The Final Twist, Jeffery Deaver [philippa perry book TXT] 📗

“Always welcome,” Mary Dove said and pressed Victoria’s arm.

Shaw’s glance seconded the motion.

“Tell me about him?” Mary Dove asked.

He knew that she was speaking of Russell.

“Mysterious, doesn’t say much, sharp as a whip. Looks exactly the same—well, aside from the beard. It’s longer now. His hair too. Still couldn’t find out where he’s working. Government, deep cover.”

Victoria said, “Has or had some Pentagon connection. DoD.”

“Why’s that?”

“In San Bruno, after the shoot-out, he said we were ‘black on backup.’ That’s Army talk. We used that on operations in Delta.”

Shaw thought, Oh, yeah, Ashton Shaw would have loved this woman.

Mary Dove gave a soft smile, and gentle wrinkles folded around her mouth and eyes. “Did Russell say anything about a family?”

“Said he didn’t have one.”

There was a pause as Mary Dove’s eyes fixed on a sunlit peak. “Did you ask him about visiting?”

One never evaded, much less lied, within the Shaw family. “I did. He said he couldn’t. An assignment. Important.”

“It’s his job and his life.”

“He’s hard to read but I could tell he’s content.”

Leaving another thought understood, but unstated: both she and Ash had made the right decision in plotting out and executing the most difficult task in the world: their children’s upbringing.

His mother said, “I’ve got to get dinner going. Venison with blackberry glaze. It’s been soaking all day.”

Her habit was to steep the meat in buttermilk, which eliminated the gamey flavor.

Motion in the corner of Shaw’s eye. A nighthawk jotted above the field in his buoyant, erratic path. These particular birds have among the most complicated markings of any avian—their camo makes them virtually invisible during the day, but now, in approaching dusk, they’re easily spotted as they hunt for flying insects. They’re easily heard too: they issue a repetitive, raspy creek-creek when on wing. Colter had once been attacked by one when he had unknowingly trod too close to a nest. Both man and bird disengaged unharmed.

Looking away from the spirited bird, Shaw said, “Have a thought. What do you say about the three of us hiking Echo Ridge tomorrow.”

“Lovely idea,” said Mary Dove.

“Sounds good to me,” Victoria said. Then after a brief pause she turned her head slightly and squinted. “But I think it’s going to be four.”

Shaw glanced at her and noted she was looking past him. Both he and his mother turned.

A figure stepped from the dirt road onto the driveway. The man was dressed in black and wearing a stocking cap. He carried a duffel bag in one hand, and a backpack was over his right shoulder. He paused, looking at the house and, seeing the trio on the porch, he brushed at his long beard with the back of his left hand and continued in a slow lope toward them.

“My,” Mary Dove whispered, a hint of uncharacteristic emotion in her voice. She stepped off the planks, into the grass, to greet her eldest son.

Acknowledgments

Novels are not one-person endeavors. Creating them and getting them into the hands and hearts of readers is a team effort, and I am beyond lucky to have the best team in the world. My thanks to Sophie Baker, Felicity Blunt, Berit Böhm, Dominika Bojanowska, Penelope Burns, Annie Chen, Sophie Churcher, Francesca Cinelli, Isabel Coburn, Luisa Collichio, Jane Davis, Liz Dawson, Julie Reece Deaver, Danielle Dieterich, Jenna Dolan, Mira Droumeva, Jodi Fabbri, Cathy Gleason, Alice Gomer, Iven Held, Ashley Hewlett, Sally Kim, Hamish Macaskill, Cristina Marino, Ashley McClay, Emily Mlynek, Nishtha Patel, Seba Pezzani, Rosie Pierce, Abbie Salter, Roberto Santachiara, Deborah Schneider, Sarah Shea, Mark Tavani, Madelyn Warcholik, Claire Ward, Alexis Welby, Sue and Jackie Yang. You’re the best!

Keep reading for an exciting excerpt from Jeffery Deaver’s next Lincoln Rhyme novel, The Midnight Lock.

1

Something wasn’t right.

Annabelle Talese, though, couldn’t quite figure out what that might be.

One aspect of this concern, or disorientation, or mystery, could be explained by the presence of a hangover, though a minor one. She called them “hangunders”—maybe one and a half glasses of sauvignon blanc too many. She’d been out with Trish and Gab at Tito’s, which had to be one of the strangest of all restaurants on the Upper West Side of Manhattan: a fusion of Serbian and Tex-Mex. Fried cheese with beans and salsa was a specialty.

Big wine pours too.

As she lay on her side, she brushed the tickling, thick blond hair away from her eyes and wondered: What’s wrong with this picture?

Well, for one thing, the window was open a few inches; a May breeze, thick with the gassy-asphalt scent of Manhattan, eased in. She rarely opened it. Why had she done so last night?

The twenty-seven-year-old, who had dabbled at modeling and was now content behind the scenes of the fashion world, rolled upright and tugged her Hamilton T-shirt down, twisted it straight. Adjusted her silk boxers. Finger-combed her curls.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers.

They weren’t where she’d kicked them off last night before climbing under the blankets.

All right. What’s going on?

Talese had no phobias or OCD issues, except one: New York City streets. She couldn’t help but picture the carpet of germs and other unmentionable critters that populated the city’s asphalt—and which got tracked into her apartment, even when, as she did every day, she stowed her shoes in a carton by the door (and insisted her friends do the same).

She never went barefoot in the apartment.

Instead of the slippers, though, the dress she’d worn yesterday, a frilly, floral number, lay spread out beneath her dangling feet.

The front hem was drawn up, almost to the décolletage, as if the garment were flashing her.

Wait a minute . . . Talese had a memory—more hazy than distinct—of tossing the garment into the hamper before her nighttime routine.

Talese qualified her narrative now. The slippers weren’t where