The key easily slid into the front lock. A cool breeze met her as she walked through the doorway. She set Betty on the floor and took off her leash. Freed, the dog made a beeline for the back of the house.
Sara couldn’t control her curiosity as she looked around the front rooms. Will’s taste definitely ran toward the masculine. If his wife had contributed to the decorating, it certainly didn’t show. A pinball machine was given pride of place in the center of the dining room, just under a glass chandelier. Will was obviously working on the machine—the electronic guts were neatly laid out by an open toolbox on the floor. The smell of machine oil filled the air.
The couch in the living room was a dark brown ultra-suede with a large matching ottoman. The walls were muted beige. A sleek black recliner was turned toward a fifty-inch plasma television with various electronic boxes stacked neatly underneath. Everything seemed to be in its proper place. There was no dust or clutter, no laundry piled into an Everest-like mountain on the couch. Obviously, Will was a better housekeeper than Sara. But then, most people were.
His desk was in the corner of the main room, just outside the hallway. Chrome and metal. She traced her finger along the arm of his reading glasses. Papers were neatly stacked around a laptop computer and printer. A pack of Magic Markers rested on a pile of colored folders. There were small metal bins with rubber bands and paper clips that were separated by color and size.
Sara had seen this setup before. Will could read, but not easily and certainly not quickly. He used the colored markers and clips as cues to help him find what he was looking for without having to actually scan what was on a page or in a folder. It was a neat trick that he’d probably taught himself early on. Sara had no doubt that he’d been one of those kids who sat in the back of the classroom and memorized everything the teacher said, only to be unable—or unwilling—to write down any of it come test day.
She took the pizza box into the kitchen, which had been remodeled in the same rich browns as the rest of the house. Unlike Sara’s kitchen, the granite counters were neat and tidy, a coffeemaker and television the only items on display. Similarly, the fridge was empty but for a carton of milk and a pack of Jell-O pudding cups. Sara slid the box onto the top shelf and walked to the back of the house to check on Betty. She found the spare bedroom first. The overhead lights were off, but Will had left on the floor lamp behind another leather recliner. Beside the chair was a dog bed shaped like a chaise longue. A bowl of water and some kibble were in the corner. There was another television mounted on the wall, with a fold-up treadmill underneath.
The room was dark, the walls painted a rich brown that complemented the living room. She turned on the overhead light. Surprisingly, there were bookcases along the walls. Sara ran her finger down the titles, recognizing classics mixed in with a handful of feminist texts that were usually assigned to earnest young women their first year in college. All of the spines were cracked, well read. It had never occurred to her that Will would have a library in his house. With his dyslexia, reading a thick novel would have been a Sisyphean task. The audiobooks made more sense. Sara knelt down and looked at the CD cases stacked beside an expensive-looking Bose player. Will’s tastes were certainly more highbrow than hers—lots of nonfiction and historical works that Sara would normally suggest for insomniacs. She pressed down a peeling sticker and read the words “Property of the Fulton County Library System.”
The tip-tap of toenails announced Betty in the hallway. Sara blushed, feeling caught. She stood to fetch the dog, but Betty ran off with surprising speed. Sara followed her past the bathroom and into the second room. Will’s bedroom.
The bed was made, a dark blue blanket covering matching sheets. There was just one pillow leaning against the wall where the headboard should have been. One bedside table. One lamp.
Unlike the rest of the house, there was a utilitarian feel to the room. Sara didn’t want to dwell on why the lack of romantic setting gave her relief. The walls were white. No art hung on the walls. Will’s watch and wallet were on top of the chest of drawers beside yet another television. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt were laid out on the bench at the foot of the bed. There was a pair of folded black socks. His boots were under the bench. Sara picked up the shirt. Cotton. Long-sleeved. Black, like the one Will had been wearing.
The dog jumped on the bed, pushed down the pillow and settled like a bird in a nest.
Sara folded the shirt and put it back by the jeans. This was bordering on stalker behavior. At least she hadn’t smelled the shirt or rummaged through his drawers. She scooped up Betty, thinking she should shut the dog in the spare room and get out of here. She was doing just that when the phone started to ring. The answering machine picked up. She heard Will’s voice back in the bedroom.
“Sara? If you’re there, please pick up.”
She went back to his room and picked up the phone. “I was just about to leave.”
His voice sounded tense. She could hear a baby crying in the background, people shouting. “I need you to come here right now. To Faith’s. Her mother’s house. It’s important.”
Sara felt a rush of adrenaline sharpen her senses. “Is she all right?”
“No,” he answered bluntly. “May I give you the address?”
Without thinking, she opened the bedside drawer, assuming she’d find a piece of paper and pen. Instead, she saw a magazine like her father used to keep in the back of his toolbox in the garage.
“Sara?”
The drawer wouldn’t close. “Let me get something to write on. Hold on.”
Will seemed to be the only person in America who didn’t have a cordless phone. Sara left the receiver on the bed, found some pen and paper on his desk, and came back. “All right.”
Will waited for someone to stop shouting. He kept his voice low as he gave Sara the address. “It’s in Sherwood Forest, on the back side of Ansley. Do you know it?”
Ansley was only five minutes away. “I can figure it out.”
“Take my car. The keys are on a hook by the back door in the kitchen. Can you drive a stick?”
“Yes.”
“The news people are already here. Find the first cop you see, tell them you’re there at my request, and they’ll let you back. Don’t talk to anyone else. Okay?”
“Okay.” She hung up the phone and pushed the bedside drawer shut with both hands. Betty was back on the pillow. Sara picked her up again. She started to leave, then thought better of it. Will was in shorts the last time she’d seen him. He’d probably want his jeans. She put his watch and wallet in the back pocket. There was no telling where he kept his gun, but Sara wasn’t going to go looking through his things any more than she already had.
“Can I help you?”
Sara felt a rush of horror burn through her body. Angie Trent was leaning against the bedroom door, palm resting casually against the jamb. Her dark, curly hair cascaded around her shoulders. Her makeup was perfect. Her nails were perfect. Her tight skirt and revealing top would’ve easily won her the cover shot on the magazine in Will’s drawer.
“I-I—” Sara hadn’t stuttered since she was twelve.
“We’ve met before, right? You work at the hospital.”
“Yes.” Sara stood away from the bed. “Will got called out on an emergency. He asked me to bring your dog—”
“My dog?”
Sara felt the vibrations of a growl building in Betty’s chest.
Angie’s mouth twisted in distaste. “What happened to it?”
“She was …” Sara felt like a fool just standing there. She tucked Will’s jeans under her arm. “I’ll put her in the spare room and go.”
“Sure.” Angie was blocking the door. She took her time letting Sara pass, then followed Sara to the spare room, watched her put Betty on the dog bed and pull the door to.
Sara started to leave out the front door, but then she remembered she needed Will’s keys. She fought to keep her voice from shaking. “He told me to bring his car.�
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Angie crossed her arms. Her ring finger was bare, but she had a silver band around her thumb. “Of course he did.”
Sara went back into the kitchen. Her face was so red she was sweating. There was a duffel bag by the table that hadn’t been there before. Will’s car keys were hanging on a hook by the back door, just as he’d said. She grabbed them and went back into the den, aware that Angie stood in the hallway watching her every move. Sara walked as quickly as she could toward the front door, her heart in her throat, but Angie Trent wasn’t going to make it that easy for her.
“How long have you been fucking him?”
Sara shook her head. This couldn’t be happening.
“I asked you how long you’ve been fucking my husband.”
Sara stared at the back of the door, too ashamed to look at her. “This is a misunderstanding. I promise you.”
“I found you in my house in my bedroom that I share with my husband. What’s your explanation? I’m dying to hear it.”
“I told you I—”
“You got a thing for cops? Is that it?”
Sara felt her heart stop mid-beat.
“Your dead husband was a cop, right? You get some kind of thrill out of that?” Angie gave a derisive laugh. “He’ll never leave me, honey. You’d better find yourself another dick to play with.”
Sara couldn’t answer. The situation was too awful for words. She fumbled for the doorknob.
“He cut himself for me. Did he tell you that?”
She willed her hand to steady so she could open the door. “I have to go now. I’m sorry.”
“I watched him slice the razor blade into his arm.”
Sara’s hand wouldn’t move. Her mind tried in vain to process what she was hearing.
“I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.” Angie paused. “You could at least look at me when I’m talking to you.”
She didn’t want to, but Sara made herself turn around.
Angie’s tone was passive, but the hatred in her eyes made her hard to look at. “I held him the whole time. Did he tell you about it? Did he tell you how I held him?”
Sara still could not find her voice.
Angie held up her left arm, showing the bare flesh. With excruciating slowness, she traced her right index finger from her wrist down to her elbow. “They said the razor cut so deep that he scraped the bone.” She smiled, as if this was a happy memory. “He did that for me, bitch. You think he’d do that for you?”
Now that Sara was looking at her, she couldn’t stop. Moments slipped by. She thought of the clock back at the restaurant, the seconds blurring. Finally, she cleared her throat, not sure she could speak. “It’s the other arm.”
“What?”
“The scar,” she said, relishing the surprised look on Angie Trent’s face. “It’s on his other arm.”
Sara’s hands were sweating so badly she could barely turn the doorknob. She cringed as she rushed outside, thinking Angie would come running after her or worse, call her out on the lie.
The truth was that Sara had never seen a scar on Will’s arm, because she’d never seen his bare arm. He always wore long-sleeved shirts. He never rolled up the sleeves or unbuttoned the cuffs. She had made an educated guess. Will was left-handed. If he’d tried to kill himself while his hateful wife was cheering him on, he’d sliced open his right arm, not his left.
CHAPTER THREE
WILL PICKED AT THE COLLAR OF HIS SHIRT. THE MOBILE command vehicle was scorching hot, filled with so many uniforms and suits that there was hardly room to breathe. The noise was equally unbearable. Phones were ringing. BlackBerries chirped. Computer monitors played live feeds from all three of the local news stations. Adding to the cacophony was Amanda Wagner, who had been yelling at the three zone commanders on scene for the last fifteen minutes. The Atlanta chief of police was on his way. So was the director of the GBI. The jurisdictional pissing contest was only going to intensify.
Meanwhile, no one was really working the case.
Will pushed open the door. Sunlight sliced through the dark interior. Amanda stopped yelling for a few seconds, then revved back up as Will closed the door. He took a deep breath of fresh air, scanning the scene from the top of the metal steps. Instead of the usual rapid activity that followed a shocking crime, everyone was milling around waiting for orders. Detectives sat in their unmarked cars checking their email. Six cruisers blocked each end of the street. Neighbors gawked from their front porches. The Atlanta PD crime scene unit van was here. The GBI crime scene unit van was here. The fire truck was still angled in front of the Mitchell house. The EMTs were smoking on the back bumper of their ambulance. Various uniformed officers leaned against emergency vehicles, shooting the breeze, pretending not to care about what was going on in the command center.
Still, they all managed to glare at Will as he stepped down onto the street. Scowls went around. Arms were crossed. A curse was muttered. Someone spat on the sidewalk.
Will didn’t have many friends in the Atlanta Police Department.
The sound of chopping blades filled the air. Will looked up. Two news copters hovered just above the crime scene. They wouldn’t be alone for long. Every ten minutes, a black SWAT MD 500 swept by. An infrared camera was mounted on the nose of the mosquito-like helicopter. The camera could see through dense forests and rooftops, picking out warm-blooded bodies, directing searchers to the bad guys. It was an amazing device, but completely useless in the residential area, where at any given moment there were thousands of people milling around not committing crimes. At best, they were probably picking up the glowing red forms of people sitting on their couches watching their televisions, which in turn showed the SWAT copter hovering overhead.
Will checked the crowd for Sara, wishing she would show up. If he’d been thinking at all when Amanda pulled up on the street, he would’ve told Sara to come with them. He should have anticipated Faith would need help. She was his partner. Will was supposed to take care of her, to have her back. Now, it might be too late.
He wasn’t sure how Amanda had heard about the shootings so quickly, but they were on scene within fifteen minutes of the last shot being fired. The locksmith was just opening the shed door when they rolled up. Faith had been pacing back and forth like a caged animal while she waited for her child to be freed, and she kept pacing long after Emma was in her arms. As soon as she saw Will, Faith started babbling, talking about her backyard neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, her brother Zeke, the shed her father had built when she was little, and a million other things that made absolutely no sense the way she was stringing them together.
At first, Will thought that Faith was in shock, but shocked people don’t pace around squawking like lunatics. Their blood pressure drops so quickly they generally can’t stand. They pant like dogs. They stare blankly at the space in front of them. They talk slowly, not so fast you can barely understand them. Something else was at play, but Will didn’t know if it was some kind of mental break or Faith’s diabetes or what.
Making it worse, by that point, there were twenty cops standing around who knew exactly what a person was supposed to look like when an awful thing happened. Faith didn’t fit the profile. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t angry. She was just crazy, totally out of her mind. Nothing she said had a bit of reason. She couldn’t tell them what had happened. She couldn’t walk them through the scene and explain the bloodshed. She was worse than useless, because the answers to all their questions were locked up inside of her head.
And that was when one of the cops had mumbled something about her being under the influence. And then someone else volunteered to get the Breathalyzer out of his car.
Quickly, Amanda had intervened. She dragged Faith across the front lawn, banged on the neighbor’s door—not Mrs. Johnson, who had a dead man in her backyard, but an old woman named Mrs. Levy—and practically ordered her to give Faith a place to collect herself.
By then, the mobile command center had pulle
d up. Amanda had gone straight into the back of the vehicle and started demanding this case be turned over to the GBI immediately. She knew that she wouldn’t win the territorial fight with the zone commanders. By law, the GBI could not simply waltz in and take over a case. The local medical examiner, district attorney, or police chief generally asked the state for assistance, and usually that only happened when they’d failed to make a case on their own or didn’t want to spend the money or manpower tracking down leads. The only person who could yank this case from Atlanta was the governor, and any politician in the state could tell you that crossing the capital city was a very bad idea. Amanda’s screaming tactics were for show. She didn’t yell when she was angry. Her voice got low, more like a rumble, and you had to strain your ears to hear the insults flying out of her mouth. She was trying to buy them time. Trying to buy Faith time.
In the eyes of the Atlanta PD brass, Faith wasn’t a cop anymore. She was a witness. She was a suspect. She was a person of interest, and they wanted to talk to her about the men she had killed and why her mother had been kidnapped. The Atlanta police weren’t a bunch of yokels. They were one of the best forces in the country. But for Amanda yelling at them, they would’ve had Faith at the station by now, drilling her like they were working a terrorist at Gitmo.
Will couldn’t blame them. Sherwood Forest was not the kind of neighborhood where you’d expect to find a shootout in the middle of a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Ansley Park was a stone’s throw away. Cast the net a bit farther and you’d encompass about eighty percent of the city’s real estate tax revenue—multimillion-dollar homes with tennis courts and au pair suites. Rich people weren’t the type of folks who let bad things happen without assigning blame. Someone would have to pay for this. If Amanda couldn’t find a way to prevent it, that person would probably end up being Faith. And Will was at a loss as to what to do.
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