Chapters (42)
- Cover Page
- EARLY BIRD BOOKS
- Praise for the Writing of Richard North Patterson
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- About the Author
“Yes. He’s twisted enough.” Her voice tightened. “The only way a man like Jason can touch people is to hurt them. If you want one more reason for Lydia’s sadness you can look to Jason. He’s a bad seed, Adam.”
Her intensity surprised me. More softly, I answered, “Even if that’s true there’s this man Rayfield. There’s something off about the way he is with Henry, and how he’s using that phone call, with Lydia not twenty-four hours dead. Roland made a mistake today letting him at Henry. He’ll make others. He’s set on handling this himself.”
“And you?”
“I’m set on keeping Henry alive.”
“So is Daddy.” She looked at me closely. “For four years now there’s been a kind of peace between you, or at least a distance. It’s been easier for you both, for all three of us. We’ve made our adjustments. Please, don’t upset that now.”
I inhaled cigarette smoke, playing back what I heard in her voice. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Or is it having to choose?”
She whirled to speak in anger, then bit her lip and looked away. In a low voice she said, “It’s not just me who has to choose.”
“What does that mean?”
She said nothing for a moment and when she spoke it was not to answer. “I love you and I love Daddy, and I know he’s vulnerable right now. He’s older, he’s without a wife or son or grandchildren and now some of his investments have gone sour. He’s worried and disappointed and maybe even a little frightened, and he’s a proud man not used to that. It’s not the time, Adam. Leave him be.”
I shook my head. “Roland’s not the point. It’s Henry. This is the wrong case for your father to begin a new career in criminal law.”
She faced me now, questioning. Quietly, almost tenderly, she said, “And your father?”
I stubbed the cigarette. “He’s dead, Krissy.”
She didn’t answer. We were silent for the rest of the drive.
The house was as we had left it.
That night I couldn’t sleep. Kris Ann tossed beside me, restless and troubled. Her face in the darkness was Lydia’s.
I smoked three cigarettes and decided to see the maid.
Seven
SEVEN