Karin Slaughter - Fallen

Nothing.

Faith climbed back onto the chair and stretched on tiptoe to reach the top shelf, where she’d stored the box of Jeremy’s childhood memorabilia. It nearly fell on her head. She caught it at the last minute, holding her breath for fear of making too much noise. She sat on the floor with the box between her legs. The cardboard was unsealed. The tape had been peeled off months ago. While she was pregnant with Emma, Faith had been obsessed with going through Jeremy’s childhood keepsakes. It was a good thing she lived alone or someone would’ve seriously questioned her emotional stability. Just the sight of his bronzed shoes and little knitted booties had turned her into a weeping mess. His report cards. His school papers. Mother’s Day cards he’d drawn in crayon. Valentines he’d cut with his tiny blunted scissors.

Her eyes stung as she opened the box.

A lock of Jeremy’s hair rested on top of his twelfth-grade report card. The blue ribbon looked different. She held it up to the light. Time had faded the pastel-colored silk, giving the creases a dingy cast. The hair had darkened to a golden brown. Something felt different. She couldn’t tell whether or not the bow had been retied or if it had come loose in the box. She also couldn’t remember whether she’d stacked his report cards first grade to twelfth or the other way around. It seemed counterintuitive that the last was first, especially since the lock of hair was on top. Or maybe she was just talking herself into a frenzy when nothing was wrong.

Faith lifted up the stack of report cards and looked underneath. His papers were still there. She saw the bronze shoes, the booties, the construction paper greeting cards he’d made in school.

Everything seemed accounted for, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that the box had been tampered with. Had someone else gone through Jeremy’s things? Had they seen the hearts he’d drawn on a picture of Mr. Billingham, his first dog? Had they rifled through his report cards and laughed because Mrs. Thompson, his fourth-grade teacher, had called him a little angel?

Faith closed the box. She hefted it up over her head and slid it onto the shelf. By the time she shoved the chair back in place, she was shaking with fury at the thought of some stranger’s grimy hands on her boy’s things.

She went to Emma’s room next. The baby didn’t normally sleep through the night, but yesterday had been unusually long and tumultuous. She was still asleep when Faith checked the crib. Her throat made a clicking noise as she breathed. Faith laid a hand on her chest. Emma’s heart felt like a bird trapped under Faith’s hand. Quietly, she searched the closet, the small box of toys, the diapers and supplies.

Nothing.

Jeremy was still asleep, but Faith went into his room anyway. She picked up his clothes from the floor to give some pretense of belonging. Part of her just wanted to stand there and stare at him. He was in what she thought of as his John Travolta pose, sprawled on his stomach, right foot hanging off the bed, left arm sticking straight out above his head. His thin shoulder blades stuck out like chicken wings. His hair covered most of his face. There was a spot of saliva on his pillow. He still slept with his mouth open.

His room had been spotless yesterday, but his mere presence had altered everything. Papers covered the desk. His backpack spilled onto the floor. Wires from various pieces of computer equipment were draped across the carpet. His laptop, which she had saved for six months to buy, was open on its side like a discarded book. Faith used her foot to tip it right side up before leaving the room. Then, she went back in one more time, but only to pull the sheet up over his shoulders so that he wouldn’t get cold.

Faith threw Jeremy’s clothes on top of the washer and made her way downstairs. Detective Connor was sitting in his usual chair at the kitchen table. His shirt was different from yesterday, and his shoulder holster wasn’t as tight around his chest. His red hair was tousled, probably from sleeping with his head on the table. She had started thinking of him as “Ginger” and was afraid to open her mouth for fear of the name slipping out.

He said, “Good morning, Agent Mitchell.”

“My brother’s out running?”

He nodded. “Detective Taylor went to get breakfast. I hope you like McDonald’s.”

The thought of food was enough to make Faith feel sick again, but she said, “Thank you.”

Half the refrigerator’s contents were gone, though that was probably down to Jeremy and Zeke, both of whom ate like eighteen-year-old boys. She took out the orange juice. The carton was empty. Neither her son nor her brother liked orange juice.

She asked Ginger, “Did you guys have some juice?”

“No, ma’am.”

Faith shook the carton. It was still empty. She didn’t think Ginger would lie about something like that. She had offered both detectives anything in the kitchen. Judging by her depleted stash of Diet Rite sodas, they had taken her up on the offer.

The phone rang. Faith checked the clock on the stove. It was exactly seven in the morning. “This will probably be my boss,” she told Ginger. Still, he waited until she had answered the phone.

Amanda said, “No news.”

Faith waved away the detective. “Where are you?”

She didn’t answer the question. “How’s Jeremy holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.” Faith didn’t offer more. She checked to make sure Ginger was in the living room, then opened the silverware drawer. The spoons were turned in the wrong direction, the flat handles to the right rather than the left. The forks were upside down. The tines pointed toward the front of the drawer instead of the back. Faith blinked, not sure about what she was seeing.

Amanda said, “You know about Boyd?”

“Will told me last night. I’m sorry. I know he did some bad things, but he was …”

Amanda didn’t make her finish the sentence. “Yes, he was.”

Faith opened the junk drawer. All the pens were gone. She kept them bundled together with a red rubber band, tucked in the bottom right-hand corner. They were always in this drawer. She rifled through the coupons, scissors, and unidentified spare keys. No pens. “Did you know that Zeke was stateside?”

“Your mother was trying to protect you.”

Faith opened the other junk drawer. “Apparently, she tried to protect me from a lot of things.” She reached into the back and found the pens. The rubber band was yellow. Had she changed it out? Faith had a vague recollection of the band breaking a while back, but she would’ve sworn on a stack of Bibles that she’d used the red rubber band from the broccoli she’d bought at the store that same day.

“Faith?” Amanda’s tone was terse. “What’s going on with you? Has something happened?”

“I’m fine. It’s just …” She tried to think of an excuse. She was really doing this—she was locked into not telling Amanda that the kidnappers had been in touch. That they had left something of Evelyn’s under Faith’s pillow. That they knew far too much about Jeremy. That they had messed with her silverware. “It’s early. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“You need to take care of yourself. Eat the right foods. Sleep as much as you can. Drink lots of water. I know it’s hard, but you have to keep up your strength right now.”

Faith felt her temper flare. She didn’t know if she was talking to her boss or to Aunt Mandy right now, but either one of them could kiss her ass. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“I’m very glad to hear you think that, but from where I’m standing, it’s not the case.”

“Did she do something, Mandy? Is Mom in trouble because—”

“Do you need me to come by the house?”