Karin Slaughter - Faithless

“They don’t even know you.”

“You told them I was your wife.”

“I still don’t like it,” he said, dividing the eggs between two plates and adding a couple of slices of toast to each. He veered back to the original subject. “The cyanide is what’s hard to connect.” He offered her the plate of bacon and she took two pieces. “The more we look into it, the more it seems like Dale is the only possible source.” Jeffrey added, “But Dale swears he keeps the garage locked at all times.”

“Do you believe him?”

“He may beat his wife,” Jeffrey began, “but I think he was telling me the truth. Those tools are his bread and butter. He’s not going to leave that door open, especially with people coming through from the farm.” He took out the jelly and passed it to her.

“Is it possible he’s involved?”

“I don’t see how,” Jeffrey told her. “He’s got no connection to Abby, no reason to poison her or Cole.” He suggested, “I should just run the whole family in, split them up and see who breaks first.”

“I doubt Paul would allow that.”

“Maybe I’ll tag the old man.”

“Oh, Jeffrey,” she said, feeling protective of Thomas Ward for some unknown reason. “Don’t. He’s just a helpless old man.”

“Nobody’s helpless in that family.” He paused. “Not even Rebecca.”

Sara weighed his words. “You think she’s involved?”

“I think she’s hiding. I think she knows something.” He sat beside her at the counter, picking at his eyebrow, obviously mulling over the niggling details that had kept him up all night.

Sara rubbed his back. “Something will break. You just need to start back at square one.”

“You’re right.” He looked up at her. “It keeps going back to the cyanide. That’s the key. I want to talk to Terri Stanley. I need to get her away from Dale and see what she says.”

“She’s got an appointment at the clinic today,” Sara told him. “I had to fit her in during lunch.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Her youngest hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Are you going to talk to her about the bruises?”

“I’m in the same boat as you,” she said. “It’s not like I can back her into a corner and get her to tell me what’s going on. If it were that easy, you’d be out of a job.”

Sara had experienced her own guilt last night, wondering how she had seen Terri Stanley all these years and never guessed what was happening at home.

She continued, “I can’t really betray Lena ’s confidence and for all I know, it’ll scare her off. Her kids are sick. She needs the clinic. It’s a safe place for her.” Sara assured him, “If I ever see so much as a hair disturbed on those kids, you’d better believe I’ll say something about it. She’d never leave the building with them.”

He asked, “Does she ever bring Dale with her when she comes to the clinic?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Mind if I stop in to talk to her?”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” she said, not liking the idea of her clinic being used as a second police station.

He told her, “Dale has a loaded gun in his shop, and something tells me he doesn’t like cops talking to his wife.”

“Oh,” was all she could say. That changed things.

“Why don’t I just wait around in the parking lot for her to come out?” he suggested. “Then I’ll take her to the station.”

Sara knew this would be a lot safer, but she still didn’t relish the thought of being involved in setting up Terri Stanley for a surprise attack. “She’ll have her son with her.”

“Marla loves children.”

“I don’t feel good about this.”

“I’m sure Abby Bennett didn’t feel good about being put in that box, either.”

He had a point, but she still didn’t like it. Despite her better judgment, Sara relented. “She’s scheduled to come in at twelve fifteen.”

Brock’s funeral home was housed in a Victorian mansion that had been built in the early 1900s by the man who had run the railroad maintenance depot over in Avondale. Unfortunately, he had dipped into the railroad’s coffers in order to finance the construction and when he had been caught, the place had been sold at auction. John Brock had purchased the mansion for a ridiculously low sum and turned it into one of the nicest funeral homes this side of Atlanta.

When John died, he passed the business on to his only son. Sara had gone to school with Dan Brock and the funeral home had been on her bus route. The family lived above the business, and every weekday morning, she had cringed as the bus pulled up in front of the Brocks’ house-not because she was squeamish, but because Brock’s mother insisted on waiting outside with her son, rain or shine, so that she could kiss him good-bye. After this embarrassing farewell, Dan would clamber onto the bus, where all the boys would make smooching noises at him.

More often than not, he ended up sitting beside Sara. She hadn’t been part of the popular crowd or the drug crowd or even the geeks. Most times, she had her head in a book and didn’t notice who was sitting beside her unless Brock plopped himself down. He was chatty even then, and more than a bit strange. Sara had always felt sorry for him, and that hadn’t changed in the thirty-plus years since they had ridden to school together. A confirmed bachelor who sang in the church choir, Brock still lived with his mother.

“Hello?” Sara called, opening the door onto the grand hall that went the full length of the house. Audra Brock hadn’t changed much in the way of decorating since her husband had bought the mansion, and the heavy carpeting and drapes still fit the Victorian period. Chairs were scattered down the hall, tables with Kleenex boxes discreetly hidden beside flower arrangements offering respite for mourners.

“Brock?” she asked, setting down her briefcase on one of the chairs so that she could dig out Abigail Bennett’s death certificate. She had promised Paul Ward she would have the paperwork to Brock yesterday, but she’d been too busy to get to it. Carlos had taken a rare day off, and Sara didn’t want to keep the family waiting one more day.

“Brock?” she tried again, looking at her watch, wondering where he was. She was going to be late getting to the clinic.

“Hello?” There hadn’t been any cars parked outside, so Sara assumed there wasn’t a funeral taking place. She walked down the hallway, peering into each of the viewing parlors. She found Brock in the farthest one. He was a tall, gangly man, but he had managed to lean the entire upper part of his body into a casket, the lid resting on his back. A woman’s leg, bent at the knee stuck up beside him, a dainty, high-heel clad foot dangling outside the casket. Sara would have suspected something obscene if she didn’t know him better.

“Brock?”

He jumped, smacking his head against the lid. “Lord a’mighty,” he laughed, clutching his heart as the lid slammed down. “You near about scared me to death.”

“Sorry.”

“Guess I’m in the right place for it!” he joked, slapping his thigh.

Sara made herself laugh. Brock’s sense of humor matched his social skills.

He ran his hand along the shiny edge of the bright yellow casket. “Special order. Nice, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” she agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“Georgia Tech fan,” he told her, indicating the black pinstriping along the lid. “Say,” he said, beaming a smile, “I hate to ask, but can you give me a hand with her?”

“What’s wrong?”

He opened the lid again, showing her the body of a cherubic woman who was probably around eighty. Her gray hair was styled into a bun, her cheeks slightly rouged to give her a healthy glow. She looked like she belonged in Madame Tussauds instead of a lemon-yellow casket. One of the problems Sara had with embalming was the artifice involved; the blush and mascara, the chemicals that pickled the body to keep it from rotting. She did not relish the thought of dying and having someone- worse yet, Dan Brock- shoving cotton into her various orifices so that she wouldn’t leak embalming fluid.