Page 41 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Beneath the sweatshirt, sitting spread out on the seat of the chair, was a bra. It was pink and decorated with tiny embroidered red roses.

The garment was one she had not worn for years—it was too small now. There’d be no reason for her to dig it out from where it spent its days, along with other skinny apparel: in a tied bag in the bottom of her closet.

Doll, water, bra …

What the hell were you doing, girl?

No more duets of alcohol and pharma. Period.

Maybe she’d been sleepwalking. It did happen. She’d read an article in theTimesabout the phenomenon. True, mostly adolescents and children were afflicted. But the condition did occur in adults sometimes.

Sleepwalking …

Or chardonnay-walking.

She turned to where her phone was—or was supposed to be: on the floor, plugged in and charging, beneath the bedside table.

No. Not there.

She’d probably kicked the iPhone under the table or bed after the jeans came off.

Well, look.

I can’t.

Deep breath. The childhood fears, the clichés about the boogeyman under the bed.

Get. The. Damn. Phone.

On her knees fast, truly expecting a sinewy hand to zip from the dust-bunny world and close around her wrist.

No one—nothing—attacked.

But there was no phone either.

She walked to the doorway that led into the living room. Noelle froze.

A gasp. The phone was stuck in the sand on the bottom of her aquarium, standing upright. The fish circled it like the apes examining the monolith in2001: A Space Odyssey.

Heart pounding, sweat pricking her scalp, beneath her arm, she leaned forward. On the coffee table, before the beige couch that faced the aquarium, was a glass that appeared to contain the dregs of red wine.

Carrie Noelle did not drink red wine. A headache issue.

And even if she did, she wouldn’t have usedthisglass, her mother’s Waterford, which had been tucked away in the sideboard, under several layers of tablecloths and napkins, as inaccessible as the 32B bra.

Then she understood.

He’dbeen here!

The story in the news!

Some man had just broken into an apartment on the Upper West Side. Some psycho who called himself the Locksmith. He could get through even the most sophisticated security systems—even, apparently, the expensive top-of-the-line model deadbolt that Noelle had had installed.

She stepped into her Nikes and started down the hall.

But she stopped, fast, at the sound.

What … What is that?

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