“Robinson,” I said, getting impatient, “Greyhound bus or stolen car, the time is now.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. His long, graceful hands gently tugged on the dog’s ears, and the dog rolled onto his side. As Robinson scratched the dog’s belly, the animal’s leg twitched and his pink tongue lolled out of his little mouth in total canine ecstasy.
“You’re such a good boy,” Robinson said gently. “Where do you belong?”
Even though the dog couldn’t answer, we knew. He was skinny and his fur was clumped with mud. There was a patch of raw bare skin on his back. Th is dog was no one’s dog.
“I wish you could come with us,” Robinson said. “But we have a long way to go, and I don’t think you’d dig it.”
The dog looked at him like he’d dig anything in the world as long as it involved more petting by Robinson. But when you’re running away from your life and you can’t take anything you don’t need, a stray dog falls in the category of Not Necessary.
“Give him a little love, Axi,” Robinson urged.
I bent down and dug my fingers into the dog’s dirty coat the way I’d seen Robinson do, and when I ran my hand down the dog’s chest, I could feel the quick flutter of his heart, the excitement of finding a home, someone to care for him.
Poor thing , I thought. Somehow, I knew exactly what he was feeling. He had no one, and he was stuck here.
But we weren’t. Not anymore.
“We’re leaving, little buddy. I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve just got to go.”
It was totally weird, but for some reason that good-bye hurt almost as much as the one I’d whispered to my father.
4
WE LEFT THE DOG WITH ONE OF ROBIN-son’s sticks of beef jerky, then headed to the end of the block, where Robinson pulled up short. “There it is,” he whispered, with real awe in his voice. He grabbed my hand and we hurried through the intersection.
“There what is?” I asked, but of course he didn’t answer me.
If things went on like this, we’d have to have a little talk—because I didn’t want a traveling companion who paid attention to 50 percent of whatever came out of my mouth. If I wanted to be ignored, I could just stay in Klamath Falls with my idiotic classmates and my alcoholic father.
“There is the answer,” Robinson said finally, sighing so big you’d have thought he just fell in love. He turned to me and bent down in an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm out like a valet at some superfancy restaurant (the kind of place we don’t have in K-Falls).
“Alexandra, milady, your chariot awaits,” Robinson said with a wild grin. I rolled my eyes at him, like I always do when he does this fake-British shtick with my full name.
And then I rolled my eyes again: my so-called chariot, it turned out, was actually a motorcycle . A big black Harley-Davidson with whitewall tires and yards of shining chrome, and two black leather side bags decorated with silver grommets. There were tassels on the handlebars and two cushioned seats. The thing gleamed like it was straight off the showroom floor.
Robinson was beside me, whispering in some foreign language. “Twin Cam Ninety-Six V-Twin,” he said, then something about “electronic throttle control and six-speed transmission” and then a bunch of other things I didn’t understand.
It was an amazing bike, even I could see that, and I can hardly tell a dirt bike from a Ducati. “Awesome,” I said, checking my watch. “But we really should keep moving.”
That was when I realized Robinson was bending toward the thing with a screwdriver in his hand.
“Are you out of your mind? ” I hissed.
But Robinson didn’t answer me. Again.
He was going to hot-wire the thing. Holy s—
I ran to the other side of the street and ducked down between two cars. Adrenaline rushed through my veins and I pressed my eyes shut.
There was no way this was happening, I told myself. No way he was going to actually get the thing started, no way this was how our journey would begin.
I had it all planned out, and it looked nothing like this.
Then the roar of an engine split open the quiet morning. I opened my eyes and a second later Robinson’s feet appeared, one on either side of the Harley.
We’re breaking the law! I should have screamed. But my mind simply couldn’t process this change in plans. I couldn’t say anything at all. I just thought: He’s running away in cowboy boots! That is so not practical! And: Why didn’t I bring mine?
“Stand up, Axi,” Robinson yelled. “Get on.”
I was rooted to the spot, my chest tight with anxiety. I was going to have a heart attack right here on Cedar Street, in between a pickup and a Volvo with a MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM bumper sticker. So much for my great escape!
But then Robinson reached down and hauled me up, and the next thing I knew I was sitting behind him on the throbbing machine with the engine revving.
“Put your arms around me,” he yelled.
I was so heart-and-soul terrified that I did.
“Now hang on!”
He put the thing in gear and we took off, the engine thundering in my ears. My dad was probably going to wake up on the couch and wonder if he’d just heard the rumble of an early-summer storm.
We shot past the Safeway, past the high school football field, past the Reel M Inn Tavern, where every Friday night my dad hooked himself up to a Budweiser IV, and past the “Mexican” restaurant (where they put Parmesan cheese on top of their burritos).
Yeah, Klamath Falls. It was the kind of place that looked best in a rearview mirror.
Seeing it flash past me, feeling the rush of the wind in my face, I suddenly didn’t care if we woke up the entire stinking town.
Eat my dust! I wanted to shout.
Robinson let out a joyful whoop.
We’d done it. We were free.
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Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
PART 1: THE SO-CALLED REAL WORLD
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
PART 2: AGAINST ALL ODDS
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
PART 3: GASLIGHT
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
PART 4: NOW OR NEVER
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
r /> CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
PART 5: THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER 66
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON FOR YOUNG ADULT READERS
A SNEAK PEEK OF FIRST LOVE
NEWSLETTERS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by James Patterson
Excerpt from First Love copyright © 2014 by James Patterson
Excerpt from First Love photos by Sasha Illingworth
Image of woman © Shutterstock
Image of blinds © Peter Glass / Arcangel Images
Cover design by Tom Sanderson
Cover © 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at
[email protected] Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
First ebook edition: October 2015
ISBN 978-0-316-30112-1
E3
James Patterson, The Murder of an Angel
(Series: Confessions # 4)
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