The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2022 by James Patterson

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  grandcentralpublishing.com

  twitter.com/grandcentralpub

  First Edition: August 2022

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.

  ISBN 978-1-5387-5300-2 (trade paperback) / 978-1-5387-2439-2 (large- print paperback) / 978-1-5387-2081-3 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number 2022939865

  E3-20220622-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Month One Nine Months Earlier Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Month Two Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Month Three Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Month Four Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Month Five Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Months Six and Seven Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Month Eight Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Month Nine Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Discover More

  About the Authors

  A preview of Blowback

  James Patterson Recommends

  Raves for James Patterson

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  FOR A COMPLETE LIST OF BOOKS, VISIT JAMESPATTERSON.COM.

  CHAPTER

  1

  SHE IS NERVOUS. SHE IS LATE. She is pregnant. And at the moment she is trying to run—bobbing and weaving—through the rush-hour crowds in Times Square.

  Betsey Brown prides herself on her intelligence and efficiency, but both those talents seem to have left her in the lurch.

  Betsey, a top-notch surgical nurse at Renwick Hospital, has just finished six hours assisting at a liver transplant procedure. Just when she thought that the operation was about to wrap, just when she thought that she’d be able to make her appointment with NYPD Detective Joel Tierney, a problem shot up, literally shot up: During the reattachment of the bile ducts one of the adjacent blood vessels began hemorrhaging. It was Betsey Brown who saw the bleeding and quickly handed the necessary clamp to the head surgeon. Betsey didn’t mind that the doctor didn’t thank her for… ohhh… saving a patient’s life. Betsey just wanted to get out of the OR.

  A half hour later, mission accomplished. Operation successful. Betsey threw her coat over her bloody hospital scrubs and ran. Now, in her last trimester of pregnancy, her ankles are swollen, her back is burning, and she really, really, really has to pee.

  Breathless, sweating, hurting, Betsey falls into a chair in Tierney’s office. Tierney is chowing down on a cold piece of pizza, and he appears slightly amused at the sight of his former high school friend Betsey Brown trying to catch her breath and massage her ankles at the same time.

  “We still have taxis here in New York, Betsey. Next time, you should take one,” he says. Despite Tierney’s stab at wit, Betsey’s almost restored her breathing to normal.

  “I’m here because I need your help,” she says. “We need to talk.”

  “Okay,” says Tierney as he looks directly at Betsey’s belly. “Start talking. But talk fast. Because you look like you’re ready to pop.”

  “Could you be any more annoying and cheesy?” Betsey says.

  “Didn’t mean to be. I apologize. You know me.”

  “I sure do,” she says.

  Tierney drops his pizza crust in his wastebasket.

  “Listen, Joel. This is really important.”

  Tierney nods.

  “Okay. Give me the story. What’s your problem?” he asks.

  “It’s not my problem… well, it is sort of… but it’s not about me… or us… Not to worry. And Frankie and the kids are fine. It has to do with a friend.”

  Tierney’s eyes narrow, and then he speaks.

  “Let me take a wild guess.” He pauses and then says, “It has something to do with your friend Emily.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m a detective. Remember? Instincts?”

  “Yeah, but, that’s still pretty amazing.”

  “You can’t have forgotten that you called me when she had her break-in,” he says.

  “And you showed up right away,” says Betsey.

  “Just saying. We ran all the info, Detective Scofield talked to the building staff, a few neighbors. We got nothing. So if you’re here to complain, then…”

  “You’re right. It is about Emily. But it’s worse, a lot worse,” says Betsey.

  “Hit me with it,” says Tierney.

  “Emily’s gone missing.”

  “How long?”

  “Four days. Four days that I know of,” says Betsey.

  Tierney stands up and leans across the desk.

  “Four days! Why the hell did you wait four days? You must be as crazy as your missing friend is.”

  “I kept thinking that she was going to show up,” says Betsey. A pause. Then Betsey speaks with extreme concern in her voice: “I didn’t tell you this before… but Emily thinks that someone has been following her. Do you think it could be that guy?”

  “No. I think Emily took a cruise ship to Antarctica. I think aliens came and captured her. For Chrissake, Betsey, of course it could be the guy she thought was following her. Does she have any idea who the guy is?”

  “Maybe,” says Betsey.

  “Maybe?”

  “Well, it could be this guy Mike. She used to buy drugs from him.” Then Betsey adds, “In the old days, when she was using. But anyway. She’s not even sure the guy is the dealer. Emily isn’t in the greatest shape.”

  Tierney shakes his head. “Why the hell did you hold off telling me?”

  “I’m sorry, Joel.”

  “Do me a favor, Bets. If I’m ever missing, get in touch with NYPD before they find my body rotting in an alley in Jersey City.”

  Betsey bites her lower lip and says, “Look, Joel. I should have, but I didn’t. And now the situation is what it is…”

  “And the situation is screwed up.”

  Betsey finds her courage and talks.

  “Will you come wit
h me to Emily’s apartment? She gave me a key to the place last month when… You remember. That’s when she said she thought someone was following her… and that’s when…”

  Tierney presses one button on his phone.

  Thirty seconds later, Betsey is shaking hands with Detective Kalisha Scofield, whom she met once before when she and Joel came over to Betsey’s to investigate a possible break-in. AD Scofield is tall, she’s big, and she’s clearly all business.

  When Betsey says, “Good to see you again,” Scofield simply nods. No smile.

  “We’re going to do an emergency enter and search,” says Tierney. “Possible MP.”

  Betsey’s hands are shaking. Her brain is doing the crazy dance. Why didn’t I call this in earlier? Why didn’t I at least call Joel earlier?

  Then movement. Lots of it. Scofield checks her phone. Joel stands up. They’re getting ready to run.

  “We’ll call you, Bets,” Tierney says.

  “No way. I’m with you,” says Betsey, trying to stand up as quickly and gracefully as she can. “And anyway, I’ve got the apartment key and the code, and the doorman knows me.”

  Then… car doors opening. Siren on.

  Scofield drives the trio to Emily’s building on the Lower East Side. The doorman has no problem letting them in. He recognizes Betsey. Tierney pushes the key into the Schlage electronic lock.

  Betsey gives him the punch-in code for the secondary lock: 0-9-9-1-7-0-1. The number is Emily’s birth date in reverse, October 7, 1990.

  Tierney pushes the door open. He quickly turns his head and pushes Betsey and Kalisha away from the door.

  “Holy shit!” he yells. “Stand back! This goddamn smell alone could kill you.”

  MONTH ONE

  NINE MONTHS EARLIER

  CHAPTER

  2

  A WOODEN SIGN WITH faded red lettering hangs over the door at my favorite drinking spot. No, it’s not Le Bernardin. No, it’s not Eleven Madison Park. The sign for my favorite place simply says:

  TED’S BAR AND GRILL

  The “bar” part is certainly true.

  Ted’s is the perfect Lower East Side hangout: a million beautiful liquor bottles standing like a row of chorus girls behind the bartender, an only-in-New-York assortment of terminally hip downtown young folks, along with a just-enough amount of “old timers”—middle-aged bald guys wearing windbreakers, plus one or two middle-aged ladies in cotton print housedresses. The ladies are putting down some Dewar’s before they go home to catch Wheel of Fortune.

  Yeah, Ted’s is a wonderland of perfectly mixed cocktails and a long list of beers—from downscale chic Schlitz all the way to upscale chic Sam Adams Utopias.

  Now, what about that word grill, which also hangs on the sign at Ted’s? Well, yes, it has a kitchen, but, fair warning, you’d better like your pretzels cold and your burgers well-done.

  But nobody really comes for the food. They come for the booze and the bar and, of course, for Ted’s terrific attitude.

  I like everything about Ted’s. The location, 2nd Street, just above Houston Street. Coolest neighborhood in the world. (Yes, I said “the world.”)

  I like the cheap black-and-white linoleum floor tiles.

  I like the sign that says PIANO IN REAR. And because Ted’s has absolutely no piano, sometimes when I’ve had a bit too much to drink (which is not that often) “piano in rear” momentarily sounds like some perverse sexual direction.

  I like the photo on the wall of Yankee pitcher Don Larsen being carried off the field after his perfect game in the 1956 World Series.

  I like that Larsen’s picture hangs next to a more recent photo: Lady Gaga and St. Vincent standing together out on Avenue B smoking a joint and sharing a slice of pizza.

  Yet, as is usually the case, the thing that really makes Ted’s so cool is Ted Burrows himself. When a guy has got a cute Paul Rudd kind of face along with the wiry muscles of a David Beckham, and he can mix a perfect peach daiquiri (Ted’s secret? A dash of orange bitters plus a teaspoon of honey), you’ve got the best bar in Manhattan.

  “Is it going to be a Diet Pepsi or a slightly more adult pleasure?” Ted asks me as he slaps a cocktail napkin on the bar. His smile is so adorable.

  “In fact,” he adds, “that sparkle in your eyes tells me you may have already had a pop or two before you settled down here, Peaches.”

  I should point out that Ted calls his regulars by their usual drink, not by the name on their birth certificates. My usual peach daiquiri means that I’m Peaches. There are a few other regulars who share the same joke—Margarita, Gin Straight Up, Perfect Manhattan, for example—and one or two who might want to change their drink orders. I’m talking to you, Moscow Mule. And you, Mr. Pink Lady.

  “I haven’t been any place but my office until now, one hand holding a phone, the other banging away at my laptop.” I’m lying a bit here. I’ve actually been lounging around my apartment, drinking Diet Pepsi and gobbling ibuprofen. (I’ll admit I’m still trying to fully recover from my wild and crazy Las Vegas trip last week.)

  “Whatever you want me to believe, I’ll believe,” Ted says, and, okay, I’ll admit it, as Ted shakes my peach daiquiri, I watch his butt for a few pleasantly satisfying seconds.

  “You look very nice from the back,” I say to him.

  “You look very nice from the back and the front.”

  Flirtation between me and Ted, as always, is on. On the other hand, I am thinking that my flimsy, scoop-neck sundress, white with pink and red flowers, does look kind of adorable and, okay, sexy. (Maybe it’s just eye-catching because I’m the only woman in New York today who’s not dressed in black.)

  Ted and I are pretty honest with each other. But not honest enough for me to tell him that he guessed right; I did do a teeny-tiny bit of drinking before I arrived at Ted’s. I fueled up a bit at my favorite dive bar, the nearby Library on Avenue A. I guess I thought that a white wine spritzer in a quiet saloon wouldn’t really count as drinking. Anyway, here I am.

  Ted is pouring my peach drink into a large, chilled cocktail glass (I told you the place was perfect) when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Emily,” says the voice that’s attached to the hand. “Long time, no see.”

  I know that voice too well, and I’m really not in the mood to hear it right now.

  CHAPTER

  3

  THAT VOICE BELONGS TO Mike Miller, and the phrase “long time no see” is Mike’s idea of a clever conversation starter.

  “If you consider yesterday a long time ago, Mike,” I say, “then I guess it’s true.”

  I don’t exactly remember when and where I met Mike Miller. If I went to church on a regular basis, I’d say that church is where I met him, because Mike Miller has the face of an altar boy. He also has the fashion sense of an altar boy: button-down white shirt, blue blazer, baggy chinos, no socks, penny loafers. You’ve met this guy.

  On the other hand, most altar boys don’t peddle drugs, and, although Mike claims to be an attorney with a degree from Harvard Law (I’ve never checked, but I should), selling coke and various other mind benders is really what Mike does best.

  “How about a snow flurry to go with that drink, Emily?” he asks.

  A girl has a better chance of scoring coke in New York City than she does of finding a seat on the subway. But coke is really not my thing. So, saying no isn’t all that hard right at the moment.

  “Not even a tiny taste?” Mike asks. “Half a line, on the house.”

  Then Ted jumps in. “Okay, Beefeater, your sales pitch is over. We sell booze, burgers, and pretzels here, nothing else.”

  Mike’s smart enough not to mess with Ted. Mike holds up the palms of his hands to say, I’m going. I’m going. Then the creep begins walking toward the exit.

  I finish my drink. Sweet and icy and fruity and tangy and smooth and… I look at my watch. The digital face says 11:46.

  Oops. I forgot to mention. That’s 11:46 a.m., as in 11:46 in the morning. I know I showered and did my makeup this morning. But I’m not remembering if I actually slept. My life and my schedule are relatively confusing.

  Okay, maybe one more daiquiri. Ted makes them so well. But first… “

  Hey, Mike!” I yell.

  Mike Miller stops just as he reaches the door. He turns around, looks at me. I nod, and Mike raises his eyebrows. He walks back over to me.