Tell Me No Lies Read Online Free

and bounced off. "No thanks."
    Trey went after the ball, but Hank got there first. "Afraid I'll beat you?"
    A thin smile crossed his nephew's face. "Afraid you'll think it's another 'bonding' opportunity." The adult phrase pounded funny coming out of the kid's mouth, and Hank might have laughed except he knew Trey wouldn't appreciate it.
    And as if Hank needed further persuasion, Trey said, "I like my game question-free."
    Hank nodded. "Fair enough. No questions. Just dribble and shoot."
    Trey sighed and shrugged. "Whatever."
    Hank passed the ball back to Trey, then took off his sport coat and tossed it onto the car's hood. He loosened his tie. Trey eyed him, one leg thrust forward in a surly stance. Bony legs stuck out of the oversized basketball shorts, and the arms holding the ball were long and thin, with knobby elbows and shoulders that hadn't filled out yet. Christ, the kid was skinny.
    "Did you have dinner?"
    A grimace flashed across Trey's face. "You can't stop even for thirty seconds, can you?"
    "Stop what?"
    "Being a cop. Interrogating people. Yeah, I had dinner." With a brutal jerk, he slammed the ball in Hank's direction, pivoted, and walked away.
    Hank sighed; he never seemed to get it right with Trey. Christ, he remembered giving Trey that basketball two years ago. The kid had been so excited, not even birthday cake had kept him from running outside to try it out.
    The memory came back, sharp and painful. How they'd all watched through the window, and how Mo had joked bitterly. "I have two men an alcoholic and a balloholic."
    Hank had put an arm around her shoulders and given her a squeeze.
    Gone. All gone now.
    He looked toward the house. Trey had disappeared inside. Well, at least the kid was eating again. Unlike the first few weeks, when he'd barely touched a thing.
    Hank swerved his thoughts away from that time, and from that awful day that had defined all their lives since, as though it were a great chasm with before on one side and after on the other. Automatically, his hand went to his chest again. His heart was still there, strong and healthy.
    He found his mother in the kitchen, wearing an apron with Apple House Farms stenciled on it. Her shoulder-length hair, once honey brown but now dulled and stippled with gray, was caught by a rubber band in the no-nonsense ponytail she usually wore around the farm. The girlish style, which hadn't changed since he was a boy, emphasized the strong planes of her face, scraped clean of makeup and artifice.
    She smiled when she saw him, but the lines around her mouth were deep, and her eyes looked tired.
    "Saw you out there with the boy. Good of you to pay him attention. He needs it."
    Hank kissed her cheek, wanned by her support even if it was misplaced. "Try telling him that."
    She clucked her tongue. "He's angry and confused. He wants to blame someone, and you're it. Doesn't mean it's your fault, Henry."
    Doesn't mean it wasn't either. "Boy's got no parents. Somebody's got to take the blame for that." He grabbed a piece of tomato from the leftover salad sitting in a bowl on the counter. It tasted like sawdust.
    "Tom Stiller's to blame for that, and you know it."
    Hank blew out a breath. His chest felt as though it were filled with lead. "Look, can we talk about something else?"
    "Sure. How about your decision to quit your job and become a farmer?"
    Jesus. "How about warming up some of whatever you made for dinner while I change? I'm starving."
    He headed down the hallway toward his room. His mother's voice followed him. "You just want a free meal ticket, Henry Bonner."
    He grinned. Rose Bonner always did know how to break the tension. And God, she was so good at letting him off the hook.
    Truth was, unloading his job would probably be a relief. Who in his right mind wanted to be a cop anyway? All that stress, the crazy hours, the things you see.
    The things you do.
    He cut down the hallway and peeked into what his grandmother had called the back parlor. Nine-year-old