Page 75 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

I told her I’d think about that.

And being the strategic therapist that she was, she inquired: “And how is Aleksandra? Things are going well with her?”

“Yes. Very good.”

Dr. Patricia diagnosed me as suffering from anxiety and depression, laced with some ADHD—all very fixable. She gave me Wellbutrin, which has fewer sexual side effects than other antidepressants. I guess she didn’t want to hamper my relationship with my Russian beauty.

Then toward our last session, she said, leaning forward for emphasis, “But there’s one thing you have to do. You’ll never be free until you confront the issue of what your father did to you in the basement. You need to talk to him about it. Tell him how the cellar affected you. It could be that he’ll beg for forgiveness. You’ll reconcile.”

I told her I would think about her suggestion. I tucked the idea away and dusted it off from time to time.

Now, I glance at my phone for the time. It’s afternoon. My Visits only work, of course, after midnight. But sometimes you get an urge to peep, to peer, to possibly do more.

Sometimes you need to hurt.

For the simple joy of it.

I take a shower and then dress. I pick up my knife. It’s not only a helpful weapon, and tool, but it has great sentimental value.

It was given to me by Dev Swensen, my lock-picking mentor. He machined it himself. Brass is an unusual metal for a weapon. Unlike its stronger cousin, bronze, brass is rarely used in weapons. Not thatit can’t be honed to razor sharpness; it’s just that it won’t hold an edge very long. It needs to be sharpened after each use.

Into my pocket it goes.

Completely concealed, Officer. And short enough to be legal.

I don the Mets cap, sunglasses and a raincoat. I collect my gaudy, precious souvenir keychain and step outside, making sure, as I always do, the locks are nice and snug.

40

Was that guy following her?

No …

But maybe.

She’d noticed him about halfway on the walk to the school—four blocks total. She’d turned back absently at the sound of a horn and noted that he had looked away slightly, as if he’d been gazing at her.

A block farther along she peeked again. What made it suspicious this time was that he was the same distance behind her. Had he slowed down intentionally to keep pace?

Taylor Soames was savvy in all the ways that a Manhattan woman had to be, especially a single woman. The brunette was attractive enough, she felt, and dressed in outfits that displayed her figure, which she worked hard to maintain and was proud of. But they were never overtly suggestive or revealing. She attracted eyes, which was okay—it was the nature of men and women—but she was sharp enough to know when a look crossed the line.

With this fellow, she just couldn’t tell. The sunglasses …

She arrived at the school where she was going to pick up her daughter. Roonie had stayed late after class for chess club. Rather than going inside, though, Soames waited. She wanted to see if she was truly being followed.

The man ducked into the Korean deli on the corner, pulling a phone from his pocket.

To make a call?

Or pretend to?

She assessed: A raincoat on a day of no rain, shades with little sun. A baseball cap pulled low. Younger, rather than older. More creepy than slavering. But she was standing outside a school, so “creep” took on an intensified meaning.

She just couldn’t tell.

How embarrassing if the police confronted an innocent man.

Maybe, she thought, it’s my ego that’s the problem.

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