Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,79
medicine she prescribed.”
“The meds make me drowsy. The therapist hasn’t helped.”
“You have to find a tiny bit of room in your life for yourself. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not going to lecture you. I know…I know you don’t want to hear it.” He breathes out, the exasperated sigh of someone who knows he’s repeating himself, who knows that his words will go unheeded.
I put out my hand, and he takes it, closes his other hand over it.
“The best thing you can do for yourself,” I tell him, “is turn and run as far away from me as possible.”
“Don’t I know it.” He chuckles.
He does know it, of course. I’m poison for him. I can’t give him what he wants. I can give him nothing but heartache. And yet here he is again—here for me. Here when I need him. Actually…
I look at him. “Why are you here?”
“I knew you’d be up. I just got done with work and drove over. I called, but you didn’t answer. Your lights were on, so I called again. You didn’t answer again.”
“Ah. So you used your key.”
“Yeah. I knocked on your door, though. I was a good boy. I know the boundaries. I know I can’t just waltz in anymore.”
I watch him, see the pain in his expression, but I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. I know what I’d like to say—You can still waltz in. Anytime. But the best thing I can do for Harrison Bookman is not let him know how much he means to me, how much I want to wrap my arms around his waist and feel his breath on my neck and hold him so close that our hearts beat together. The greatest gift I can give him is to let him go.
“So tell me about your case,” he says, changing the subject. I tell him. I tell him everything about Darwin—the serial murders around the country, the bombing in Chicago, the wheelchair. As reluctant as I was to share it with Elizabeth Ashland, it’s the opposite with Books; it comes gushing out in vivid color.
“A wheelchair,” he says, pursing his lips. “The perfect cover. He’d be immediately discounted as a suspect because of that disability. Drink more water.”
I finish the bottle. I’m feeling better, much better, and not because of the water.
“You’re not safe,” Books says. “He’s hacked your computers.”
“My computers at home,” I say. “I’m not using them for any meaningful research anymore. I don’t want to stop using them altogether in case that makes him suspicious, but anything of any value, I’m doing on the office computer now.”
“But you did type in that message about him killing the homeless man in Chicago. You knew he’d read it. You were letting him know that you’re onto him.”
“So he’d stop. Or at least suspend operations. I wanted to scare him before he blew up something else.”
“I’m sure it worked, Em. But what’s a scared killer going to do? He’s going to go after the one person who figured him out.”
I start to protest, but Books raises a hand.
“You know it and I know it. You’ve made yourself a target.” He shakes his head. “I’m staying here with you until it’s over. Or you come to my house.”
“Books, that’s not a good—”
“It’s not about that,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“I slide that couch against the door every night, as I’m sure you noticed,” I say.
“Fine, then I’ll sleep against the door.” Before I can respond, he says, “I’ll park my car outside your building and stay in it all night, every night, if you say no. Would you rather have me sitting in a car or sleeping on your couch? Because those are your only two choices.”
I drop my head into my hands. I’m tired—exhausted, actually, utterly depleted. It’s nearly two a.m., and my team and I agreed to meet early in the morning back at work. I can’t deny the relief I’d feel having Books here with me.
I look at him. He has that no-give expression, his eyebrows up, mouth tight. I couldn’t win this argument even if I wanted to.
“You never told me why you came over,” I say. “What kept you working until midnight?”
He seems satisfied that he’s getting his way. He relaxes, then gives me a wry smile that I haven’t seen since he left the Bureau and opened up the bookstore.
“I was following Elizabeth Ashland,” he says.
79
“SERIOUSLY?” I ask. “You think Elizabeth Ashland’s working with Citizen David?”