Who Are You? (9780307823533) Read Online Free PDF

in some of the Dutch masters’ paintings—solid, solemn, and totally interchangeable. Average face, average brown hair, average height—about five ten. He’s wearing a tan shirt and slacks that seem designed to make him look unimportant. “What can I do for you?” he asks, and even his voice is forgettable.
    I wish I’d planned something intelligent to say. “This is my friend Lindy Baker, and my name is Kristi Evans,” I announce. I wait for his reaction. If he lives here—or even just works here—he probably knows about Mr. Merson’s folder about me, doesn’t he?
    His eyes don’t flicker. His eyebrows don’t twitch. His expression doesn’t change. He looks as if he’s never heard of me.
    “Kristi Evans,” I repeat.
    “What can I do for you, Ms. Evans?” he asks.
    “You can tell me something about Mr. Douglas Merson,” I say.
    “About his medical condition?” I catch a note of surprise. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “There is nothing I can tell you.” The door begins to close.
    “Wait! Please wait!” I call. I have no idea what to say. I just blurt out, “The police have been to see me and my parents. Two detectives told us that Mr. Merson has kept a folder about me, but I’ve never even met Mr. Merson. I need to know who he is and
why
he has a folder about me!”
    “I know nothing about—” the man begins. But he breaks off, looking at a car that has shot into the driveway.
    With a screech of brakes a gold Infiniti comes to a stop just behind Dad’s car. The door flies open, and a woman slides out.
    I see her blue silk suit, which is really expensive, and her dark, sleek haircut, which makes her look as if she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Gold shines at her ears, throat, and wrist; rings on both hands flash in the sunlight.
    At first I think she’s in her late twenties or early thirties, but as she strides toward us I can see there’s a thick layer of makeup over a face that’s probably in Mom’s age group. She’s tall and slender and looks good, though.
    She throws Lindy and me a quick glance, then ignores us. Probably thinks we’re selling raffle tickets door-to-door for our school. “Frederick!” she calls. “I’m glad you’re here! I just heard about poor, dear Douglas, and I’m devastated.”
    “Good afternoon, Ms. Chase,” Frederick says. I notice he keeps a firm grip on the door.
    “Tell me what happened to Douglas,” Ms. Chase cries. Her voice stretches higher and tighter, and she speaks so fast that her words stumble into each other. “Of course, I know you weren’t here, since Saturdays are your days off, but you can tell me what the police told you. If only I’d been on hand. I was out of town—Austin, a new gallery opening. Ilsa’s gallery. She’s not exactly a friend, but I felt I had to be there. She used to work with me.”
    Ms. Chase gulps in a breath and rushes on. “You know how boring some of those openings can be, and this one was. I had a raging headache from the champagne—not the best quality, which I should have expected—and the Four Seasons is comfortable—the only place I ever stay in Austin—so I didn’t drive back to Houston until this afternoon. When I heard the news on my car radio, I simply came apart. Imagine Douglas being shot in the head. I can’t believe he’s still alive!” Her words run down long enough for her mind to take over. “He
is
going to survive, isn’t he?”
    “You’ll have to ask his doctors,” Frederick answers.
    Ms. Chase doesn’t give up easily. She runs up the steps, elbowing me aside, and leans one handagainst the massive door. If Frederick decides to close it, I think he’s going to have a shoving match on his hands, and Ms. Chase looks strong enough to win. I bet she works out regularly. “The staff at the hospital won’t tell me anything,” she says. “I need to talk to Douglas’s personal physician. Who is he?”
    “I’m not at liberty to give out personal information about