The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1) - James Patterson

CHAPTER 1

I KNOW within thirty-three seconds of entering the front door that my home is empty and my husband and daughter are missing.

As a US Army captain, assigned to the Military Intelligence Command, I have years of training and battlefield experience in Iraq and Afghanistan in evaluating patterns, scraps of information, and bits of communication.

This experience comes in handy when I enter our nice little suburban home in Kingstowne, Virginia, about eight miles from my current duty station at Fort Belvoir. Our light-blue Honda CR-V is parked in the driveway, school has been out for hours, and when I take my first two steps into our house, there’s no television on, no smell of dinner cooking—which my husband, Tom, said would be ready when I got home, since I am late once again—and, most puzzling, no ambient noise or presence from our ten-year-old, Denise, who is usually singing, chatting on her phone, or tap-dancing in the front hallway. Hard to explain, but the moment after I open the door, I know the place is empty and my loved ones are in trouble.

I gently put my black leather purse and soft leather briefcase on the floor. I don’t bother calling out. Instead I go to the near wall, where there’s a framed photo of a Maine lighthouse, and I tug the photo free, revealing a small metal safe built into the wall and a combination keypad next to a handle. I punch in 9999 (in an emergency like this, trying to remember a complex code is a one-way ticket to disaster), tug the handle free, and reach in and pull out a loaded stainless-steel Ruger .357 hammerless revolver.

It’s always loaded. Always. When we first moved in here three years ago, Tom teased me about my paranoia, but he stopped teasing when one of my fellow intelligence officers died in a home invasion gone bad in California: nothing was stolen during this supposed home invasion, and my colleague was nailed to the wall of his bedroom with eight-inch steel spikes.

I kick off my black shoes, move down the short hallway. Kitchen is empty. Tom’s cluttered office is also empty. Since leaving his reporting job last year, Tom has spent many hours in this office writing a book—about what, I don’t know—and I remember he’s supposed to leave to interview a source for said book in two days.

I move on to the also empty dining room, which has an oval-shaped table, six dining room chairs, and a glass-enclosed hutch holding our best china. A single rose stands in a slim glass vase in the center of the table. A gift from Tom last night.

Living room, with reclining chair, two couches, bookcases, flat-screen television with Denise’s collection of DVDs shelved beneath.

Also empty.

I open the door to the basement, sidle down, and then quickly switch on the lights.

Furnace, stored boxes, Denise’s old bicycle, some odds and ends, broken toys and hand tools, Bowflex machine Tom claims he’ll get to one of these days, next to a dusty treadmill I also promise to get to one of these days.

Clear.

Now I’m on the stairs leading to the second floor, creeping up, keeping myself close to the wall so my quiet footfalls won’t cause nails or wood to creak.

I’ve been through basic, extended basic, two infantry tours in Iraq, and was one of the first women to make it through US Army Ranger training. In the past few years, I’ve gone face-to-face with some of the most dangerous people in the world, interviewing Al-Qaeda, ISIS, and Taliban men (always men!) who looked at me with such hate from their black and brown eyes that it has caused terrible dreams at night and paranoia during the day; I am always looking over my shoulder.

But nothing so far has scared me as much as walking up these fourteen typical steps in a typical American house in a typical Virginia suburb. Among the many skills an intelligence officer needs is an active and extensive imagination, and I’m imagining—

Tom, facedown on our marital bed, the back of his head a bloody mush from being shot.

Denise, in the corner of her bedroom, holding a stuffed Mickey Mouse toy in her dead arms, her throat slit, blood staining her Frozen T-shirt purchased on a Disney vacation last year.

Tom and Denise, their butchered bodies dumped in the bathtub, a mocking message smeared on the bathroom mirror, written in their blood.

My family, my loves, my life, all dead because of where I’ve gone, whom I’ve fought, and