Not that she’d ever felt guilty for lying to her husband.
They finally reached the front lobby. Jared stopped walking. He put his hand to the wall to help keep his balance. They both knew they were in a camera blind spot. Every cop in the building knew how to stay off film.
Instead of doing something lewd, he told Lena, “You smell a little sweaty.”
“Thanks a lot.” She punched him in the shoulder.
He smiled sweetly. “Have your eyes always been brown?”
“Have you always been an idiot?”
He stopped smiling. The creases at the corners of his eyes didn’t completely go away. “I want to try again.”
Lena felt her face flush. He didn’t have to tell her what he wanted to try again. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Hell no.” He laughed. “That didn’t stop us the first time.”
Lena couldn’t respond. She wasn’t sure how she felt, whether or not she was ready. Last time had been an accident. To do it on purpose seemed like tempting fate.
“Lee.” Jared took her hand. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Lena kept waiting to feel annoyed, but mostly, she found herself appreciating the solid feel of his hand, the tight grasp that told her he was going to be all right.
He said, “I want a baby with you. I want to make a life together. A family.”
Just hearing the words made her want all of it, but Lena was too afraid to answer, too terrified to get her hopes up again.
Which is why she said, “Okay.”
Jared grinned like a fool. “Really?”
“Yes.” She said it again just to make sure. “Yes.”
He kissed her, his mouth lingering longer than usual. His hand cradled her face. Jared looked into her eyes. His thumb traced where his lips had been. “And I want to rip out the kitchen because my dad did it wrong.”
Lena’s string of profanities was muffled by a trumpet of motorcycles pulling into the parking lot. She could see them lining up through the glass doors. Six Harley-Davidson police-issue bikes gleamed in the sunshine, courtesy of Sid Waller’s stash of money in the basement of the shooting gallery.
“Hot damn!” Jared sounded like a frat boy at a pool party. He hobbled toward the parking lot, grabbing the back of a chair, the door handle, anything he could use to propel himself toward the bikes.
Lena shook her head as she took a key out of her pocket. Weapons weren’t allowed in areas where prisoners were kept, so there was a row of lockers by the front door. She slid her key into the correct lock. Lena had never been the type of woman to carry a purse. She had shoved her messenger bag into the tiny locker so many times that the canvas was worn where the metal edges scraped into the material. Out of habit, she did a quick inventory of the bag, making sure her Glock was inside, her wallet, her keys, her pens.
Almost as an afterthought, she checked the outside pocket for the postcard. There it was—stamped and ready to go. Lena had been carrying the postcard around with her for three days, putting it in her bag, sticking it in her pocket, tossing it onto the dresser. Now, she pulled out the card and looked at the photograph of downtown Macon. “Thank you for visiting the Heart of Georgia” was written across the top in a curly yellow script.
Lena flipped the card over. The address was the same one she’d written years ago on an envelope she’d mailed to Atlanta.
The letter.
Lena knew that she’d always placed too much value on Sara Linton’s opinion. For years, Lena had let the blame for Jeffrey’s death shadow her every move. She was so low at one point that she had to reach up to touch bottom. Lena had written the letter to beg for Sara’s forgiveness, to seek absolution. She’d structured her case the same way she would present an investigation in court. She’d testified to her own good character. She’d laid out the evidence. She’d highlighted the inconsistencies. She’d expertly spun the divergent facts in her favor. Lena hadn’t been writing an apology. She had been begging for the return of her very soul.
The postcard was different. Two words, not three pages. Giving something, not asking for it.
The truth was that Lena had recovered her soul on her own. When she looked at her life now, all she could see was good. She was good at her job. She was good to her friends. She had married a good man, even if he talked too much. They would eventually have a child together. Maybe more than one child. They would raise their family. They would suffer through Nell’s visits. They would have birthday parties, Christmases, and Thanksgivings, and no matter what Sara Linton thought about Lena’s choices, she would always know that she had done the right thing.
Virtue was its own absolution.
There was a mail slot by the lockers, a brass plaque with the words U.S. MAIL engraved in bold print across the top. Every day around lunchtime, the woman in the front office collected the outgoing mail and took it to the post office. One of the perks of working at a police station. Especially if you liked long lunches.
Lena stared down at the postcard. For just a moment, she thought about tearing it up. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Lena was fine. Sara was the one who needed forgiveness. She was the one who couldn’t let go. It cost nothing to release her.
Lena angled the postcard into the mail slot. She held on for just a second, then let it drop into the basket below.
Outside, a motorcycle revved. Jared was straddling the bike. Estefan was behind him because he couldn’t hold it up on his own.
Lena hefted her bag over her shoulder as she headed toward the door.
Toward Jared.
Toward her life.
She smiled at the thought of Sara reading the postcard. The message was simple. Lena could’ve just as easily written it to herself—
You win.
For Angela, Diane, and Victoria—
my champions
Acknowledgments
I feel very lucky to have some really great folks on my team, among them Angela Cheng Caplan, Diane Dickensheid, and Victoria Sanders. Thank y’all so much for being the glue that helps hold this thing together.
As always, much praise goes to my editors, Kate Elton and Jennifer Hershey, for their insight and generosity.
Yet again, Dr. David Harper was very helpful with the medical details. He’s kept Sara from killing lots of people over the years, and I appreciate his continued guidance. I owe eternal gratitude to the fine agents at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation for answering what I am sure seem like crazy questions. I promise I am only asking how to commit crimes in service to story. Chip Pendleton, MD, is a great doctor and even more generous adviser on all things Grady. I thank you, sir, for your ribald sense of humor and—more important—your time.
To Beth Tindall at Cincinnati Media, aka Webmaster Beth, aka my good friend: thanks for sticking with me all these years, and for not letting me use too much flash.
To all my publishers around the world and the good people who work on my books: I so appreciate your support. To my readers: I continue to be grateful for your kindness and all the cat photos you post on Facebook.
To my daddy: thanks for always being there even when I was young and stupid.
To D.A.: thanks for promising to be there when I am old and wise. I am sorry that only one of those things is happening.
ALSO BY KARIN SLAUGHTER
Blindsighted
Kisscut
A Faint Cold Fear
Indelible
Like a Charm (Editor)
Faithless
Triptych
Beyond Reach
Fractured
Undone
Broken
Fallen
Criminal
eBook original
Snatched
Thorn in My Side
Busted
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KARIN SLAUGHTER is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of Criminal, “Snatched” and “Thorn in My Side” (e-book original novellas), Fallen, Broken, Undone, Fractured,
Beyond Reach, Triptych, Faithless, Indelible, A Faint Cold Fear, Kisscut, and Blindsighted; she contributed to and edited Like a Charm. To date, her books have been translated into more than thirty languages. She is a native of Atlanta, Georgia, where she currently lives and is working on her next novel.
www.karinslaughter.com
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