The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  “I can’t imagine growing up without parents. I mean—” She laughed. “After tonight, it seems ideal, but it must’ve been hard for him.”

  “Probably.”

  “Ask him about it.”

  “That would be rude.”

  “Don’t you want to know more about him?”

  “No,” Sara lied, because of course she did. She wanted to know about the scars. She wanted to know how he had entered the system as an infant and never been adopted. She wanted to know how he could stand in a room full of people and still seem completely alone.

  “The kids in my orphanage are so happy,” Tessa said. “They miss their parents—there’s no question about that. But, they get to go to school. They get three meals a day, clean clothes. They don’t have to work. The other kids who still have parents are jealous.” She smoothed out her skirt. “Why don’t you ask Will what it was like for him?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Give Mama another go at him and you’ll find out everything.” Tessa pointed her finger at Sara’s chest. “You have to admit she was at the top of her game tonight.”

  “I don’t have to admit anything.”

  Tessa affected their mother’s soft accent. “Tell me, Mr. Trent, do you prefer boxers or briefs?” Sara laughed, and Tessa continued, “Was your first sexual experience from a missionary position or more of a canine nature?”

  Sara laughed so hard that her stomach ached. She wiped her eyes, thinking this was the first time she was actually happy to be home. “I’ve missed you, Tess.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Sissy.” Tessa struggled to stand. “But right now, I’d better go to the bathroom before I pee in my pants from all this laughing.” She made her way up the stairs, taking them one tread at a time. The door closed softly behind her.

  Sara stared into the basement. Her mother’s rocking chair and lamp were in a corner by a small window. The ironing board was out, ready to be used. Plastic containers along the back wall held all of Sara and Tessa’s childhood mementos, at least the ones that her mother deemed worth keeping. Yearbooks, school photos, report cards, and class papers filled two boxes for each girl. Eventually, Tessa’s baby would get her own box. She would have baby shoes and flyers from school plays and piano recitals. Or soccer trophies, if Tessa got her way.

  Sara couldn’t have children. An ectopic pregnancy while she was in medical school had taken away her ability. She’d been trying to adopt a child with Jeffrey, but that dream had disappeared the day he’d died. He had a son somewhere, a brilliant, strong young man who had never been told that Jeffrey was his real father. Jeffrey was just an honorary uncle, Sara an honorary aunt. She often thought about reaching out to the boy, but the decision was not hers. He had a mother and father who had done a very good job of raising him. Ruining that, telling him he had a father he could never talk to, seemed like an act of cruelty.

  Except where Lena was concerned, Sara had an intense aversion to inflicting cruelty.

  The dryer buzzed. The towels were ready enough, considering she had to walk outside in the pouring rain. She put on her jacket and left the house as quietly as she could. Outside, the rain had turned into a drizzle again. She glanced up at the night sky. Even with the dark clouds, she could see the stars. Sara had forgotten what it was like to be away from the lights of the city. The night was as black as coal. There were no sirens or screams or random gunshots piercing the air. There were only crickets and the occasional howl of a lonely dog.

  Sara stood outside Will’s door, wondering if she should knock. It was late. He might have already gone to sleep.

  He opened the door just as she turned around. Will certainly wasn’t looking at her all googly-eyed, as Tessa had stated. If anything, he seemed distracted.

  “Towels,” she told him. “I’ll just leave them with you.”

  “Wait.”

  Sara held up her hand to keep the rain from pelting her in the eyes. She found herself staring at Will’s mouth, the scar above his lip.

  “Please come in.” He stepped back so she could walk through the door.

  Sara felt an unexplained wariness. Still, she went inside. “I am so sorry about my mother.”

  “She should teach a class on interrogation at the academy.”

  “I cannot apologize enough.”

  He handed her one of the clean towels to wipe her face. “She loves you very much.”

  Sara hadn’t expected his response. She supposed a man who had lost his mother at such a young age had a different perspective on Cathy’s obtrusiveness.

  “Did you ever—” Sara stopped. “Never mind. I should let you get to sleep.”

  “Ever what?”

  “I mean …” Sara felt her cheeks redden again. “Were you in foster homes? Or …”

  He nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “Good ones?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  Sara was thinking about the bruise on his belly—not a bruise at all, but something far more sinister. She had seen her share of electrical burns in the morgue. They left their own distinct mark, like a dusting of gunpowder that got under the skin and never washed away. The dark branding on Will’s body had faded with time. He’d probably been a child when it happened.

  “Dr. Linton?”

  She shook her head by way of apology. Instinctively, her hand went to his arm. “Can I get you anything else? I think there’s some extra blankets in the closet.”

  “I’ve got some questions for you. If you have a few minutes?”

  She had forgotten the reason she’d come up here in the first place. “Of course.”

  He indicated the couch. Sara sank into the old cushion, which nearly swallowed her. She looked around the room, seeing it as Will might. There was nothing fancy about the space. A galley kitchen. A tiny bedroom with an even tinier bathroom. The shag carpet had seen better days. Buckled wood paneling covered every vertical surface. The couch was older than Sara. And it was big enough for two people to comfortably lie down on, which was why Cathy had moved it from the den to the upstairs apartment when Sara turned fifteen. Not that Sara had boys lining up to lie on the couch with her, but Tessa, three years younger, had.

  Will put the towels on the kitchen counter. “Can I get you some water?”

  “No, thank you.” Sara indicated the apartment. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t offer you better accommodations.”

  He smiled. “I’ve stayed in a lot worse.”

  “If it’s any consolation, this is actually nicer than the hotel.”

  “The food’s better anyway.” He gestured toward the opposite end of the couch. There was really nowhere else for him to sit. Still, he asked, “May I?”

  Sara bent her legs up underneath her as he sat on the edge of the cushion. She crossed her arms, suddenly aware that they were alone in the same room together.

  The uncomfortable silence was back. He played with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger. She wondered if he was thinking about his wife. Sara had met the woman once at the hospital. Angie Trent was one of those vivacious, life-of-the-party types who never left the house without her makeup on. Her nails were perfect. Her skirt was tight. Her legs would have given the Pope second thoughts. She was about as different from Sara as a ripe peach was from a Popsicle stick.

  Will clasped his hands together between his knees. “Thank you for dinner. Or, thank your mother. I haven’t eaten like that in …” He chuckled, rubbing his stomach. “Well, I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten like that in my life.”

  “I’m so sorry she questioned you like that.”

  “It’s no bother. I’m sorry for imposing.”

  “It’s my fault for bringing you down here.”

  “I’m sorry the hotel was closed.”

  Sara cut to the chase, afraid they would spend the rest of the night trading inconsequential apologies. “What questions did you have for me?”

  He paused another few seconds, staring openly. “Th
e first one is kind of delicate.”

  She tightened her arms around her waist. “All right.”

  “When Chief Wallace called you earlier today to come help Tommy …” He let his voice trail off. “Do you always keep diazepam on you? That’s Valium, right?”

  Sara couldn’t look him in the eye. She stared down at the coffee table. Will had obviously been working here. His laptop was closed, but the light was pulsing. Cables connected the machine to the portable printer on the floor. An unopened packet of colored folders was beside it. A wooden ruler was on top alongside a pack of colored markers. There was a stapler, paper clips, rubber bands.

  “Dr. Linton?”

  “Will.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Don’t you think it’s time you started calling me Sara?”

  He acquiesced. “Sara.” When she didn’t speak, he pressed. “Do you always have Valium with you?”

  “No,” she admitted. She felt such shame that she could only look at the table in front of her. “They were for me. For this trip. In case …” She shrugged the rest of her answer away. How could she explain to this man why she would need to drug herself through a family holiday?

  He asked, “Did Chief Wallace know that you had the Valium?”

  She tried to think back on their conversation. “No. I volunteered to bring it.”

  “You said you had some in your kit?”

  “I didn’t want to tell him they were for—”

  “It’s all right,” he stopped her. “I’m really sorry that I had to ask such a personal question. I’m just trying to figure out how it happened. Chief Wallace called you to help, but how would he know that you’d be able to?”

  Sara looked up at him. Will stared back, unblinking. There was no judgment in his gaze, no pity. Sara couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her and really seen her. Certainly not since she’d gotten into town this morning.

  She told him, “Frank thought I could talk to Tommy. Talk him down, I guess.”

  “Have you helped prisoners in the jail before?”

  “Not really. I mean, I got called in a couple of times when there was an overdose. Once, someone had a burst appendix. I transferred them all to the hospital. I didn’t really treat them at the jail. Not medically.”

  “And on the phone with Chief Wallace—”

  “I’m sorry,” Sara apologized. “Could you call him Frank? It’s just—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” he assured her. “On the phone before, when you said that you didn’t really remember Tommy Braham, that there was no connection with him. Did you feel like Frank was trying to push you into coming to the station?”

  Sara finally saw where this was going. “You think he called me after the fact. That Tommy was already dead.” She remembered Frank looking through the cell door window. He had dropped his keys on the floor. Had that all been an act?

  “As you know, time of death isn’t an exact science,” Will said. “If he called you right after he found Tommy—”

  “The body was still warm,” she remembered. “But the temperature inside the cells was hot. Frank said the furnace was acting up.”

  “Had you ever known it to act up before?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t stepped foot in that station in over four years.”

  “The temperature was normal when I was there tonight.”

  Sara sat back on the couch. These were people who had worked with Jeffrey. People she had trusted all of her life. If Frank Wallace thought Sara was going to cover something up, he was sadly mistaken. “Do you think they killed him?” She answered her own question. “I saw the blue ink from the pen. I can’t imagine they held Tommy down and scraped it across his wrists. There are easier ways to kill someone and make it look like a suicide.”

  “Hanging,” he suggested. “Eighty percent of custodial suicides are achieved by hanging. Prison inmates are seven times more likely to kill themselves than the general population. Tommy fits just about every part of the profile.” Will listed it out for her. “He was unusually remorseful. He wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t married. He was between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. This was his first offense. He had a strong parent or guardian at home who would be angry or disappointed to learn of his incarceration.”

  She admitted, “Tommy was all of those things. But why would Frank postpone finding the body?”

  “You’re well respected here. A prisoner killed himself in police custody. If you say there’s nothing hinky about it, then people will believe you.”

  Sara couldn’t argue with him. Dan Brock was a mortician, not a doctor. If people got it into their heads that Tommy had been killed at the jail, then Brock would be hard-pressed to disprove the rumor.

  “The cartridge from the pen that Tommy used,” Will began. “Tonight, Officer Knox told me that your husband gave them all pens for Christmas one year. That’s a very thoughtful thing to do.”

  “Not exactly,” Sara said before she could catch herself. “I mean, he was busy, so he asked me to …” She waved her hand, dismissing her words. She had been so annoyed with Jeffrey for asking her to track down the pens, as if her life was less busy than his. She passed this off by telling Will, “I’m sure there are things you ask your wife to do for you when you’re tied up.”

  He smiled. “Do you remember where you got the pens?”

  Sara felt another wave of shame crashing down. “I asked Nelly, my office manager at the clinic, to find them online. I didn’t have time to …” She shook her head, feeling like a heel. “I might be able to find the credit card receipt if it’s important. This was over five years ago.”

  “How many did you get?”

  “Twenty-five, I think? Everyone on the force got one.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. Jeffrey hadn’t given her a budget, and Sara’s idea of an expensive gift had a higher price tag than Jeffrey’s. It all seemed so silly now. Why had they wasted days being angry at each other? Why had it mattered so much?

  Will surprised her, saying, “Your accent is different down here.”

  She laughed, taken off guard. “Do I sound country?”

  “Your mother has a beautiful accent.”

  “Cultured,” Sara said. Except for tonight, she had always loved the sound of her mother’s voice.

  He surprised her again. “You’ve kind of been dragged into the middle of this case, but in a lot of ways, you’ve put yourself there on your own.”

  She felt a blush brought on by his candor.

  His expression was soft, understanding. She wondered if it was genuine or if he was using one of his interviewing techniques. “I know this sounds forward, but I’m assuming you had me meet you at the hospital in plain view of Main Street for a reason.”

  Sara laughed again, this time at herself, the situation. “It wasn’t that calculated. It must seem that way now.”

  “I’m staying at your house. People are going to see my car parked on the street. I know how small towns work. They’re going to think something’s going on between us.”

  “But there’s not. You’re married and I’m—”

  His smile was more of a wince. “The truth isn’t much help in these types of situations. You must know that.”

  Sara looked back at his office supplies. He had separated the rubber bands by color. Even the paper clips were turned in the same direction.

  Will said, “Something is going on here. I’m not sure if it’s what you think, but something’s not right at that station house.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know yet, but you need to prepare yourself for some bad reactions.” He spoke carefully. “Cases like this, where the police get questioned. They don’t like that. Part of the reason they’re good at their jobs is because they think they’re right about everything.”

  “I’m a doctor. Trust me, it’s not just cops who feel that way.”

  “I want you to be pr
epared, because when we get to the end of this, whether I find out Tommy was guilty, or Detective Adams screwed up, or if I find out nothing was wrong at all, people are going to hate you for bringing me down here.”

  “They’ve hated me before.”

  “They’re going to say you’re dragging your husband’s memory through the mud.”

  “They don’t know anything about him. They have no idea.”

  “They’ll fill in the blanks themselves. It’s going to get a lot harder than it is now.” He turned his body toward her. “I’m going to make it harder. I’m going to do some things on purpose to get them mad enough to show their hand. Are you going to be okay with that?”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then I’ll find another way to do it that doesn’t upset you.”

  She could see that his offer was genuine, and felt guilty for questioning his motives before. “This isn’t my home anymore. I’m leaving in three days no matter what happens. Do what you have to do.”

  “And your family?”

  “My family supports me.” Sara wasn’t certain about a lot of things these days, but this, at least, was true. “They may not agree with me, but they support me.”

  “All right.” He looked relieved, as if he’d gotten the hard part out of the way. “I need to get Julie Smith’s phone number from you.”

  Sara had anticipated the request. She took a sheet of folded paper out of her pocket and handed it to Will.

  He pointed to the Princess phone beside the couch. “Is this the same line as the house?”

  She nodded.

  “I wanted to make sure the caller ID was the same.” He picked up the phone and stared at the rotary dial.

  Sara rolled her eyes. “My parents don’t exactly embrace technology.”

  He started spinning the dial, but the rotary slipped out from under his finger in the middle of the number.

  “Let me,” she offered, taking the phone before he could protest. She spun the dial, the motion coming back to her more quickly than she wanted to admit.

  Will put the receiver to his ear just as an automated squawk blared down the line. He held the phone between them so they both could hear the recorded voice advising the caller that the line he was trying to reach had been disconnected.