The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down
‘The Fourth Monkey has one of the most ingenious openings that I’ve read in years. This thriller never disappoints.’James Patterson‘Superbly constructed and immaculately paced’The Daily MailTwo days to save her…They’ve found the killer. The killer that Detective Sam Porter has been hunting for five years. But it’s too late to put him behind bars. He’s already dead.One day to save her…But even death can’t stop this murderer. His last victim is still alive, struggling to escape and the police have no idea who or where she is.Zero.Now Sam Porter must race against time, as her chances of survival slip away, to stop this serial killer from claiming his final victim…This stunning thriller is perfect for fans of Val McDermid, Jo Nesbo and Helen Fields.
Читать The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down онлайн беплатно
J. D. BARKER is the international best-selling author of Forsaken, a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Debut Novel. In addition, he has been asked to co-author a prequel to Dracula by the Stoker family. Barker splits his time between Englewood, Florida, and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
For Mother
Donât stop reading. I need you to understand what I have done.
â DIARY
Contents
1. Porter: Day 1 ⢠6:14 a.m.
2. Porter: Day 1 ⢠6:45 a.m.
3. Porter: Day 1 ⢠6:53 a.m.
4. Porter: Day 1 ⢠7:05 a.m.
6. Porter: Day 1 ⢠7:31 a.m.
7. Porter: Day 1 ⢠7:48 a.m.
9. Porter: Day 1 ⢠8:49 a.m.
10. Porter: Day 1 ⢠9:23 a.m.
12. Emory: Day 1 ⢠9:29 a.m.
13. Porter: Day 1 ⢠10:04 a.m.
15. Porter: Day 1 ⢠10:31 a.m.
17. Emory: Day 1 ⢠9:31 a.m.
18. Porter: Day 1 ⢠11:30 a.m.
20. Clair: Day 1 ⢠1:17 p.m.
22. Porter: Day 1 ⢠1:38 p.m.
24. Porter: Day 1 ⢠3:03 p.m.
26. Emory: Day 1 ⢠3:34 p.m.
28. Porter: Day 1 ⢠4:17 p.m.
30. Porter: Day 1 ⢠4:49 p.m.
32. Emory: Day 1 ⢠5:00 p.m.
34. Porter: Day 1 ⢠5:23 p.m.
36. Porter: Day 1 ⢠5:32 p.m.
38. Porter: Day 1 ⢠6:18 p.m.
40. Porter: Day 1 ⢠9:12 p.m.
42. Porter: Day 2 ⢠4:58 a.m.
44. Porter: Day 2 ⢠6:53 a.m.
46. Clair: Day 2 ⢠7:18 a.m.
48. Emory: Day 2 ⢠8:06 a.m.
50. Porter: Day 2 ⢠8:56 a.m.
52. Clair: Day 2 ⢠9:23 a.m.
54. Porter: Day 2 ⢠9:23 a.m.
55. Clair: Day 2 ⢠10:59 a.m.
57. Emory: Day 2 ⢠11:57 a.m.
59. Porter: Day 2 ⢠12:18 p.m.
61. Clair: Day 2 ⢠1:23 p.m.
63. Clair: Day 2 ⢠3:56 p.m.
64. Emory: Day 2 ⢠4:18 p.m.
66. Porter: Day 2 ⢠4:40 p.m.
68. Clair: Day 2 ⢠4:47 p.m.
70. Porter: Day 2 ⢠4:57 p.m.
72. Clair: Day 2 ⢠5:09 p.m.
74. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:12 p.m.
76. Clair: Day 2 ⢠5:12 p.m.
78. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:22 p.m.
80. Clair: Day 2 ⢠5:26 p.m.
82. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:27 p.m.
84. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:31p.m.
86. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:32 p.m.
87. Clair: Day 2 ⢠5:33 p.m.
88. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:33 p.m.
89. Clair: Day 2 ⢠5:34 p.m.
90. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:40 p.m.
91. Porter: Day 2 ⢠5:58 p.m.
There it was again, that incessant ping.
I turned the ringer off. Why am I hearing text notifications? Why am I hearing anything?
Appleâs gone to shit without Steve Jobs.
Sam Porter rolled to his right, his hand blindly groping for the phone on the nightstand.
His alarm clock crashed to the floor with a thunk unique to cheap electronics from China.
âFuck me.â
When his fingers found the phone, he wrestled the device from the charging cable and brought it to his face, squinting at the small, bright screen.
CALL ME â 911.
A text from Nash.
Porter looked over at his wifeâs side of the bed, empty except for a note â
Went to get milk, be back soon.
xoxo,
Heather
He grunted and again glanced at his phone.
6:15 a.m.
So much for a quiet morning.
Porter sat up and dialed his partner. He answered on the second ring.
âSam?â
âHey, Nash.â
The other man fell silent for a moment. âIâm sorry, Porter. I debated whether or not to contact you. Must have dialed your number a dozen times and couldnât bring myself to actually place the call. I finally decided it would be best just to text you. Give you a chance to ignore me, you know?â
âItâs fine, Nash. What have you got?â
Another pause. âYouâll want to see for yourself.â
âSee what?â
âThereâs been an accident.â
Porter rubbed his temple. âAn accident? Weâre Homicide. Why would we respond to an accident?â
âYouâve gotta trust me on this. Youâll want to see it,â Nash told him again. There was an edge to his voice.
Porter sighed. âWhere?â
âNear Hyde Park, off Fifty-Fifth. I just texted you the address.â
His phone pinged loudly in his ear, and he jerked it away from his head.
Fucking iPhone.
He looked down at the screen, noted the address, and went back to the call.
âI can be there in about thirty minutes. Will that work?â
âYeah,â Nash replied. âWeâre not going anywhere soon.â
Porter disconnected the call and eased his legs off the side of the bed, listening to the various pops and creaks his tired fifty-two-year-old body made in protest.
The sun had begun its ascent, and light peeked in from between the closed blinds of the bedroom window. Funny how quiet and gloomy the apartment felt without Heather around.
Went to get milk.
From the hardwood floor his alarm clock blinked up at him with a cracked face displaying characters no longer resembling numbers.
Today was going to be one of those days.
There had been a lot of those days lately.
Porter emerged from the apartment ten minutes later dressed in his Sunday best â a rumpled navy suit heâd bought off the rack at Menâs Wearhouse nearly a decade earlier â and made his way down the four flights of stairs to the cramped lobby of his building. He stopped at the mailboxes, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in his wifeâs phone number.
