Red Widow by Alma Katsu (interesting books to read .txt) 📕

Russian poisons work quickly. Once the deed is done, you want it to be fast. The last thing the Russians want is for someone to have the time to tell a few secrets before they expire.

With the weight gone from his chest, Kincaid sits bolt upright, a strained expression on his face. His first thought is not of revenge. It’s pure self-preservation. He knows something terrible has happened. He knows he has been poisoned. Could he be feeling the effects already? What will she do if he yells for help, or tries to run away? She watches for the slightest twitch, any indication of what he’ll do next.

His hands search around him, as though he’s gone blind and needs his hands. He rifles his jacket, then stops: his cell phone. He pulls it out of a pocket and starts to jab desperately at the keyboard. She slaps it out of his hand, sending it spinning across the room.

He tries to yell but nothing comes out, only the hiss of air and a long, foamy string of bubbles, like a washing machine run amok. His eyes search her face—what have you done to me? He’s frightened as the truth starts to dawn on him. Frightened as a little boy.

Then his expression changes. Help me.

“Don’t worry. You’re not going to die,” she tells him as she reaches for the bottle of Scotch. She takes a big swig, swishing it around in her mouth, rinsing vigorously, while sprinting to the bathroom. Spits it all into the sink. Has she been quick enough, or could a minute amount of poison have gotten into her system?

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she stands over him and starts to dress hurriedly. “I didn’t give you the full dose. It’ll just make you sick—really sick. Something for you to think about.”

But Kincaid isn’t listening. He’s fallen backward onto the bed. Pink-tinged foam pumps out of his mouth now like a bubble machine. He’s gone pasty white, except for his face, which is turning blue. His eyes are wide open and stark. She leans over and slaps his cheeks. Unresponsive. Feels his throat for a pulse and it’s wild, all over the place. He starts to vomit dribbles of yellow liquid.

She steps back from the bed, her heart going like a jackhammer. This is not what she expected. A quarter of the pill is apparently enough to kill him. She’ll call for an ambulance from the first pay phone she sees but from the looks of things, he’s going to die. The realization turns her ice-cold, makes her want to double over puking.

And she held that pill in her mouth for one, two seconds.

And now her thoughts turn to self-preservation. Brian. He’s her only concern.

Can she be linked to this room, to him? There was, undoubtedly, a camera in the lobby and she hung back when they were checking in, but there’s a chance it may have caught her face.

Well, it’s a chance she has to take. She puts on her coat, snatches up her handbag. With wadded up tissues, she wipes down every surface she remembers touching in the bedroom and the bathroom. Wipes the rim of her glass.

Taking one last look at the body convulsing on the bed, she averts her eyes and wipes the door handle as she leaves.

—

There’s a lone light burning in the rear of the house as Theresa pulls into the driveway. She collects herself before heading in, wishes there was a way to erase the smell of Scotch that seems to exude from her pores.

She gives the babysitter—an older woman who lives a few doors down—forty dollars and locks the door after ushering her out. A quick check on Brian—so trusting and innocent in his sleep, she almost bursts into tears—before heading to the bedroom. Pulling the codebook out of the shoebox.

Writing, with shaking hands, the numbers for the message she formed in her head on the drive home.

SITUATION DIRE. CANNOT REMAIN IN PLACE. TAKE ME OUT NOW.

THIRTY-TWO

Outside it’s raining, but if Lyndsey had not gone to the vending machine for coffee, she would not have known, not in her small, windowless office. She stands in the cul-de-sac at the end of the hall, the bit of space given over to vending machines. The walls are gray-tinted glass, ceiling to floor. She takes a minute to sip at the steaming hot coffee and watch fat drops of water slide down the glass in streams. She tries to predict which way the stream will break as gravity pulls it down—as though it matters. Anything to stop thoughts running through her head.

Masha needs you. Time is running out.

Don’t let Popov down. He trusted you.

Theresa is a traitor. Theresa is your friend.

No sooner does she return to her office than the phone rings. “Lyndsey, do you have a minute? It’s Dwayne.” Dwayne Molina is a peace offering from Raymond Murphy in CI, a computer tech offered up to help sift through the copious amounts of data associated with the case. She was about to give up on CI completely, but Murphy has redeemed himself with Molina. The tech is a shy young man, recently out of the military, far more willing to be helpful than Murphy, thankfully. He’s had the data for all of twenty-four hours and already she’s talked to him more than Raymond. The previous calls from Molina were all explanatory, providing background and generally bringing him up to speed, but the man has proven a quick learner. “Sure. Got something for me?”

“Maybe. I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he says. There is a faint tap-tap in the background. Molina never seems to stop typing. He’s always buzzing like a bee. “I was going through the forum data and noticed something weird.” Tap-tap-tap. “Yeah. After we isolated the serial number of the computer Theresa’s been using, I ran it against all the activity