Liar Liar - James Patterson Page 0,12

glass was already a quarter empty. “It’s just hard not to blame myself for it all.”

“Blame yourself for what?” she asked.

Whitt drew a deep breath, doubting he could possibly explain it. And then suddenly it was all flowing out of him, beginning right back at the start, when he’d sabotaged an investigation into a child’s murder. Vada watched him, coaxed him gently with occasional questions. Whitt didn’t speak to people like this. He didn’t dump all his problems on strangers in bars without asking them a single question about themselves. But the words went on and on. He spoke about seeing his friend Tox Barnes near dead on a hospital stretcher. About having to tell Harriet her brother had been killed.

When the words finally dried up, Whitt felt his face had grown hot. He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“Edward,” she began.

“Most people call me Whitt,” he said, and cringed. It was Harriet who had branded him “Whitt,” against his will. Vada was not “the new Harry” in his life. He had to remember that. “Sorry. I interrupted you.”

“It’s fine.” She put a gentle hand on his. “Whitt, I feel like what you might be experiencing is something called survivor’s guilt.”

“Oh, I haven’t survived anything,” Whitt said. “It was Tox who got himself stabbed. And now Harry’s out there, running around, putting herself right in harm’s way. I’ve never been in the middle of the danger.”

“Exactly,” Vada said. “Your friend was stabbed. Harriet’s brother was killed. But what have you actually suffered? The guilt comes from not participating in the pain. Feeling like you haven’t taken your share.”

Whitt thought about it. He felt the stirrings of relief in his chest. Vada’s hand was still on his.

“How are you sleeping?” she asked.

“Terribly.”

“And you feel anxious?”

“All of the time.”

She sat back, folded her arms, her theory confirmed. Whitt chanced a tiny smile and played with his wineglass.

“You need a support system.” Vada returned the smile. “You’ve got me now. I may not be the most experienced detective around, but I’ll be right by your side from now on.”

“How new to the rank are you?”

“I just got the promotion a few weeks ago. I’m out of North Sydney metro. This will be my first major case.”

“Oh, wow.” His eyes widened. “That is new.”

“I’m the rookie,” she said. “But I feel like I’m going to be an asset to this case. I did a bachelor of psychology at the University of Sydney before I joined the force. My thesis was in personality disorders. I think the key to catching Regan will be to get into his head. Understand the way he thinks.”

Whitt couldn’t help but like her. Vada was sitting upright on her bar stool, gesturing with one hand as she explained the various aspects of her degree. She had a lot of confidence. Whitt tried to guess her age. Early thirties. She’d made detective long before he had. He was broken from his reverie by her hand, slipping a wineglass into his.

“Oh, no.” He pushed the glass away. “I only ever have one. I’m not a drinker.”

“Come on.” Vada rubbed his arm. “You look like you need it. It’s okay to take a break every now and then, Whitt. It’s called self-care. You need to be kinder to yourself.”

She excused herself and went to the bathroom. Whitt turned the glass on the bar before him. His first glass had been soured by sediment, the dregs of the bottle. A waste, really, of his one and only daily treat. He’d had a hard day. He deserved an extra reward. Perhaps he could have one more. Only one more. He didn’t want to be rude.

He lifted the glass to his lips.

Chapter 18

I STOOD IN the queue at the soup truck, hoodie pulled up around my face, the gathered homeless men and women grinding the heels of their battered shoes into the dirt. With my face downcast and hands in my pockets, I was, I hoped, no more remarkable than the gaggle of down-on-their-luck prostitutes standing nearby—freelance girls banned from the glittering red-light district only streets away, park dwellers who stood on corners and took rides in dark cars. Kings Cross’s parks were full of young women like these, girls who had come from the country to make their fortune and instead found themselves on a waiting list for overcrowded brothels.

The roller door on the side of the van went up, and a young man with lip piercings began handing out trays of food, no