Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,23

link. Books clicks on it. It’s an article from the Times-Picayune.

FBI Links Local Death to Serial-Killer Spree

The article notes that FBI analyst Emmy Dockery, known for her hunt and capture of the notorious serial killer Graham, was dispatched to New Orleans to investigate the seemingly accidental death of Nora Connolley.

She talked to a reporter when she was down there? Books wonders. If so, he doubts it was by choice. She was probably accosted, a reporter with a camera and recorder following her doggedly.

But it doesn’t matter. Her secret—one of them—is out now. Books can’t pretend not to know. The Bureau won’t be able to feign ignorance. Something will break as a result.

He finds himself constructing a scenario that would solve all of this: Emmy is kicked out of the Bureau over this new serial-killer search of hers, thus depriving her of access to the Citizen David investigation. There are no more leaks. The people at the Bureau will think, She’s gone and the leaks have stopped, but the proof of her leaking isn’t conclusive, so maybe we’ll just leave it at that and be glad it’s over.

Yeah, sure—and maybe his car will turn into a pumpkin at midnight, and the glass slipper will fit Emmy’s foot.

But he goes over it in his mind, his fantasy solution, praying that some scenario like that will play out and make everything better, that Emmy will snap out of this funk and get her head straight.

Something, anything, to make this nightmare go away.

23

HIS INSIDES still burning, Books walks into the bedroom with the Sunday paper under his arm, holding two empty mugs and a pot of coffee. Primed for an argument, loaded for bear, he pauses as he watches Emmy sleeping.

So tranquil, so defenseless. Emmy has had little peace since the attack by Graham, between the pain and the nightmares and the panic attacks and her obsessive need to continue her work and find the next serial-killer-eluding-detection. She has changed. It would be impossible not to. He has tried to hold her hand throughout this process, but she has, for the most part, yanked her hand free and demanded that he let her find her own way. Maybe he has failed her.

But maybe this is beyond his control. During his tenure in law enforcement, first as a cop and then with the Bureau, he saw the toll that violent crime took not just on the victim but on family and friends. He saw how the death of a child could destroy a marriage. He saw how vicious attacks completely changed some people, made them unable to cope with the new reality suddenly forced on them. He saw victims of crime leave their spouses, quit their jobs, completely reverse course on issues like religion or politics, take up or give up various pursuits or, in some cases, give up altogether.

Maybe, due to forces beyond their control, he and Emmy never had a chance after she was attacked. But he refuses to believe it.

Emmy moans and rolls her head from side to side on the pillow, her eyelids fluttering. Is she dreaming? Is it a nightmare? Is she about to start screaming No, no, no! before opening her eyes wide, frightened and disoriented?

Her hair is mussed and flattened on one side, and she’s wearing nothing but a V-neck T-shirt, so Emmy’s scars, the ones she goes to great lengths to obscure, are plain as day. The scars from the sutures along her hairline. The skin grafts on her chest and neck to repair the second-degree burns she received. Asleep, unguarded, she looks so much like the very thing she refuses to see herself as—a victim.

Let me take you away from this, Em, he thinks. Let’s forget about all of this. Everything. You’ll get better. I know you will. I’ll help you. Let me do that. Take my hand, and let’s start running.

No more lies. No more of you pretending to be strong enough to handle all of this alone. No more hiding all the pain.

Let me back into your life.

24

I OPEN my eyes, turn my head, and feel a pain shoot down my neck. I’m always stiff when I get a lot of sleep.

I blink, try to focus. The smell of coffee, Books’s favorite Italian blend. We both savor these slow weekend days, but something immediately feels different about this particular morning.

Books stands in the corner, a coffee mug in his hand, looking out the window at the rainfall. On the bed next to me is