1st Case - James Patterson Page 0,66

than I’d had up to now. So I tried to work it.

I need proof that Eve is still alive, I said. Then we can keep going.

What kind of proof? he asked.

Let me speak with her.

That’s not going to happen. But since you’ve been good, hold on.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, waiting to hear back. I thought about what Billy had told me on my very first day with this case. The clock is always ticking, he’d said.

It had never felt truer than it did just then. Every minute that passed now was one more minute Eve had to spend in hell.

Finally, just when I started to wonder if he was playing me—was he ever going to come back?—I got word. Instead of a text or a photo this time, an audio file scrolled into the Android’s chat thread, and I hit Play right away.

What I’d received was a recording of Eve, her voice flat and emotionless as she read back the most recent text exchange.

“‘I need proof that Eve is still alive. Then we can keep going.’ ‘What kind of proof?’ ‘Let me speak with her.’ ‘That’s not going to happen. But since you’ve been good, hold on.’”

That was it, only eight seconds long. But it meant she was alive! Just hearing her again filled me with the energy I needed to keep going.

I listened to the recording three more times, straining for any background noise that might give me some clue about where they’d taken her. There was nothing to extract, and before I could try a fourth time, the screen refreshed, the audio file disappeared, and a new text took its place.

Satisfied?

Why are you doing this? I asked.

Not so fast. It’s your turn.

For what? I asked, even though I knew.

It’s called show and tell, he wrote. You show, I tell. Every pic buys you a new question. Fun, right?

I could feel my desperation, rising inside me like mercury. I didn’t want to go down this path, but I had to be able to say I tried everything, for Eve’s sake.

Before I could respond either way, a sharp knock came at my door. I flinched, then went to look through the peephole. A woman I’d never seen before was standing in the hall.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Angela, I’m Dr. Ann L. Johnson,” she called back. “I’m here from psych services.”

Dammit! I’d forgotten she was coming. And it wasn’t like I could send her away, as much as I would have liked to.

“Just a minute!” I said as a quick series of new messages scrolled onto the phone in my hand.

Sounds like you have company

We’ll play later

This is just getting interesting

Don’t blow it now, Angela

CHAPTER 72

DR. ANN L. JOHNSON had an easy, chic kind of vibe going on, with her pleated pencil skirt, three-quarter-sleeve cardigan, and a beautiful floral print scarf that would have made my mother jealous. I could easily imagine her as the headmistress at some tony New England boarding school.

After some initial chitchat that I figured was meant to put me at ease—like that was ever going to happen—we sat down at my little kitchen table for the psych evaluation I assumed she was there for.

She asked how I was feeling about George, about Eve’s disappearance, and about the case in general. I answered honestly but superficially, never forgetting that someone else could be listening in. The whole thing was as uncomfortable as it was unavoidable.

And then, inevitably, Dr. Johnson wanted to talk about my least favorite subject: me.

“I’ve spoken a bit with your superiors here,” she said. “It sounds like you’re quite an eager learner.”

“Is that a euphemism?” I asked.

“It is, a little bit,” she acknowledged.

I’m not a fan of shrinks. I’d been sent to a few in my adolescence, probably to make sure I wasn’t child-geniusing my way to a career as a psychopath. And while I’m sure they were all perfectly good docs, they always made me feel like an animal in a zoo.

Still, I knew what Dr. Johnson was looking for. So I cut to the chase for both of us. The sooner we got this over with, the better.

“What can I say? Some people overeat. Some people gamble or drink,” I told her. “I overdo. I overthink, and always have. But that’s also part of what’s gotten me this far, especially for someone my age.”

“It’s true. Your resume is extraordinary,” she said.

“That wasn’t a dig for compliments,” I told her. “What I’m saying is that I wouldn’t walk away