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.
Three Women Disappear copyright © 2020 by James Patterson
Come and Get Us copyright © 2016 by James Patterson
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First ebook edition: October 2020
Come and Get Us originally published by BookShots / Little, Brown and Company,
December 2016
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ISBN 978-0-316-54162-6
E3-20200924-DA-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One: Detective Sean Walsh
Two
Part I
Chapter 1: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 5: Anna Costello
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 9: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 15: Anna Costello
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 19: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 23
Chapter 24: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 28
Chapter 29: Serena Flores
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33: Detective Sean Walsh
Part II
Chapter 34: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 35: Anna Costello
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38: Detective Sean Walsh
Chapter 39: Anna Costello
Part III
Chapter 40: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 41: Anna Costello
Chapter 42: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 43: Serena Flores
Chapter 44: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 45: Anna Costello
Chapter 46: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 47: Serena Flores
Chapter 48: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 49: Anna Costello
Chapter 50: Sarah Roberts-Walsh
Chapter 51
Epilogue: Michelle Brown
Come and Get Us
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Discover More
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Prologue
OneDetective Sean Walsh
“LET’S KILL him again in slow motion,” I said.
I took a coffee cup from the sink, started the faucet running.
“Assume for a second that it was a female killer,” I began. “I’m Anthony Costello, accountant to the mob, nephew of top dog Vincent Costello. It’s early in the morning, and either the help’s asleep or they haven’t arrived yet. I’m probably ticked off at having to do my own dishes.”
“As ticked off as I am right now?” Detective Heidi Haagen asked.
I ignored her. This was my wife we were talking about. I wasn’t going to let the department pin a murder on her—especially not when it was me who sent her to work for Costello in the first place.
“The lady assassin approaches me from behind,” I continued, “as I’m rinsing my mug. I’ve got the water running full throttle because I’m Anthony Costello and I never do anything halfway. The sound makes for nice cover. Lady Assassin tiptoes up behind me and plunges a big old kitchen knife deep into my left shoulder. Probably she’s aiming for my neck or spine, but she’s no pro—that’s obvious from the mess she left behind. Her hands are sweating, and she closes her eyes at the last second.”
“We’ve been over this,” Heidi said.
Heidi, my onetime partner, now boss. She was the one who shut me out of this case. Now I was trying to claw my way back in.
“I know,” I said. “I know we have, but bear with me. Costello’s a big guy. About my height, but a hundred pounds heavier. That first blow brought him down, but it didn’t kill him.”
I spun away from the sink, dropped to my hands and knees. Heidi rolled her eyes.
“Lady Assassin sidesteps, gets me in the center of my back, but not as deep this time. I drop to my belly and start crawling, trying to get away, maybe headed for the living room, where I keep that Glock stashed in the coffee table drawer.”
I pulled myself forward on the tile mosaic floor, grunting and grimacing, playing the part.
“This isn’t necessary,” Heidi said.
But it was. I had to make her understand—Sarah wasn’t capable of killing Anthony Costello.
“She keeps coming at me, again and again, but she’s out of breath, losing force. These are just puncture wounds she’s inflicting now. I’m Anthony Costello. I’m not going to be done in by my own chef in my own kitchen. So I reach for a chair and pull myself up. Maybe I manage a threat: ‘It’s my turn now’ or ‘You’re a dead woman’—some stock phrase to make her tremble. I start toward her, then stumble, brace myself against the sink. And now it’s me who’s scared, because I’m looking at her eyes, and it’s clear a switch has flipped. She charges, stabbing wildly. I shield my face with my forearms. The blade finds my gut, my ribs, my thighs. And then she lines up for the kill shot, the tip of the knife pointed at my sternum. In a final burst of energy, I hurl myself out of the way, then stagger and drop. Her final thrust hits the countertop. Here.”
I pointed dramatically to a deep gouge in the polished oak. Heidi yawned.
“Sean,” she said, “Sunday mornings are sacred. I told you when you called that you’d better have something—”
“Solid and irrefutable, I know.”
I went over to the knife block and found
