Bones Never Lie Read Online Free PDF Page B

and I were kids.
    Mama nodded.
    “She was speaking of death.”
    “I’m old, darlin’. It happens to all of us.”
    Was this a ruse? A new ploy to gain my attention? A delusion?
    “Look at me, Mama.” More stern than I’d intended.
    For the first time she rotated to face me. Her expression was serene, her gaze clear and composed. The sunshine Mama.
    When I was younger, I’d have tried to force an explanation. I knew better now. “I’ll speak to Dr. Finch.”
    “That’s an excellent idea.” The manicured hand slipped free of mine and patted my knee. “No sense spoiling the little time we have together.”
    Behind us, the glass door opened. Closed again.
    “How about you, darlin’? What’s on your plate these days?”
    “Nothing extraordinary.” Murdered children. A depraved killer I’d hoped to never encounter again.
    “Are you still seeing your young man?”
    That threw me. “What young man?”
    “Your French-Canadian detective. Are you two still an item?”
    The million-dollar question. But how did Mama know?
    “Did Harry tell you I was dating?” Really? Dating? Did that term even apply to the complex rituals of those over forty?
    “ ’Course she did. Your sister and I have no secrets.”
    “Harry could use a bit of discretion.”
    “Harry is fine.”
    If four husbands, obsessive overindulgence, and an insatiable need for male attention classifies as fine.
    Mama leaned close and did something with her eyebrows meant to encourage shared intimacy.
    There was no point denying her. “I haven’t seen him recently.”
    “Oh, dear. Did he dump you?”
    “His daughter died. He needs to be alone for a while.”
    “Died?” The perfectly plucked brows arched up.
    “She was ill.” True enough.
    “Oh, how very, very sad.”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you still hear from— What’s this gentleman’s name?”
    “Andrew Ryan.”
    “That’s a lovely name. Have you communicated with him since his child’s passing?”
    “One visit and one email.”
    “My, my. That’s hardly devotion.”
    “Mmm.”
    “Did he tell you where he was going?”
    “He told no one.” Defensive.
    “Others are looking for him?”
    There’s no slipping anything past Mama. “Some detectives would like his help on a case.”
    “Is it something just too wretched for words?”
    Mama had always shown keen interest in my work. In my “poor lost souls,” as she called the unnamed dead.
    Seeing no harm, I described the cold case investigations involving Vermont and Charlotte. Anique Pomerleau and Montreal. I said nothing about Shelly Leal.
    Mama asked her usual questions: who, when, where. Then she settled back on the chaise and recrossed her ankles. I waited. After a full minute she said, “These other detectives think your Andrew Ryan can catch this dreadful woman?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you?”
    “Maybe.” If he hadn’t fried his brain with booze. Fried himself with grief and self-loathing.
    “Then we shall find him.”
    I snorted.
    Mama’s jaw tightened.
    “I’m sorry. I just know you have other things on your mind. You need to focus on recovery. I don’t doubt you can find him.”
    I didn’t.
    When she was fifty-eight and emerging from a particularly cavernous funk, I bought my mother her first computer, an iMac that cost much more than I could afford. I held little hope that she’d find the cyber world attractive, but I was desperate for something to occupy her attention. Something other than me.
    I showed her how to use email, word processers, spreadsheets, the Internet. Explained about browsers and search engines. To my surprise, she was fascinated. Mama took class after class. Learned about iTunes, Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, Photoshop. Eventually, as was typical, her mastery of the new sport was way beyond mine.
    I wouldn’t call my mother a hacker. She has no interest in the secrets of the DOD or NASA. Doesn’t collect credit card or ATM numbers. Nevertheless. When she’s on her game, there’s nothing she