Karin Slaughter - A Faint Cold Fear

There was a separate stack of black-and-white prints at the bottom of the box. Jeffrey picked these up. The rubber band holding them together was so old it broke off in his hand. The first photo was of a young woman sitting in a rocking chair holding a baby. Her hair was cut into the shape of a football helmet and sprayed to within an inch of its life, the same way Jeffrey’s mother had worn hers when he was in high school.

In other pictures the woman was playing with the child, her hair growing longer in each shot as the boy aged. There were ten pictures in all, stopping around the time the kid was three. Jeffrey stared at the last shot, which showed the woman sitting alone in the rocking chair. She was staring right at the camera, and there was something familiar about the shape of her face and her long eyelashes. Jeffrey turned the last photo over, reading the date, trying to put the pieces together. He stared back at the woman, wondering again why she looked so damn familiar.

He flipped open his phone and dialed Kevin Blake’s office. Candy answered after three rings.

“Hey there, hon,” she said, sounding pleased to hear his voice. “I was just about to call you.”

“Did you track down Monica Patrick?”

“Yep,” she said, not sounding happy about it. “She’s been dead three years now.”

Jeffrey had feared as much. “Thanks for trying.”

“Sure,” she said. “Don’t know what good she would’ve been. I guess you were looking for some kind of scandal?”

“Something like that,” Jeffrey allowed, staring at the photograph as if he could force it to make sense.

“I went through all of that when I screened him,” she said. “Brian’s not exactly Albert Einstein, but he’s one of those workhorse types. Does the jobs nobody else wants to do. Stays until midnight making sure everything’s done. We call it anal retentive now, but back then it just meant you had a work ethic.”

Jeffrey tucked the photographs into his pocket and put the shoe box back where it belonged. “I got the impression from his wife that he’s still like that.”

“Well, she should know,” Candy said. “Though it’s a bit late in the game to start complaining about it.”

Jeffrey closed the closet door, looking around the room. “What do you mean?”

“That’s how they got together,” she told him. “Jill was his secretary back at Jericho.”

“You’re joking?”

“Why would I joke about that?” she asked. “There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary.”

“No, not that,” Jeffrey said. “It’s just that neither of them ever mentioned it.”

“Why would they?” Candy asked, and she had a point. “Didn’t you ever wonder why they have different names?”

“Not really,” he told her, hearing a car door slam in the driveway. He walked into the living room to look out the front window. Brian Keller was leaning into the backseat of a tan Impala. He pulled out a couple of large white boxes, leaning them on his thigh while he shut the car door.

“Chief?”

“I’m here,” Jeffrey told her, trying to pick back up on the conversation. “What were you saying?”

“I’m saying he probably divorced her by now.”

“Divorced who?” Jeffrey asked, watching Keller try to manage the boxes as he walked toward the garage.

“The girl he was married to when he started seeing Jill Rosen,” she told him, then added, “Not that she’s a girl now. Hell, she’s probably in her fifties. I wonder what happened to the son?”

“The son?” Jeffrey repeated, hearing Keller’s footsteps on the stairs. “What son?”

“His son from his first marriage,” she said. “Are you paying attention to me at all?”

“He has a son by his first marriage?” Jeffrey said, taking out the photograph.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you. He just up and left them. Never even mentioned them to Bert. You remember Bert Winger—he was dean before Kevin came along. Not that Bert woulda given two shakes about Brian’s family situation. He had two kids of his own from a previous marriage, and let me tell you, those children were the sweetest little things I ever—”

“I need to go,” Jeffrey said, closing the phone. He finally knew why the kid in the photo looked so familiar.

The old saying was true. A picture really was worth a thousand words—or in this case, a free ride to the police station in the back of a squad car.

Keller walked in the door and startled at the sight of Jeffrey, nearly dropping the boxes. “What are you doing here?”

“Just looking around.”

“I can see that.”

“Where’s your wife?” Jeffrey asked.

Keller’s face paled. He leaned over, dropping the boxes onto the floor with a heavy thud. “She’s at her mother’s.”

“Not that one,” Jeffrey said, holding up the photograph. “Your other one.”

“My other—”

“Your first wife,” Jeffrey clarified, showing him another picture. “The mother of your oldest son.”

16

Lena shuffled into the kitchen, every joint in her body grating like rusted metal. Nan was sitting at the table reading the newspaper while she ate a bowl of cereal.

“Sleep okay?” Nan asked.

Lena nodded, looking around for the coffeemaker. The kettle on the stove was steaming. A cup was on the counter with a tea bag beside it.

“Do you have coffee?” Lena asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“I’ve got instant,” Nan said, “but it’s decaffeinated. I could run up to the store before I go to work.”

“That’s okay,” Lena said, wondering how long it would be before she started to get a caffeine-withdrawal headache.

“You sound better this morning,” Nan said, trying to smile. “Your voice. It’s more like a whisper instead of a croak.”

Lena slumped into a chair, exhaustion pulling at her bones. Nan had taken the couch, leaving the bed to Lena, but Lena had not been able to get comfortable. Nan’s bed was underneath a bank of windows that looked out into the backyard. All of them were at ground level, and none of them had blinds or even curtains. Lena had not been able to close her eyes, afraid that someone would crawl in through the windows and grab her. She had gotten up several times, checking the locks, trying to see if anyone was outside. The backyard was too dark for her to see more than a few feet, and Lena had finally ended up with her back to the door and the gun in her lap.

Lena cleared her throat. “I need to borrow some money.”

“Of course,” Nan told her. “I’ve been trying to give you—”

“Borrow it,” Lena insisted. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Okay,” Nan agreed, standing up to wash her bowl at the sink. “Are you going to take a little time off? You’re welcome to stay here.”

“I need to hire a lawyer for Ethan.”

Nan dropped her bowl in the sink. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“I can’t leave him in jail,” Lena said, knowing that the black gangs would kill Ethan as soon as they saw his tattoos.

Nan sat back down at the table. “I don’t know if I can give you the money for that.”

“I’ll get it from somewhere,” Lena said, though she did not know where.

Nan stared at her, lips slightly parted. She finally nodded. “All right. We’ll go to the bank when I get home from work.”

“Thank you.”

Nan had more to say. “I didn’t call Hank.”

“I don’t want you to,” Lena insisted. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“He’s seen you like this before.”

Lena gave her a warning look, letting Nan know that was not open for discussion.

“All right,” Nan repeated, and Lena wondered if she was saying it more to herself. “So I’ve got to get to work. There’s an extra key by the front door if you go out.”