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His altered brain held two new attributes which, up to that point, he hadn’t even known about and had no reason to: hyperthymesia, or perfect recall; and synesthesia, which caused him to pair certain things with unlikely colors.
dead bodies linked with a shade of electric blue.
Decker’s longtime FBI partner, Alex Jamison, had been transferred to New York and found what looked to be love with a Wall Street investment banker. His old boss at the FBI, Ross Bogart, had retired and was learning to play golf—badly, he had heard—in Arizona.
“Amos Decker, meet your new partner, Special Agent Frederica White,” said John Talbott in a voice that sounded like a game show host introducing a new prize.
“How old are your kids?” “Nine and twelve. Daughter and son, respectively. Calvin, named after my father. And Jacqueline, but she goes by Jacky.”
Just recently, Mary Lancaster departed by her own desperate hand. And the very much alive Alex Jamison and Melvin Mars and Ross Bogart all moving on with their lives.
There was Melvin Mars, once on death row and now leading a wonderful life with a woman he loved. There was Ross Bogart, now retired, but with whom Decker had solved dozens of cases. And out beyond them both was a young woman who was once a journalist back in Burlington, Ohio, and now was a full-fledged FBI agent, kicking ass and doing good.
We have not one but two killers. And as implausible as it sounds, I don’t think either one knew about the other.
And if you really want to feel guilt, try taking your own life. It’s like you’re spitting all over their graves.”
“Because you’re trying to take something away from yourself that was taken away from them without their consent.”
The first shot dropped Andrews. The second round drilled a hole right through Patty Kelly’s forehead.
“Children sometimes murder their parents, if those parents are a threat to them.
“We keep digging. That’s all we can do.”
