Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,78

I show up at the office every day, and later by Darwin, who entered this apartment and discovered everything about me.

I grab my bag from the hallway and bring it inside, then I close the door, lock it, and turn the dead bolt. Push the couch up against the door. Place the large jar of marbles near the edge of the couch’s cushion.

I don’t want to be here. I wanted to stay at the office, all night if necessary, and finish the job. But Elizabeth Ashland was right. My team, me included, is dog-tired. We need sleep. Even I need a few hours.

The couch wouldn’t stop Darwin from entering if he managed to get past the locks. But it would slow him down, hopefully long enough to prevent him from reaching the alarm before it turned to a full blare and alerted the police. And he’d knock the jar of marbles to the floor, which should wake me up if the shrill alarm did not.

Who am I kidding? He got past the alarm before, somehow, with some technology you could probably buy online. He wouldn’t care about the alarm. And he’s in a wheelchair. He’s not going to break into my apartment in the middle of the night.

He’ll come here when I’m gone and wait for me.

My head whips toward the hallway. All the lights are on. But I didn’t have time to check everywhere—I had only thirty seconds. He could be here. He could be here.

And I’ve just blocked the only exit with a couch.

I grip the weapon in both hands. I did some light training with it, but I don’t really know how to use it. That adage that a gun can make you less safe if you don’t know how to use it—that was never truer than with me.

I take a step toward the hallway. Then a second step, lumbering, painful, heavier. My legs start to quiver, then buckle, and I struggle to stay upright, taking one hand off the gun to reach the wall for balance.

My chest about to explode, scorching lava filling me, sucking for air but finding none, my hand missing the wall—

—my shoulder, my head hitting the carpet with a loud, crackling boom—

He’s coming. He’s coming out of my bedroom, he’s going to come, any second now, I can feel it—

Buzz-buzz-buzz…buzz-buzz-buzz…

Can’t…breathe…

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

He’s coming…any second now…I can’t stop him…

Behind me, the turn of the lock. The click of the dead bolt.

The scraping of the couch’s leg on the tile entryway.

The crashing of glass falling off the couch, marbles bouncing everywhere.

Trying to raise up the gun, but my arm won’t move, my body on fire, trembling—

Behind me. I can’t see him, my head and body turned toward the interior hallway.

But he’s here. I hear him approaching.

His hand touching my face, his body over me, blocking the light, his tone calm but his words unintelligible through the white noise playing a morbid symphony in my head.

The gun taken from my hand without any resistance. The bag over my face.

A rushing sound…no…

“Shh…shh.”

No…

“Shhh…”

And then, as blackness takes my vision, as every thought leaves me, these words power through the haze:

“It’ll be over soon, Emmy.”

78

I OPEN my eyes with a start and lunge forward, a brown paper bag clutched in my hand.

“You’re okay,” Books says. He’s sitting on his knees next to me, his hand gently rubbing my arm. “Everything’s fine.” He looks at the blinking alarm pad on the wall. “You want to give me the pass code for that?”

I give it to him, and he puts it in, then returns and moves the couch from the door of my apartment back to its rightful place in the living room, or close enough.

“You had a panic attack,” he says, helping me onto the couch. “You hyperventilated and passed out for a few seconds. Everything’s fine now.” He holds up a bottle of water. “Drink.”

He hands me the bottle. I take delicious, greedy sips. I wipe away my bangs, stuck to my sweaty forehead, and breathe out. “Thank you.”

“You can’t do this to yourself,” he says. “I know how much your work means to you, but if you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be any good at it.”

“I know, but—”

“There’s no but, Em. What are you going to say? That you’re so close now? That you have to stop him before he kills again?”

That, actually, is exactly what I was going to say. This man knows me.

“You have to go back to therapy,” he says. “And take the