Page 84 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Then she’ll check with the Hawthorne school.

No record of any parent named Ben Nelson. Or daughter Meghan.

She’d begin—by tomorrow night, or so—to be feeling the searing effects of the betrayal: the sorrow that the relationship she’d hoped might come to be was now a bonfire.

And poor Taylor would be feeling utter terror too.

Because she would have been thinking if they’d met when Rooniewas out of town, she might have asked him in for a drink. And one thing would lead to another …

There’s sexual assault by force. There’s also assault by misrepresentation.

And, my God, Ben had even met her daughter—the petite girl with the odd name and a daunting and elegant routine on the balance beam.

He’d even touched her shoulder, when he lifted off the book bag!

No …

That thought will bring tears.

The victory was as delicious as the thought of Annabelle Talese seeing the cookie plate beside her bed and Carrie Noelle waking up to the stare of a holy-shit Madame Alexander doll.

Delicious …

At the moment, though, all is good. Taylor’s and Roonie’s lives are proceeding on a course of hope.

And what are my ladies up to at the moment?

I know very well. Taylor has tucked petite Roonie into a bed covered with a lavender and white bedspread, just a touch threadbare. The bed rests against the blue wall on which are three racks that were meant to hold dog leads but are now festooned with colorful ribbons at the end of which dangle gymnastics medals.

The girl is wearing fluffy pajamas, in pink. They came with a detachable hood with a glistening satin unicorn horn and horse-like ears, as apparently unicorns and equines share DNA. Roonie’s tablet is charging on the bedside table, which is painted pale green.

Her room is not as cluttered tonight as it has been. The girlcanbe a bit of a slob.

She’s not ready for sleepy time yet, though, and she’s doing some kind of weird pantomime—like dancing with your hands and arms only, to rock songs.

Taylor herself is having a glass of wine—a sauvignon blanc—and a late-night treat of hers: mint Oreos. She is in sweats.

How do I know this?

Because mother and daughter are telling me. Via their phones.

Roonie is posting thirty-second clips on a platform like TikTok, one right after the other.

And Taylor is doing a livestream on my very own ViewNow. She is talking about books—she’s in a club and volunteers at a library—and fielding the comments that come streaming in, ignoring others.

Which, it’s no surprise, is how I am able to execute my Visits, whether in someone’s bedroom anonymously, or in person on the street like tonight.

Videos are one of the most efficient keys ever invented.

Keys to opening up lives.

With Taylor and Roonie, I learned in the brief span of a few days all the facts I’d ever want about the mother and daughter. I caught some of the girl’s posts about gymnastics and then Taylor made a few appearances. I did some light internet diving and found names and interests and career details. Segueing to other social media told me all about her. Public divorce records too. Pictures of her on social media with five different men in the past year explained she was likely single.

Some bordered on risqué, which told me even more.

Roonie was an avid poster on sites like YouTube and ViewNow. Gymnastics routines, stretching exercises, recipes, makeup tutorials, outfits of the day. I learned so much about mascara and lasagna and how far your money will go at Claire’s, Justice and Forever 21 that I could be her father.

I found out too about the play, in which my fictional Meghan would appear (though sadly not in the lead).

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