Thriller by James Patterson Page B

left.”
    “What kid?”
    He finally looked up.
    “Her kid . Her son. Who are you, exactly?”
    “A friend.”
    “Okay, Kelly’s friend. She took the kid and left. That lowlife
    of a boyfriend picked them up. End of story.”
    I will tell you that I still did not understand what happened.
    I will tell you that I went back to the hotel and calmly contemplated the situation. That when another masseuse walked out
    of her room—Trudy, one of the girls Kelly used to talk to—I said
    tell me about Kelly. She’s an empath, I said.
    “A what?”
    “An empath. She touches people and knows things about them.”
    “Yeah. That they’re horny and out of shape.”
    “She knows what they’re feeling—what kind of people they are.”
    “Ha. Who told you that? Kelly?”
    I still didn’t understand.
    Even with Trudy staring at me as if I’d arrived from a distant
    galaxy. Even then, I refused to grasp what was right there.
    “Kelly has a son,” I said.
    “Uh-huh. Nice kid, too. No thanks to her. Okay, that’s not fair.
    She just needs to develop better taste in men.”
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    “You mean the father?”
    “No. I mean the boyfriend. She’s got a dope problem—she’s
    always doing it, and she’s always doing them . Dopes.”
    “What about the father?”
    “Nah, he’s kind of nice actually. A real job and everything. She
    dumped him naturally. He’s fighting her for custody.”
    “Why?”
    “Maybe he doesn’t think junkies are the best company for an
    eight-year-old. And she’s always trying to poison the kid against
    him. It’s a fucking shame. You should’ve heard them going at it
    in the Tranquillity Room last week.”
    “Last week…when? What day?”
    “I don’t know. He comes by to drop off money for the kid.
    Tuesday, I think.”
    Now it was coming. And it wouldn’t stop coming.
    “What time Tuesday?”
    “I don’t know. After lunch. Why?”
    Look at it. It wants you to look at it.
    Tuesday, I think. After lunch.
    “What does he look like, Trudy?”
    “Geez…I don’t know. About your height, I guess. Glasses. He
    didn’t look too fucking terrific after seeing her. She told him she
    was going to take the kid and disappear if he didn’t drop the
    whole custody thing. You know what I think? Her boyfriend
    wants that child support.”
    About your height. Glasses .
    Don’t look. Do not look.
    Tuesday. After lunch.
    When he argued with her in the meditation room, and then
    walked out looking anxious and upset.
    Tuesday.
    When he drove to his son’s school.
    Tuesday.
    When he tried to tell him that he was fighting for him and to
    please not believe the things his mother said about him. When
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    he reached out to make the boy listen, but his son pulled away
    because all that poison had done its work.
    “The boy,” I said. “He has brown hair. Cut real short—like a
    crew. He’s sweet looking.”
    “Yeah. That’s him.”
    I’m an empath, she said. I’m touching this bad man, this sexual
    predator, and what can I do about it—nothing, because the police
    won’t believe an empath like me. He’s coming Tuesday at two, but
    what can I do? Nothing .
    How?
    How did she pick me?
    How?
    Because.
    Because she’d made me open that secret pocket.
    Because one day they’d pointed me out to her—one of the
    masseuses—oh him, stay away, an ex-cop who used to beat people half to death.
    But she didn’t stay away—she came down to the basement
    room where I punched holes in the wall. She talked to me. And
    then I ripped that pocket wide open for her and spilled my
    dreadful secrets all across the bed.
    My brother. My guilt. My anger.
    My trinity.
    A kind of religion with one acolyte, and one commandment.
    Vengeance is yours.
    He’s a bad man, she said. He’s coming Tuesday at two. Tuesday.
    At two.
    This man who loved his son. Who was simply trying to protect him.
    From her.
    Why, he said, standing at the top of that sandpit. Why?
    Because anger is as blind as love, and she gave me both.
    I will