Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,58
as she passes him.
“Well, I don’t think that was funny,” says Michelle, not willing to let it go, anger replacing her sense of intimidation. “I think it was an asinine thing to say.”
Tom shows her an apologetic face, searching for some way to break the impasse, to keep the peace. The lieutenant cocks his head, eyes narrowed, as he stares at Michelle. As withering as that stare is, Michelle finds herself unwilling to break eye contact, to be the one to blink first.
What kind of a monster would say such a thing?
56
“THE BEST thing about this book, about this entire series? The teenage girl is tough as nails and as brave as any fictional heroine—but she listens to her parents.”
“Oh my gosh—imagine that! You know what, you’ve sold me.”
“And I don’t even work here!”
Tired after a long day, near closing time at six p.m., Books watches from the register as his homeless friend Petty charms a woman looking for a young-adult book for her daughter, a birthday present. By the time Petty’s finished talking, he’s sold her all five books in the series. Probably better than I would’ve done, Books admits to himself. I wish he’d been here this morning when I couldn’t close a sale to save my life.
That’s Petty, smart enough, occasionally personable enough, to work in any number of jobs. What is it about his broken mind that prevents him from doing it, from making a decent living, from living a somewhat normal life?
“You should put that man on commission,” the woman says as she takes her credit card back from Books.
“Yeah, I know.” Books hands the bag to the customer and watches her leave. Meanwhile, Petty is reshelving the other books that the woman pulled out. “Say, Petty,” he says. “I was thinking. Instead of staying here a few nights during the week, what if you stayed here every night?”
Petty slides the last book back onto the shelf and turns to Books.
“I was thinking I could put you to work,” says Books. “I could use some part-time help. You’d be perfect. You’ve read just about every book in the store. And you seem to enjoy sales. So…you work for me here and there—we’ll make up a schedule—and in exchange, you can live in the back room. It’s not much, but it’s a place to stay, and—and I’ll throw in lunch every day.”
Petty doesn’t answer immediately. Books has tried to find Petty work, but every time, he turns away from it, unable or unwilling to commit. Even something like this, which he clearly enjoys, he won’t commit to.
Where does Petty sleep the nights he’s not here? Books wonders. Outside? On the train? Books has inquired, but Petty either doesn’t answer or deflects the question with some vague assurance that he manages fine. Books and Petty have become friends, but Petty has opened the door on his life only so far, and Books respects the boundaries.
“Well, now, I dunno,” Petty says. “I dunno. You been so good to me already.”
“It would be good for me too.”
For a moment, Petty seems lost, pushed out of his comfort zone—if drifting from shelter to shelter, never having a job, never knowing where your next meal will come from can be considered “comfort.” Books suddenly regrets his offer. “Something to think about,” Books says. “No big deal.” He will probably never understand the damage inside Petty’s mind, the ways that the war twisted and warped him.
The familiar ding of the door opening—not as familiar as Books would like—and Petty says, “But I’ll be happy to help with this customer.”
They both turn to the door. Books feels something light up inside him.
“Hi, Petty,” says Emmy. She turns to Books. “I got your text.”
57
“WATCH THE FRONT, would ya, Petty?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Bookman.”
Books walks back into the inventory room while Emmy finishes her small talk with Petty. It’s the first time he’s seen her since they ended things at his town house. The mix of emotions swirling through him is enough to make his legs weak.
Emmy walks into the inventory room, and his heart skips a beat, as it always does. As it always will, he thinks.
She is dressed in a long-sleeved blouse with a scarf around her neck. Before the attack, Emmy wasn’t a scarf kind of woman, but since then, she is never in public without her neck and chest and legs covered. Even in the midst of a tropical summer like this one, no off-the-shoulder tops or plunging necklines, no shorts or