Karin Slaughter - Fallen

Their loved one who had killed a man in cold blood and punched Sara so violently that the breath had gone out of her body. She felt the bruise on her chest start to throb at the memory. She had a mother, too—a sister, a father—all of whom would be horrified if they heard what had happened to Sara today.

Amanda asked, “Dr. Linton?”

“Sorry.” In the time it took to walk over to the box of gloves and put on a fresh pair, she had managed to pull herself back together. She ignored Will’s look of concern and pressed her fingers into the dead man’s belly. “I don’t feel anything unusual. The organs are in their proper position and are normal size. No swelling or compaction in the bowel or stomach.” She snapped off the gloves and threw them into the trash. The water in the sink was cold, but Sara washed her hands anyway. “I can’t send him to X-ray because they’ll need a patient ID, and frankly, I’m not going to make a living person wait to satisfy a curiosity. The ME’s office will have to give you a definitive answer.” She squirted antibacterial gel into her palm, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Amanda said. “Thank you, Dr. Linton.”

Sara didn’t acknowledge the answer. She ignored Will. She ignored the two bodies. She kept her eyes on the door until she had passed through it. In the hallway, she concentrated on the elevator, the button she would press, the numbers that would light up over the door. She only wanted to think about the steps ahead, not the ones behind her. She had to get out of this place, to get home and wrap herself in a blanket on the couch and pull the dogs around her and forget this miserable day.

There were footsteps behind her. Will was running again. He caught up with her quickly. She turned around. He stopped a few feet away.

He said, “Amanda’s putting out an APB on the tattoo.”

Why was he just standing there? Why did he keep rushing up to her and doing absolutely nothing?

He said, “Maybe we’ll find—”

“I really don’t care.”

He stared at her. His hands were in his pockets. The sleeve of his jacket was tight around his upper arm. There was a small tear in the material.

Sara leaned her shoulder against the wall. She hadn’t noticed before, but there was a fresh cut at the top of his earlobe. She wanted to ask him about it, but he would probably tell her that he’d cut himself shaving. Maybe she didn’t want to know what had happened. The Polaroid of his damaged mouth still burned in her memory. What else had they done to him? What else had he done to himself?

Will said, “Why is it that none of the women in my life call me when they need help?”

“Doesn’t Angie call you?”

He looked down at the floor, the space between them.

She said, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s been a really long day.”

Will didn’t look up. Instead, he took her hand. His fingers laced through hers. His skin was warm, almost hot. He traced his thumb along the inside of her palm, the webbing between her fingers. Sara closed her eyes as he slowly explored every inch of her hand, caressing the lines and indentations, pressing his thumb gently against the pulse beating in her wrist. His touch was palliative. She felt her body starting to relax. Her breathing took on an easy cadence that matched his.

The doors to the morgue swished open. Sara yanked away her hand at the same time as Will. Neither of them looked at each other. They were like two kids caught in the back of a parked car.

Amanda held her cell phone in the air, triumphant. “Roger Ling wants to talk.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FAITH FELT AS CLOSE TO A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN AS SHE’D ever been in her life. Her teeth kept chattering despite the sweat dripping down her body. She’d thrown up her breakfast and had to force down lunch. Her head ached so badly that it hurt to even close her eyes. Her blood sugar levels were just as fragile. She’d had to call her doctor’s office to find out what to do. They had threatened to put her in the hospital if she didn’t get her numbers under control. Faith had promised to report back, then she’d gone into the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it, and sobbed for half an hour.

The same series of thoughts kept running through her mind like tires wearing a groove in a gravel road. They had been in her house. They had touched her things. Touched Jeremy’s things. They knew when he was born. They knew his schools. They knew his likes and dislikes. They had planned this—all of it, down to the last detail.

The threat was like a death sentence. Mouth shut. Eyes open. Faith didn’t think her eyes could open any wider or her mouth could close any tighter. She’d searched the house twice. She was constantly checking her phone, her email, Jeremy’s Facebook page. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. She had been trapped in the house like a caged animal for nearly ten hours.

And still nothing.

“Hey, Mom?” Jeremy came into the kitchen. Faith was sitting at the table, staring at the backyard, where Detective Taylor and Ginger were talking earnestly to the ground. She could tell from their bored demeanors that they were just waiting for the word from their boss so they could get back to their real jobs. As far as they were concerned, this case had come to a screeching halt. Too many hours had passed. No one had made contact. She could read the truth in their eyes. They honestly believed that Evelyn Mitchell was dead.

“Mom?”

Faith rubbed Jeremy’s arm. “What is it? Is Emma up?” The baby had slept too long last night. She was fussy and irritable, and had screamed for nearly a full hour before finally relenting to her afternoon nap.

“She’s fine,” Jeremy answered. “I was gonna go for a walk. Get out of the house for a minute. Take some fresh air.”

“No,” she told him. “I don’t want you leaving the house.”

His expression told her how hard her voice was.

She squeezed his arm. “I want you to stay here, all right?”

“I’m tired of being cooped up inside.”

“So am I, but I want you to promise me you won’t leave the house.” She played at his emotions. “I’ve already got Grandma to worry about. Don’t make me add you to my list.”

His reluctance was obvious, but he told her, “All right.”

“Just do something with your uncle Zeke. Play cards or something.”

“He pouts when he loses.”

“So do you.” Faith shooed him out of the kitchen. She charted his path through the house and up to his room by the familiar squeaks in the floorboards and on the stairs. She should put Zeke to work on her list of handyman repairs. Of course, that would involve actually talking to him, and Faith was doing her best to avoid her brother. Miraculously, he seemed to be doing the same. He’d been in the garage for the last three hours, working on his laptop.

Faith pushed herself up from the table and started pacing in hopes that she could work out some of her nervous energy. That didn’t last long. She leaned over the table and tapped the keyboard on her laptop to wake it up. She moused up to reload Jeremy’s Facebook page. The rainbow wheel started to spin. Jeremy was probably playing some game upstairs that was slowing down the wireless network.

The phone rang. Faith jumped. She startled any time there was an unexpected noise. She was as nervous as a cat. The back door slid open. Ginger waited while she took the receiver off the hook. She could tell from his tired expression that he felt this was not only perfunctory, but beneath his talents.

She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Faith.”

It was Victor Martinez. She waved away Ginger. “Hey.”

“Hi.”