Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,27
on Friday nights looking like you haven’t slept all week. You’re not doing any of the things you promised to do.”
“I’m doing fine.”
His face falls and his shoulders slump in disappointment and pain. Books doesn’t wear those emotions well. He’s the stoic type. It hits me now as it never has before: I have hurt him. I have hurt us.
His eyes return to mine. He says slowly, softly, “How’s therapy going?”
I bite my lip.
“Don’t.” A minute shake of his head. “I can’t stomach another lie. I know you stopped going months ago. I talked to the receptionist at Dr. Bakalis’s office. That’s right,” he goes on, steel in his voice, seeing my reaction, “I did, I pretended to be your assistant calling for an appointment, and she told me you hadn’t been there in months. Months, Emmy.” He brings a hand to his forehead, pushes back his hair. “Months.”
I step away, lean against the refrigerator for support.
Books lets out a deep sigh, as if preparing for something. I hold my breath.
“You’re on a downward spiral, Emily. And I love you, and I’ll be there with you every step of the way. I’m all in, if you’re willing to let me in. Whatever it takes. But you can’t live in denial. You can’t do God knows what all week and then show up on the weekend and pretend—to me, to yourself—that everything’s okay.”
I let out air slowly, a tremble working through me. “I can make adjustments,” I say. “I can. I will. But I can’t just turn away and let this monster roam the country killing people. I can’t just walk away from this job.”
He stares at me a long time. “I did,” he says.
“I never asked you to leave the Bureau.”
“It’s not a question of—” He shakes his head and almost laughs, although there is no trace of amusement in his look. “I know you didn’t. I did it on my own. Because I realized that the job was swallowing me whole. That I was going to wind up at the end of my life sitting in a rocking chair with nothing to show for myself but a bunch of solves. That if I stayed there, I’d never share my life with anyone, never have kids, never travel, never take time to enjoy the world. I realized that there would always be bad people doing bad things, but I didn’t have to solve every problem. I had the right to a life of my own.”
“I…I…” I just can’t let this go. How can I? I know in my heart that a monster is out there and that I can catch him—that I’m the only one willing to make the effort to catch him. How can I let more people die?
Books winces, closes one eye. “I just got it,” he says. “Boy, am I slow…I guess it took this”—he draws a finger back and forth between us—“for me to see it.”
“See what?”
“This is the life you want.” He says the words like he’s delivering a eulogy, eyes down, face drawn, posture defeated. “Working all hours, day and night, obsessing during the week and taking a breather with me on the weekends. I’m your break in the action. I’m your weekend getaway.”
His eyes rise up to meet mine. It lies there before us, a big ugly truth spreading like some horror-show slime, threatening to engulf us both.
I’ve never loved anyone like I love Books; I’ve never felt such an effortless connection. I’ve never met anyone who could open me up and flip on the switches. I love the way he cuts to the brutal truth. The spark when he touches me. How he’s so sure of who he is and what he wants.
“I love you” is all I say, a lump forming in my throat, because I know I’m saying it differently than I usually do. We both know it.
I rush to him, wrap my arms around him. He wraps his arms around me too. His body starts to tremble. I have never seen or heard Harrison Bookman cry.
He turns his head, brings his mouth to my forehead. “Please give it up,” he whispers to me. “Please stop the chase.”
I have lied to Books, both by omission and flat-out, for too long now. I can’t do it anymore. He deserves better—so, so much better. I suddenly realize, like a slap to my face, how selfish I’ve been to do this to Books.
“I will always love you,” I say. I force myself to