Three Women Disappear by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson [Patterson, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473563117
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2020-10-25T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 38

DETECTIVE SEAN WALSH

AT LEAST they cared enough for my well-being to stick me in solitary, though even then I wound up next door to someone I’d put away: Marty the Mute. At least he made the place a little quieter. Sometimes we’d play hangman by passing a slip of paper back and forth through an air vent. I lost every round. It made me wonder who else Marty might have been if he’d made the effort.

Otherwise, there wasn’t much to do in my cell besides sit and steam. Sarah’s betrayal was like a gut punch. The best memories were the hardest to cope with. Walks on the beach. Airboat rides through the Everglades. Trips to Niagara Falls, New York City, Yellowstone Park. All tainted now. We’d started in love and wound up strangers. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

I was deep into a set of prison cell push-ups when a flabby corrections officer with bad skin announced I had a visitor. My first thought: Sarah had come around, wanted to talk things through with me before she set the official record straight. I saw in a flash how willing I was to forgive her, even if she never forgave me. And yes, I’d done plenty that needed forgiving.

I worked out a short speech in my head as the CO led me to the visiting area. I’d let her know that she had my attention now. I understood who I’d been, and I wouldn’t be that person anymore. I was done playing fast and loose with our wedding vows, with the policeman’s oath of honor, with every promise I’d ever made. Whether we stayed together or split, I’d love and cherish her, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, until the end of my days.

But it wasn’t Sarah I found waiting for me: it was Defoe, Vincent’s right-hand goon. One look at him and I forgot all about my little mea culpa. I was spitting mad again—angrier at Sarah than I’d ever been before. Like we’d set up this rendezvous and she’d sent Defoe in her place. Defoe, the ugliest man on two feet. All pockmarks and scars, oil and dandruff. I’ve seen bodies in every state of decomp, but I always had a hard time looking Defoe in the face.

He gave me a little nod as I took my seat. I nodded back. The thick prison glass between us seemed to magnify his deformities. We reached for our handsets at the same time. Defoe got right down to business.

“Our mutual friend is very displeased with your current situation,” he said.

He had an unnerving way of talking through his thin smile, almost without moving his lips.

“He couldn’t come here and tell me himself?” I said.

“I assume you’re joking. It’s good to see you still have your sense of humor. You’ll need it in the days ahead. Of course, how many days you have left depends to a large extent on what you say now.”

“How many days I have left?”

“I mean behind bars.

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