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
“Finally she steps out, closing the door behind her so I can’t look in. She’s older but it’s Hargrave’s girl all right, and dressed real nice; you can see the money in the way she stands, straight and lookin’ at you like you better speak up. ‘Well, ma’am,’ I say, ‘I’m going around to some houses hopin’ for yardwork. I don’t drink and I pack my own lunch so the maid don’t have to make me a sandwich. Maybe one, two times a week you might need me, and I’d sure appreciate it.’
“The whole time I’m looking her over. She’s tight, not like that girl at all, and she don’t say nothin’, just stares. It’s sure she don’t need no help with the yard and I figure she’s gonna tell me that. Finally, she says, ‘I don’t know your name.’ I say, ‘Otis Lee.’ She keeps staring like she don’t hear. Then she says, ‘You can come Tuesday and Friday, in the afternoon.’ Don’t ask me what I charge or nothing. Just backs through the door and closes it.
“When I come back next Tuesday she answers the door herself. There’s shadows under her eyes like she hasn’t been sleeping and I notice white hairs at the side of her head. ‘You’re here,’ she says. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She just nods. Finally she asks me to prune her roses and slams the door shut. I go to the rose bed, wondering how I’ll know when the time comes. Then I see her come to the window, to watch.
“It goes on like that, every Tuesday and Friday. I knock on the door. She answers—quick, like she’s been waiting. She gives me money and orders and shuts the door again. Then there she’d be, staring at me through the window—five, ten, fifteen minutes without moving. Pretty soon I can sense when she’ll come out. She always does that, the same every time. She waits until I’m away from the front door. Then she’ll open it and walk to some far corner of the yard, pretending to garden while she watches me. Sometimes I can feel her staring before I ever know she’s there. It’s just the two of us then, and quiet. Anytime I could have walked over and wrung her neck like a chicken. But I just waited. I liked deciding about her. Every Tuesday and Friday, I decided for that day.