to clear his head. He must be terrified right now. He could walk for hours.”

“Do you think he’d contact you?”

Suzanne’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “He’d want to. But Glen is a very intelligent man. If he really did escape, he’d know full well that all of you—” she made a sweeping gesture with her arm “—would be swarming the apartment and tapping my phone. So I doubt he’d take the chance.”

Okay, Ryan was right. The two of them were communicating by burn phone. No surprise there.

But they’d had much more than a verbal communication these past two days.

Suzanne was rolling the water glass between her palms.

“Go ahead and drink,” Hutch urged. “This whole event has come as a huge shock to you. Would you like something stronger?”

“No. Water is fine.” Almost against her will, Suzanne raised the glass to her lips and drank. The wince she gave was glaringly evident.

Hutch’s attention shifted to her turtleneck shirt. An interesting choice of attire, given the fact that it was a warm spring day.

“Do you think your husband would reach out to his nephew?” Hutch asked the throwaway question. He knew how she’d respond. But he was buying some time, calming her as he led up to what he wanted to accomplish.

“Jack?” she asked in well-coached surprise. “No. They haven’t been in touch in years. So there’d be no point in trying to contact him.”

“That makes sense.” Hutch leaned over to wipe a scuff mark off his shoe. In the process, he tipped his glass and spilled some water on the pristine area rug.

As he’d guessed, Suzanne sprang into action. With everything in the apartment lined up and maintained just so, it wasn’t a leap to assume that a water spot on her rug would freak Suzanne out.

“I’m so sorry,” Hutch said.

“That’s all right.” Suzanne was already on her feet, grimacing in pain as she hurried toward the kitchen.

Moments later, she was on her knees, placing a dry dish towel over the wet spot, absorbing the liquid. “It shouldn’t stain,” she said aloud to herself. “It’s only water.”

Hutch wasn’t listening. He was leaning over, peering at the back of her neck, which was exposed now that her motions were jerking down the top of her turtleneck.

He could see the marks even on her nape. Red, angry welts. He could just imagine what the hollow at the base of her throat looked like.

If Hutch had had any doubt that Suzanne had been with her husband, those doubts were eradicated.

“Can I help?” he asked, averting his gaze from her neck.

“No. It’s okay. The towel dried it.” She sounded so relieved, it was pitiful. There were tears in her eyes—tears of pain, of fear, of desperation.

“We can protect you,” Hutch tried. “If there’s something you want to tell us, we can help.”

Suzanne blinked back her tears, regained control and rose from the floor. “I’ve told you all there is to say,” she responded. “I’m just worried about Glen. If you hear any news about him—where he is, if he’s safe—please let me know right away. You might think of him as a murderer. I think of him as my husband.”

“I realize that.” Hutch assisted her to her feet. “But that doesn’t mean you should risk your own safety for him.”

All traces of tears were gone. “I know what I have to do, Agent Hutchinson.”