When The Wind Blows James Patterson Novels & Stories

My wife Naomi Holden's phone was always on silent mode. Whenever I needed to reach her, the call never went through. My only option was to ask everyone around us, but when every single person gave a different answer, I already knew the truth. She was with him again, the frail man she had never been able to let go of. On our seventh anniversary, we had plans to meet at our usual spot for dinner. Three hours passed, and she still had not shown up. I stood on the street, burning with fever, dialing one number after another. My father picked up, his voice warm and unhurried. "Naomi just came by for dinner. Don't worry, I've got my eye on her for you." A friend working at her company lau

I started staring at it when a strong gust of wind blew dust into my eyes and I had to close them. “Oh shit!” I turned my head the other way to shield myself from the dust. I shook my head to clear my eye and looked back when the wind passed but he was gone. “He’s gone…” I looked all around and didn’t find him. Where did the wind come from? How does he disappear like that? And shit, I hope I don’t cause anyone trouble. I ended up spilling the beans to him…

And she thought of the adults in the house, the friends outside, and the way each action, each word, could ripple outward. Gemma’s pen finally touched the page, moving almost of its own accord. She wrote of the porch, the wind, the laughter, the quiet moments and sharp edges. She wrote of the things people didn’t say, the secrets they carried, and the truths that were waiting, patient and unyielding.

Ivy narrowed her eyes slightly and went back to the work that lay in front of her. Her life had already moved far ahead, much like a feather being carried in the wind.

"Whitney, can't you give me a chance? People talk about 'taking in stray cats', but when one actually shows up, they close the door..." Whitney's heart clenched as she imagined him with ears drooped in defeat, a lost cat in the rain. "Some folks just waltz into your life uninvited, and then, without so much as a bye or leave, they're ready to walk right out again... " Everett's voice was heavy with hurt, his hands slowly letting go. "Come tomorrow, you'll be set on moving out. I could show up at the coffee shop, and you'd just look right through me, like I'm thin air!"

He bent forward, pressing the book against his chest. Downstairs, thunder rolled, loud and angry, shaking the windows. Rain began again, pelting the roof hard like stones. The wind howled outside, and in the midst of it, James whispered, his voice cracking into the empty room. “If he’s alive, I’ll find him, even if it kills me.”

Then they knelt. And the candle in James’ hand turned blue. End of Chapter 19🤭 •Chapter 20 – The Last Flame (Alternate Version) The morning James disappeared, the clouds refused to move. It was the kind of stillness that demanded reverence. Lagos had never been so quiet. The wind didn’t blow. Even the birds, ever chirping on power lines and rooftop edges, stood frozen, as if they too were watching history pause. James walked alone through the city, barefoot.

After I closed my eyes, a car behind me suddenly screeched to a halt. Nathan stepped out, holding an umbrella, and approached me. "Get in." The rain seemed to stop for a moment. I forced my eyes open and saw a pitch-black umbrella above me, and Nathan looking down at me, towering and calm. "No, I'm dirty." After refusing, I took a shaky breath and got to my feet, trying to walk past him. Nathan grabbed my arm and forced me into the car. When he met my calm, distant gaze, he instinctively looked away.

Fatigue still lingered on her face, but so did something new—a fragile calm, imperfect yet real. James took a small blanket from a chair and draped it over Emma’s shoulders. The gesture was simple, but careful. “You’re cold,” he said. “A little,” Emma replied with a faint smile. “Thank you.” They sat side by side, their shoulders touching. There was no need to speak. The wind moved softly through the leaves, like a breath being reset. “I made something,” James said suddenly. He stood, went briefly into the kitchen, then returned with two cups. Thin steam rose into the air.

"P-P-Perhaps he was a repairman from elsewhere—" I let out a scoff, interjecting, "That's not all. Mr. Rowland is a lefty. He always uses his left hand whenever he smokes or holds onto his walkie-talkie. "However, the person in the photo is making a peace sign with his right hand. On top of that, Mr. Rowland has a dark burn scar on his wrist, whereas there's nothing on the hand of the person in the photograph." Peter turned to look at me. His eyes were filled with shock. He had finally realized that I was fully sane and lucid.