Twist (Book 1): The Abnorm Chronicles-Twist by Kevin J. Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

trapped, lying like discarded garbage on his floor. He had waited there forever, blind and deaf, isolated from what was happening over in Chloe’s apartment. He was cut off from his window, and when he heard the sirens they were distant, muffled, impotent—and surreal. His imagination could not paint any worse picture than what he knew was the truth.
    When Ingrid had finally arrived, she’d hammered on the door first, but already knew he was hurt. She used her own key to let herself in—no games this time—and she’d found him lying on his side next to his toppled wheelchair, long smears of blood from his fingers where he had dragged himself across the hardwood floor.
    Upon arriving at the Lion’s Regency Apartments, she had seen the police cars and ambulance and rushed up the seven flights of stairs. When she burst into his apartment, she was panting and flushed from the exertion. The emergency response vehicles were at a different building, but she must have guessed that he had had something to do with it.
    After she ’d righted the chair and deftly wrestled his body, which was unhelpful in the best of situations, back into place, she used the first-aid kit in his bathroom to apply bandages to each fingertip. He didn’t speak to her the whole time, just shuddered.
    Ingrid shared his silence, did not press, let him know her concern and her support. She found a rag and some cleaning supplies in the kitchen and returned to clean up the blood on the floor near the window.
    “Adam, I’m here for you. I know you saw something.”
    He looked at her, struggled to find the words that were locked inside of him with greater security than any sealed Top Secret file. “She was murdered,” he finally said. “I was watching, but I couldn’t see enough . . . couldn’t do anything.”
    She bent closer to him. “Tell me about it.”
    Someone knocked at Adam’s door, brisk and authoritative, not friendly, not tentative. When he made no move to reply or operate the latch with his chair controls, Ingrid opened the door and faced the two men standing there. Both held out Denver PD badges, both wore street clothes. “Can I help you?” It came out more statement than question, an assertion that she was in charge here and ready to protect Adam.
    T he taller cop was a light-skinned Cuban with a shaved head and dark mustache, but the smaller man—brown hair, polite smile, hard blue eyes—seemed to be in charge. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Jones and this is Detective Rodriguez. We received a 9-1-1 emergency call from this number, registered to a Mr. Adam Lee. He was reporting an . . . incident across the street.” He glanced over Ingrid’s shoulder into the apartment, spotted Adam there in his chair. “Is that Mr. Lee?”
    Ingrid put her hands on her hips. “Yes, but I’m afraid he isn’t able to give a statement right now. Mr. Lee is a disabled veteran, and I am his therapist assigned by the VA.” She pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it to Jones. “I’m aware that he has made numerous reports in recent months, detectives. Sorry if he caused you any trouble.” Adam knew he had already made so many emergency calls, false alarms, wild-goose chases.
    Detective Rodriguez, clean cut and about six foot two, took half a step forward. “This time, I’m afraid he wasn’t crying wolf. Mr. Lee isn’t in any trouble. He called in a murder, and we really need to get a statement from him. He may be the only witness.”
    Adam shuddered, and the images of Chloe on the floor kept playing like a loop in his mind. The shadow of the killer reflected and distorted from the pool of blood as the ripples of her fading heartbeat stirred the liquid surface . . . the elevator doors closing, but no one emerging from the front of the apartment building. The killer must have slipped out after he had tipped over in his wheelchair.
    “I didn’t see anything,” Adam moaned. “I didn’t see enough . I tried, but the angles