Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,54

get back to doing what I do best. With Rabbit and Pully at the office, and with an autopsy on the way, I am closer than ever to—

“…getting married, aren’t you?”

I snap out of my thoughts and turn to Elizabeth, who is looking out the window. “You’re getting married, isn’t that right?” she says again. “I’d heard that.”

“I was engaged, yes,” I say, feeling the ache in my chest when I use the past tense. “Not anymore.”

She turns to me. “No?”

“Didn’t work out. Married to my job, I guess,” I add, not that she asked and not that I owe her any explanation. I begin calculating how long it will take the flight attendant to scoot that alcohol-laden beverage cart down the aisle.

“Sorry to hear that,” she says, resuming her view out the window.

I doubt that she’s sorry. But she’s making an effort, at least, which is a first for her. It’s natural that there would be a bit of de-thawing in our relationship after this trip, though we are far away from sharing our most intimate secrets with each other.

“Men can be married to their work, and it’s fine, it’s normal,” she says. “Nobody criticizes or second-guesses them.”

And I had one of the good ones, a man who was willing to take his foot off the pedal to have a life, a real relationship. And I sent him packing. But there are only so many times I can have this what-is-wrong-with-me conversation with myself, and I’m sure as hell not having it with her, so I turn the tables.

“Are you in a relationship?” I ask.

She lets out a noise, a small rush of air indicating disdain. “You could call it that, yes. I suppose the answer is yes.”

I haven’t given much thought to Elizabeth Ashland’s personal life, and finding out about it is not high on my list of priorities, but her response all but begs for a follow-up question. And I won’t deny that she’s piqued my interest; this is the first dent I’ve seen in her armor. Her appearance is always immaculate, her confidence unyielding, and her Ivy League résumé is second to none, but maybe human blood runs through her body after all.

So I say, “Not going so well?”

“It’s…not going, period,” she says. “Not anywhere meaningful. We both know it. I think we both know it.”

“Do you want it to?”

“I…” Her voice trails off. She brings a fist up to her chin as she gazes out at the clouds. Our relationship got off to a terrible start, with her hard-charging criticism and mistrust before we’d so much as shaken hands. It was easy for me to throw up my defenses, write her off as a queen bitch, and leave it at that. But of course, it’s never that simple.

Every time a woman advances in the macho culture of the Bureau, you hear the same shit from the men, buzzwords like quotas, affirmative action, optics, office politics. Or it gets more personal, with vague references to how “friendly” she is with the upper brass, if not outright suggestions that she drops to her knees in her boss’s office. Anything to imply that the reason for a woman’s advancement has nothing to do with merit.

I assume that, if I got to know her, there’d be a lot more to Elizabeth Ashland than meets the eye.

“Most of the time,” she says, “I’m happy to have this career. Most of the time, I don’t think I need a husband and kids. Or want that. But then…”

I glance at her. Her eyes have closed; her expression is tight.

“But then you see two hundred people murdered,” I say, “and you see all their families and friends rush to the scene, and you see their heartbreak and sorrow. And as bad as you feel for everyone, as committed as you are to bringing the killer to justice, there is a small part of you that wonders if anyone’s going to grieve for you when it’s your time. And you hope someone will. And you wonder whether you’ve made the right decisions in your life, whether you’ve prioritized things correctly. And whether it’s too late to change course.”

Somewhere during my speech, she opened her eyes and turned to me, and she’s watching me as if I’m someone she’s never met.

“Yeah,” she says. “Exactly. Exactly.”

“Oh, there’s nothing like a brutal crime scene to make you reevaluate your life,” I say. “When my sister was murdered, half of me wanted to solve the crime, even though