The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19) - James Patterson Page 0,78

the elevator, opened our front door, and called out, “Helloooo. I’m home.”

But no one answered. No one was there, not even Martha. I looked around for any kind of clue—Joe’s shoes under the coatrack, a woman’s jacket on the hook—but there was nothing.

I took the white string-tied boxes to the kitchen counter and smelled marinara sauce, saw covered pots on the stove. Then I saw a folded sheet of notepaper addressed to me.

What now?

I read, Linds, we’ve gone for a walk. Be back in a few.

Joe had noted the time. I checked. It was ten minutes ago.

I took the opportunity to jump into the shower, rinse off, and cool down. Then I thought about what to wear to meet my husband’s daughter. I was under the spray, reviewing my scant clothing options, when I heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood and voices in the living room.

I turned off the water and heard Joe and a woman talking, and Julie was piping up, too. I wrapped myself in a towel and was reaching for the doorknob when the door opened. I hadn’t locked it. I suppose I gasped.

“Mommy.”

Julie was there on the threshold, looking up at me. Still hearing people talking, I looked over her head, but only Julie could see into the bathroom. I stooped down and said, “Honey, I’ll be out in a minute—”

“Mommy, guess what?”

“Let me get dressed before I guess, okay?”

I shooed Julie out of the bathroom doorway and darted into the bedroom with my little sweetie calling behind me, “Hurry up.”

I reached into the closet for pants, a top, flat shoes. My hair was damp, but I finger-combed it and put it up in a ponytail, and then, ready or not, I joined the party in the living room.

Joe stood up from his chair and so did the lithe young woman who’d been sitting on the sofa. Martha, wagging her tail, ran to me and pushed at my hand.

My husband said, “Lindsay, this is Franny.”

“Hi, Franny,” I said, walking toward her. She said, “So good to meet you,” but my arms were already outstretched as if they had a mind of their own.

I wrapped her in a hug.

Julie ran over and hugged my legs and Joe stood behind Franny, where I could see him beaming.

My little girl tugged at my shirttails and I looked down at Julie-Bug’s precious face. She was grinning.

“Guess what?” she said.

“What?” I said, releasing my stepdaughter.

“Mom. Mom. This is Franny.”

“Yes, darling, I know.”

“Franny is my sister, Mom. I have a sister.”

There were smiles all around, and then Joe said, “Who’s hungry?”

“I’m starved,” said my stepdaughter.

“Me, too,” said Julie.

“I can always eat,” I said.

Franny helped in the kitchen as Joe set the table and then lifted the pan of his amazing lasagna from the oven. I tossed the salad, and very soon, we were all gathered around the dining table. I sat across from Joe; Julie sat between Franny and me.

The awkwardness, the tension, the fear of God only knew what—that was gone.

All of the Molinaris were home, together.

Acknowledgments

The authors wish to thank the many people who have been essential advisers to our fictitious characters: Capt. Richard Conklin, BCI Commander, Stamford, Connecticut, PD; attorneys Phil Hoffman and Steve Rabinowitz, partners at the law firm of Pryor Cashman, NYC; Hugo Rojas, who advised us in immigration law for this book; Chuck Hanni, arson investigator in Youngstown, Ohio; and the late Humphey Germaniuk, medical examiner and coroner of Trumbull County, Ohio, who sadly passed away in 2018.

We are also grateful to Ingrid Taylar, our on-location researcher in San Francisco, to Mary Jordan, who successfully keeps the many moving parts and pieces in order and on time, to our supportive spouses, Sue and John, and to Team Patterson.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all.

Read on for a sneak preview of the next thrilling

instalment in the Women’s Murder Club series

20TH VICTIM

Coming March 2020

CHAPTER 1

CINDY THOMAS WAS tuned in to her police scanner as she drove through the Friday-morning rush to her job at the San Francisco Chronicle.

For the last fifteen minutes there’d been nothing but routine calls back and forth between dispatch and patrol cars. Then something happened.

The Whistler TRX-1 scanner went crazy with static and cross talk. It was as though a main switch had been thrown wide open. Codes in the four hundreds jammed the channel. She knew them all: 406, officer needs emergency help; 408, ambulance needed; 410, requested assistance responding.

Cindy was an investigative journalist, top dog on the crime beat. Her assistance