James Patterson, David Ellis
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Everyone thinks Emmy Dockery is crazy. Obsessed with finding the link between hundreds of unsolved cases, Emmy has taken leave from her job as an FBI researcher. Now all she has are the newspaper clippings that wallpaper her bedroom, and her recurring nightmares of an all-consuming fire.
Not even Emmy's ex-boyfriend, field agent Harrison "Books" Bookman, will believe her that hundreds of kidnappings, rapes, and murders are all connected. That is, until Emmy finds a piece of evidence he can't afford to ignore. More murders are reported by the day--and they're all inexplicable. No motives, no murder weapons, no suspects. Could one person really be responsible for these unthinkable crimes?
INVISIBLE is James Patterson's scariest, most chilling stand-alone thriller yet.
positioned directly opposite the bedroom door. God, our subject is smart. I have to admit, even I would think this looks accidental if I only knew of this one fire. None of these investigators know that this nearly exact same pattern has been taking place all around the country. “You look exhausted, Em,” he says. “I am.” “Let’s get everyone together and get something to eat at the hotel bar,” he says. I sigh. “I suppose if we get a change of scenery, we get away from phones and computers and
still could have fought for what’s right,” I say. “Yeah?” He turns on me. “And what is right? Please tell me, Emmy.” It’s only then that it hits me, Books’s relative silence over the last thirty-six hours, since we got the autopsy reports. I made an assumption that we were on the same page, that my anger and frustration and stubborn certainty spoke for us both. “You don’t believe me anymore,” I say. “You don’t think these are murders.” “Well”—he coughs, raising his hands—“Emmy, there are
drink or dinner after work, and then, finally, that day he asked me to go away with him for a weekend in Manhattan. I remember that it didn’t click with me at first—I was so far from considering a romantic relationship with this guy that it didn’t occur to me he was talking about a lover’s getaway; I assumed it was business-related. Why are we going to Manhattan? I asked. He double-blinked his eyes, stared at me as if the answer were obvious. To have some privacy, he said. That’s when I
recitation, images I won’t be able to avoid when I surrender to sleep. A knife to her kneecap, an ice pick to her scalp, boiling water from a kettle pouring over her— “I don’t want to…catch him,” I mumble. “I want to kill him.” 52 NINETEEN PAIRS of eyes—twelve agents’ and seven research analysts’—are glued to me as I complete my presentation, my map with the blue stars and red stars, my run-through of our subject’s pattern—two kills a week, every week, from Labor Day to around New Year’s, a
the floor. She plays with the scalpel in her hand. A whistle sounds to her left, to my right, from the kettle on the kitchen stove. “Oh, goodie,” she says. “The water’s ready.” 113 MARY WATCHES me, the kettle of boiling water in one hand, the scalpel in the other, a tortured expression—a cross between a grimace and a grin—on her face. I inch backward, sliding along the kitchen floor. I am trapped. I can’t outfight her. I can’t match her physically or tactically. I only have my head, swimming