Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,22
down his cheek. “I know,” I say, which is not much of an answer. “I’m working on it.”
The disappointment, frustration, all over his face. We’ve been through this; I’ve pushed away the idea of moving in together before, and he’s reacted negatively before. But something is different this time—his fuse is a little shorter.
“You have to work on it. I see.”
“Books—”
“How was New Orleans?” he snaps, his eyes ablaze, as if that’s some kind of comeback, as if that has anything to do with what we’re discussing.
“It was…fine.” I look away. I do not like lying to Books. It’s one thing not to volunteer information about what I’m doing in my spare time. It’s another thing altogether to flat-out lie. A relationship is constructed slowly, like a house, and every lie is a stone pulled loose from the foundation.
And it’s not the only lie I’ve told him.
Books abruptly gets to his feet and collects his shirt and jeans. “I’ll get us some wine,” he says.
“Hey,” I call to him, but he’s already disappeared into the kitchen.
I have to tell him. I have to tell him that I’m hunting another serial killer. I know everything he’s going to say, every objection he’s going to raise, the knock-down, drag-out argument we’re going to have, but I’m going to tell him anyway. I have to.
This weekend, I promise myself. I’ll tell him this weekend.
22
SUNDAY MORNING, rain is falling…
Books can’t get the song out of his head as he looks out the window dotted with long raindrops at the gray sky. Ordinarily, there are few things Books enjoys more than lazy, damp Sundays curled up in bed with Emmy, reading the paper and sipping coffee and feeling the warmth of Emmy under the covers.
Not so much this Sunday.
He’s removed the wet plastic sleeve from the Sunday Post, and there are a few thick stains of wetness on the front page but nothing that obscures this headline:
Citizen David Targeting NYC?
Once again written by Shaindy Eckstein.
Books reaches into the back of the kitchen cabinet and removes the burner phone he was given by Director Moriarty. It has been turned off and stashed away all weekend. He couldn’t risk Emmy seeing it, much less reading anything that might be on it.
Knowing that he is hiding something from her burns his throat like harsh medicine. He reminds himself that he’s trying to protect her, trying to ensure a fair investigation.
No, he thinks, it’s not that. His own guilt is a diversion, focusing him on his role in all of this. The problem is the why, the reason there’s an investigation in the first place. The problem is that the Bureau has turned its considerable resources on Emmy, that she has a target planted on her back.
That he is losing her. That she is losing herself, jumping from the airplane and refusing to pull the cord for the parachute.
He listens for any sound of Emmy moving upstairs but hears nothing. It’s only six thirty in the morning. Emmy usually sleeps well past this time. She sleeps hard and long on the weekends. She comes to him on Friday nights beaten and exhausted. It’s not hard to imagine why—she works endless hours and gets almost no sleep during the week. Even though she has assured him—lied to him—that this isn’t the case anymore, that she has scaled back.
He powers up the burner phone. The screen comes to life. The first new text message is time-stamped Friday at 5:25 p.m.
She just met with SE at Deadline, quick conversation and left.
Books feels a slow burn through his chest. She must have come straight from that meeting with Shaindy Eckstein to his house. He’d thought he’d tasted wine on her mouth when he first kissed her, but he was too busy ripping off her clothes to think much of it.
Friday, happy hour, she meets with Shaindy. Sunday morning, Shaindy is revealing the Bureau’s thoughts on Citizen David’s plans.
He pictures agents following Emmy, clicking photo after incriminating photo of her whispering to a Washington Post reporter in a popular, crowded bar.
His heart asks him, Why would she do this in plain sight of hundreds of onlookers? His brain answers, It’s the perfect place, lost in a crowd, a brief stolen moment that could easily be passed off as a quick hello, small talk.
“Oh, Emmy,” he whispers, “please don’t let it be true.”
The second new text message is from this morning, less than an hour ago: