Read Online Year One by Nora Roberts - Free Book Online Page A

We can get more supplies once we’re on the road.”
    She looked at the wall of shelves—floor to ceiling like the windows—and the dozens and dozens of books—some with his name on them.
    Understanding, he shrugged. “I’ve read them anyway. I’m going out, getting us a couple of backpacks. Meanwhile, pack one bag, Lana, for both of us.”
    â€œDon’t take any chances.”
    He cupped her face, kissed her. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
    â€œI’ll be ready.” But as her nerves skittered, she held on another moment. “Let’s just go now, Max, together. We can get whatever we need once we’re out of the city.”
    â€œLana.” Now he kissed her forehead. “A lot of people who took off unprepared ended up dead. We’re going to keep our heads, do this step-by-step. Warm clothes,” he repeated, and went to put on his own coat, pulled on a ski cap. “An hour. Bolt the door behind me.”
    When he went out, she turned the locks he’d installed since the madness began.
    He’d come back, she told herself. He’d come back because he was smart and quick, because he had power inside him. Because he’d never leave her alone.
    She went into the bedroom, stared at the clothes in her closet. No fun or pretty dresses, no stylish shoes or sexy boots. She felt a little pang, imagined Max felt the same pang about leaving the books.
    Necessity meant leaving things they loved—but never each other.
    She packed sweaters, sweatshirts, thick leggings, wool trousers, jeans, flannel shirts, socks, underwear. One blanket, one big, warm throw, two towels, a small bag for basic toiletries.
    In the bathroom she sighed over her collection of skin-care products, hair products, makeup, bath oils. Convinced herself that one, just one, jar of her favorite moisturizer equaled necessity.
    She walked out into the living room as Arlys Reid ended her broadcast with a report of a naked woman riding a unicorn on Madison.
    â€œI hope it’s true,” Lana murmured, shutting off the TV for the last time.
    For sentiment, she selected her favorite photo of her and Max. He stood behind her, his arms around her. Her hands crossed over his. He wore black jeans and a blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and she a floaty summer dress—with the lush green of Central Park around them.
    She packed it, frame and all, between the towels. And slipped in a copy of his first published novel, The Wizard King .
    For hope, she went into his office, took his flash drive where he backed up his work in progress. One day, when sanity came back to the world, he’d want it.
    She set out the two flashlights kept in the skinny kitchen closet, the spare batteries. She gathered bread she’d made only the day before, a bag of pasta, another of rice, bags of herbs she’d dried,coffee, tea. She used a small soft-sided cooler for the few perishables, some frozen chicken breasts.
    They wouldn’t starve—for a while at least.
    She unrolled her knives, the gorgeous Japanese blades she’d saved up for—months of scrimping, but so worth it.
    She probably shouldn’t take them all, but she admitted leaving any behind would break her heart more than abandoning her wardrobe. Besides, they were tools.
    She rolled them up again, set them aside. Her tools, she thought, so she’d carry them in her backpack. Her tools, her weight.
    However foolish it was, she went in, neatly made the bed, arranged the throw pillows.
    She dressed—warm clothes, thick socks, sturdy boots.
    When she heard Max’s knock—seven times, three-three-one—she all but flew to the door, yanking at the locks. Then flung herself into his arms.
    â€œI wouldn’t let myself worry while you were gone.” She pulled him inside. “So it all crested and ebbed the second I heard your knock.”
    Tears swam into her eyes, shimmered—and she burst into laughter