Page 40 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

I wonder what the police think of it. If they’re diligent, and they probably are, they’ll be considering the articles on the signature page, the ads on the reverse side, who the editors are, who the publisher is …

Are they thinking about more than that? Are they thinking page 3, the February 17 edition?

3

2/17

I suspect—no, Iknow—they aren’t.

Where should I leave the paper? I wonder.

I decide, unimaginatively: underwear drawer again. I’m sure that results in tears. Then the newspaper slips from my mind and, gazing around the cozy bathroom, I fantasize about another outcome for Carrie Noelle.

I’m recalling the famous murder scene in the moviePsycho. The victim is in the shower when the killer slips into the bathroom, holding high the knife with which he plans to slash her to death. The tension is unbearable …

I imagine a variation. Idon’tleave the signed newspaper at all and slip into the darkness, as planned.

No, I’m standinginthe bathtub, hiding behind the drawn shower curtain. There I wait—for Carrie to walk sleepily inside to start her morning routine … and make that pretty face all the prettier.

21

She awoke at dawn.

Some noise from the street broke her slumber.

Squinting at the bedside clock. Nearly 5 a.m. Damn.

Groggy from the pill last night, Carrie Noelle sighed. If I fall asleep now, I can still get one hour and twenty minutes.

Staring at the ceiling.

If I fall asleepnow, I can still get one hour and eighteen minutes.

Noelle gripped the long pillow she embraced when she slept and rolled to her left side.

She gasped and reared back.

The eyes of a Madame Alexander doll—on its side as well—were staring at her.

While no one can dispute the artistry of these works, they are just plain fucking scary when they’re twelve inches from your face, and you don’t remember propping it on your neighboring pillow when you hit the hay at midnight.

Couldn’t help but think: Two glasses of wine and the Ambien before bed (I know, I know, not good).

She must’ve been picking up some of the toys and carted it in here without thinking.

Noelle pressed her lips together. Morning mouth—like she’d eaten sand, which she’d actually done, once, on a dare by a cute fellow middle-schooler.

She reached for the bottle of Fiji water on the nightstand.

Not there.

She looked around. Wait. It was on theleftbedside table—the farthest from the side she slept on. Why did she leave it there?

It was full, so she hadn’t taken a sip in the middle of the night and then set it on the table after a fit of tossing and turning.

Noelle rolled upright and climbed from her bed. From the floor she retrieved the pair of jeans shed last night and a sweatshirt that was sitting on a small Queen Anne chair that was her de facto clothing caddy.

She gasped once more.