9.03 a.m. Time was passing slowly. Ordinarily, with just six months or so left of it, he might have been grateful. But not up here, lying on this hard wooden floor inside the dome that supported the chandelier, surrounded by mouse droppings, and goddamn seagulls screeching outside. The battery on his fucking Kindle was running out. In his calculations he hadn’t figured that would happen, but he’d left the thing switched on to wireless, which ate up the battery life. Great. He had about nine hours to kill, and an hour of reading time left. So much for his ambition to finish War and Peace before he died. He laughed. His own private joke. With six months to live, he had to be choosy about what he read. Did it matter what he had and hadn’t read in his life? In six months’ time would anyone care that Drayton Wheeler had not read War and Peace? Nor anything by Dostoyevsky. Nor Proust. He hadn’t read much Hardy either. Just one Scott Fitzgerald. Two Hemingways. All people you were supposed to read to make you a more rounded human being.
What do You think about Not Dead Yet (Roy Grace 8)?
