The Silent Wife: From the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author comes a gripping new crime thriller (Will Trent Series, Book 10)

by Karin Slaughter

  Faith could tell this was a game he’d played before. You could not guess what was worse than losing someone you loved. You could only pray that it would never happen to you.

  Caterino said, “What about you, Special Agent Will Trent? What’s worse? What’s the worst thing that the two of you could do to me right now?”

  Will didn’t hesitate. “We could give you hope.”

  He looked sucker-punched. His eyes began to water. He nodded once. He looked back at the pool.

  Will said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Caterino. We’re not here to give you hope.”

  His throat worked again. Faith realized that what she had taken for anger could actually be Gerald Caterino’s way of coping with fear. He had spent years trying to avenge his daughter. He was terrified that he would spend another five, ten, thirty years without finding closure.

  Will asked, “Can you tell us why you mailed those articles to Daryl Nesbitt?”

  Caterino shook his head. “That sneaky piece of shit is so crooked that he should’ve joined the police force.”

  Will asked, “Why those articles in particular?”

  Caterino looked up at Will. “What does it matter?”

  Will said, “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Caterino. We’re investigating the deaths from the articles.”

  “Investigating?” He laughed, disbelieving. “Do you know how much money I’ve wasted on private investigators? Plane tickets and train tickets and hotel rooms to talk to other parents? Criminal psychologists and retired police officers and even a damn psychic, all because you self-serving, lazy-ass scumbags can’t do your jobs right in the first place.”

  Faith wasn’t going to give him an opening to launch a screed against the police. “I’m sure you’re aware that Alexandra McAllister’s body was found yesterday morning in the woods.”

  He defensively shrugged a shoulder. “News said it was accidental.”

  Faith waited for Will’s silent okay before saying, “We haven’t released this information yet, but McAllister’s death has been ruled a homicide.”

  Caterino’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He wasn’t used to hearing things that he wanted to hear. “Why?”

  “The medical examiner found a puncture wound in the back of her neck.”

  Caterino stood up slowly. His mouth opened, but he offered no words. He looked stunned, disbelieving, confused.

  Faith said, “Mr. Caterino?”

  “Was it—” He covered his mouth with his hand. Beads of sweat dotted his bald head. “Was the puncture at C5?”

  Will said, “Yes.”

  Without another word, Gerald Caterino ran into the house.

  Faith watched him jog down a long hallway. Then he turned right.

  Then he was gone.

  Will said, “Huh.”

  Faith mentally ran through the conversation. “He warned us not to give him hope.”

  “Then we gave him hope.”

  She felt an unwelcome shiver down her spine. She told herself Caterino had urgently needed the bathroom. Then she told herself he was going to get a gun. The website rants and doctored photos were still fucking with her. A lot of people talked about killing the police. There were even songs about it. Only a very small number were willing to act on the threat. Telling the difference between the two was easy. The first group did nothing. The second group pointed a gun at your head and pulled the trigger.

  Faith looked at Will to check her crazy.

  He asked, “Homicide or suicide?”

  So, crazy confirmed. “Heath is in the house. Probably Beckey, too.”

  “I’m with you.”

  Faith walked into the house. The kitchen was filled with light. And very familiar. She could see child locks on all the cabinets and drawers. The outlets were covered. The hard edges had foam padding. At six, Heath was too old for babyproofing measures. This must have been for Caterino’s twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Beckey.

  Faith turned to find Will. He was looking at a security camera mounted on the shelf between stacks of cookbooks. He raised up on his toes to see the tops of the cabinets. He made a hand gesture, thumb cocked, finger extended, to indicate a gun.

  “Hey there, y’all.” A woman wearing a nurse’s uniform came into the kitchen. An empty sippy cup swung from her hand. “Are you visiting Gerald? That fool just ran up the stairs.”

  Faith felt her anxiety ease down a notch. Another person. A witness. She did the proper introductions, showing her ID. The woman didn’t seem puzzled or alarmed to find two special agents in the kitchen.

  “I’m Lashanda.” She rinsed the cup at the sink. “I look after Beckey during the day.”

  Faith figured she should take advantage of the opportunity. “How’s she doing?”

  “Today is good.” Lashanda smiled brightly. “She struggles with depression. That’s the brain injury. Sometimes she acts out. But today is a good day.”

  Heath skipped into the room before Faith could ask what a bad day looked like. He grinned like a jack-o’-lantern.

  “Here!” Heath showed Will a drawing that was a very impressive tyrannosaur for a six-year-old.

  Will studied the artwork. “This is incredible, buddy. Did you do this all by yourself?”

  Heath turned shy, hiding behind Lashanda’s leg.

  “He’s adorable,” Faith told the woman. “How old is he?”

  “Six, but he’ll be seven in two months. Sweet lamb is a Christmas baby.”

  “You are a big boy for six years old.” Faith leaned down to Heath’s level. “I bet you know how to add. What’s two plus two?”

  “Four!” Heath’s grin was back. One of his permanent front teeth was growing in crookedly.

  She asked, “Which hand do you write with?”

  “Right!” He shook his right hand in the air.

  “Did you tie your own shoes today?”

  “Yes!” He threw his arms up like Superman. “And I made my bed, and I brushed my teeth, even the loose one, and I—”

  “All right, little man, they don’t want to hear about every part of your day.” Lashanda ruffled his hair. “Why don’t y’all come through to the den? There’s no telling how long Gerald will be gone.”

  Faith was happy to follow her through. She was still very uneasy about Caterino’s abrupt disappearance. Without the deranged online stuff, she would’ve called him strange. But then there was the deranged online stuff.

  “Through here.” Lashanda took them down the long hallway. They passed the formal dining room. Textbooks were spread across the table.

  Faith asked, “Homework?”

  “Heath’s homeschooled. His teacher just left.”

  Faith knew that there were plenty of good, legitimate reasons to homeschool a kid, but during the course of her career, she had only ever dealt with the whackjobs who wanted to keep their children out of public schools for fear that they would be taught controversial topics, like that incest was wrong and slavery was bad.

  There were no giant swastikas on the walls. She saw framed prints and photographs of Beckey at various stages of life. Faith recognized the typical school photos with apples and stacks of books and spinning globes. Beckey had been a runner. In one picture, she stood with a group of girls in track uniforms. In another, she broke through the tape at the finish line.

  The photos ended abruptly after high school. Faith realized there were no pictures of Heath, not even snapshots. Gerald had mentioned him in his website bio, but there were no images online, either.

  She glanced up as they walked into the den. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high. A balcony bowed out from the loft space on the second floor. An elevator had been retrofitted to provide access to both levels.

  Faith checked her watch again. Gerald Caterino had been gone for four minutes. She turned to catch Will’s eye. He was looking up at the loft, clearly making a tactical assessment. Faith was glad to see she wasn’t the only suspicious nut in the room.

  “Miss Beckey,” Lashanda said
. “Look here. Your daddy has some visitors.”

  Beckey Caterino’s wheelchair was facing a set of large windows overlooking the backyard. There was a garden with flowers and concrete yard animals and a fountain that had clearly been created for her enjoyment. Faith saw a ruby-throated hummingbird at the feeder.

  “Beckey?” Lashanda repeated.

  The girl’s hands worked as she turned the chair. She had a hairbrush in her lap. Her housedress was pink. Her pastel blue socks were covered in pink bunny rabbits.

  “Hell-o.” Beckey smiled with half of her mouth. One eye focused on Faith. The other appeared vacant. Faith recognized the facial paralysis from her grandmother, who’d had a series of strokes before she’d died. This young woman was a few decades too soon for that.

  “Let me get this for you.” Lashanda wiped Beckey’s mouth with a tissue. Faith saw a faded T-shaped scar that crossed her throat and ran down her sternum. “This is Ms. Mitchell and Mr. Trent.”

  “Nice to—” Beckey swallowed before she could push out the rest of the sentence. “Meet you.”

  “You, too, Beckey.” Faith tried to keep her tone level, because her inclination was to talk to this grown woman like she was a child. There was something so innocent about her. She was very thin. Her movements were awkward as she picked up the brush with both hands. She’d clearly just had a shower. Her hair was damp. She was wearing what looked like fresh clothes.

  Heath climbed into his sister’s lap. He leaned his head against her chest. Faith remembered how sweet Jeremy had been at that age. Her adorable little boy had been on the precipice of transforming into the Marquis de Sade of why?

  “Here.” Beckey held out the brush to Lashanda, “Braid.”

  “Sweet girl, you know I don’t know how to do that.” Lashanda told Faith, “She wants her hair braided like Elsa. I watched a YouTube video but it did not go well.”

  Will cleared his throat. He asked Beckey, “I can do it if you want?”

  She smiled, offering him the brush.

  “Mind if I turn your chair?”

  She nodded, her smile brightening.

  Will turned Beckey so that she was facing back into the room. Coincidentally, this also gave him a better view of the loft area. He gently brushed out her long hair. Heath was watching, so he explained, “You start with three separate strands.”

  Will made quick work of the braid. Faith realized that Sara wore her hair the same way on the weekends. There was an alternate Faith who could’ve ended up with Will if she hadn’t been perpetually drawn to feckless, fertile jackasses. All she could hope for now was a man who remembered to drink water.

  “Hold on,” Lashanda said. “Let me get something to tie that off with.”

  Will pinched the end of the braid while she searched the desk. He winked at Heath.

  “Up here.” Gerald’s head peered over the balcony. “I’m ready for you. Don’t let anyone else follow you.”

  He disappeared again.

  Will passed the ends of the braid to Lashanda, who answered his questioning look with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “That’s just Gerald,” she said. “He’s got his own way of doing things.”

  Will did not let Faith go up the stairs ahead of him. He waited until they were on the landing to adjust his jacket. He kept his Glock in a side holster. Because Faith had assumed she would be working in a prison all day, she had put her revolver inside a Crown Royal bag inside of her purse. In the interest of being overly cautious, she unzipped her purse. She made sure the string was loose around the top of the bag.

  She was reminded of her patrol days. Traffic tickets. Grand theft. Domestic violence. They had all been routine until they weren’t because people were people and you never knew what they were really thinking until they showed you.

  Will had spotted another camera mounted at the top of the stairs. Faith’s paranoia ramped up again. Gerald could be watching their approach. He hated cops. He was nursing a grudge. He had thus far proven to be unpredictable.

  They took a left down the hallway. Will stopped. He knelt down on the floor. He picked up a tuft of pink fuzz. Insulation. He pointed up at the ceiling. The attic stairs had recently been pulled down.

  He told Faith, “I’m not liking any of this.”

  Faith didn’t like it, either. She called out, “Mr. Caterino?”

  “In the bedroom,” Gerald said. “Make sure you’re alone.”

  His voice had come from the opposite side of the loft, down what felt like a two-hundred-yard-long hallway.

  He’d run off twice already. He had a gun downstairs. He probably had one upstairs. He had recently been in the attic. He kept telling them to come alone.

  Faith followed Will toward the bedroom. Both of their heads swiveled with each door they passed. Hall bathroom. Laundry room. Heath had decorated his walls with dinosaurs and Toy Story characters. Beckey’s space was filled with medical equipment, a hospital bed and a transfer hoist. The spare bedroom opposite must have been for the night nurse. Faith wondered how much money all of this cost. Beckey would’ve qualified for disability, but that was like saying a sucking chest wound qualified for an ACE bandage.

  They had reached the loft. Toys were scattered around a television. Faith recognized the game console as a newer version of the one she had at home. To get to the last stretch of hallway, she had to step over a plastic cord cover that was approximately the size of a speed bump. There were no cords inside. The barrier was meant to stop Beckey’s chair.

  “Fuck,” Will muttered.

  Faith looked past him into the bedroom. No lights were on. The windows were blocked by Ikea-looking cubicles packed with folded clothes. Slashes of sunlight cut around the shelving units.

  Will took six long steps and entered the room. Faith stayed in the hall. She watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. The Olaf bandage flapped back. He’d sweated through the adhesive. “Mr. Caterino, is that a gun by your bed?”

  Gerald said, “Oh, yeah, I’ll—”

  “I’ll get it.” Will left her sightline.

  Faith’s revolver was out of the bag, in her hand, and ready to go. She was about to swing into the room when Will reappeared in the doorway.

  He had a Browning Hi-Power 9mm in his hands. Faith wasn’t up on weaponry the same way that Will was, but she knew the pistol had a tricky magazine disconnect. Either Gerald Caterino knew his way around a firearm or someone had sold him more gun than he needed.

  Will dropped the magazine. He switched on the overhead lights.

  Faith put her revolver back in her purse, but she kept her hand inside. She visually swept the room as she crossed the threshold. Windows clear. Doorways clear. Hands clear. This was obviously where Gerald slept. The decorations were non-existent. Unmade king-sized bed, mismatched night tables, a television on the wall, the Ikea cubicles, a master bath through one door. The door to what she assumed was a walk-in closet was shut. A key stuck out of the deadbolt lock.

  Gerald told Faith, “Close the door.”

  Faith pushed the door just shy of closing.

  Gerald said, “I don’t like to talk about this in front of Heath. And I’m not sure what Beckey knows or what she can retain. She doesn’t remember the attack, but I worry about her hearing things. Or seeing this.”

  He turned the key and pushed open the door.

  Faith felt her jaw drop.

  The walls of the walk-in closet were lined with newspaper articles, printed pages, photographs, diagrams, notations. Colored thumbtacks held everything in place. Red, blue, green and yellow string connected various pieces. File boxes were stacked floor to ceiling along the back. He had turned his closet into a major incident room, and he was terrified that his children would find it.

  Faith’s heart broke for the father. Every single sheet of paper, every thumbtack, every string, was a symbol of his torment.

  Gerald said, “I keep the key to the closet hidden in the attic. Heath likes to play with my key ring. He a
lmost got in here once. I trust Lashanda, but she can get distracted. If Heath ever saw this—I don’t want him to know. Not until he’s ready. Please, let me show you.”

  Faith closed and locked the bedroom door. She took out her phone as she followed Will into the closet. She turned on the video. For the benefit of the recording, she asked, “Mr. Caterino, is it okay if I document this with my phone?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Gerald started pointing, first at the photographs. “I took these the first day Beckey was in the hospital, about twelve hours after she was attacked. This incision here is from the tracheostomy. This is where her sternum was broken to save her life.” His finger moved down. “These are her X-rays. You can see the skull fracture very clearly in this one. Look at the shape of it.”

  Faith zoomed in on the X-ray, which was pinned beside an older-looking crime scene photo. “Did you get copies of your daughter’s case files from Brad Stephens?”

  Gerald’s mouth opened, then closed. “I got them. That’s all that matters.”

  Faith let it go. He’d saved her some time, at least. She zoomed in on the witness statements, investigation notes, coroner’s reports, resuscitation notes, scene of crime diagrams.

  Will had his hands in his pockets. He was leaning forward, looking at a photograph of a young woman standing near the Golden Gate Bridge. He asked, “Is this Leslie Truong?”

  “I was refused access to her file because it’s still technically an open case,” Gerald said. “Her mother, Bonita, gave me that picture. We used to talk all the time. Not so much anymore. After a certain point, it just eats you up, you know? Your life gets …”

  He didn’t have to finish the thought. The walls told the story of his life after Beckey’s attack.

  Faith turned, working in a grid to slowly video the wall behind her. Gerald had printed out pages and pages from the internet. She saw Facebook posts, Tweets, emails. She zoomed in close to make sure she got the senders. Most of the emails were from dmasterson@Love2CMurder.

  She asked Gerald, “Did you get access to any of the case files from the newspaper articles?”

  “I filed requests through the Freedom of Information Act, but there was nothing in the files, barely more than a few pages on each woman.” He pointed to the corresponding section of wall. “All of them were classified as accidents, the same way Beckey’s would’ve been if she hadn’t lived. Not that her life was what it was before. Not that it ever will be again.”