“Grand Theft Auto on the couch,” Tessa said. “That’s very specific.”
Sara admitted, “I looked through Faith’s living room window.”
“Back of the house or front of the house?”
“Back.”
“When did you put it together that she’s a cop who carries a gun and you were technically trespassing in the middle of the night?”
“When I tripped over the plastic cover to Emma’s sandbox and fell flat on my face.”
Tessa laughed.
Sara let her.
“Oh, Sissy,” Tessa said. “He’s really got you.”
“He does.” Sara could barely get out the worst part. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You’re just going to have to wait it out,” Tessa said. “Time is the best tincture.”
Another piece of advice from their mother.
Tessa added, “Or, you could buy something from Ikea and pretend like you don’t know how to put it together.”
“I don’t think that’s going to work.” Sara looked for the exit signs. She had another ten minutes. “He’s really hurt. And he has a right to be.”
“You can’t make it better with a hand job?”
“No.”
“Blow job?”
“If only.”
“Rim job?”
“How was your interview with the midwife this morning?”
“Meh,” Tessa said. “She made exactly one interesting observation. I was telling her about my know-it-all big sister the fancy doctor, and she reminded me that amateurs built the Ark, but engineers built the Titanic.”
“You know the Ark is about genocide, right?” Sara merged into the next lane so that a semi could pass. “Noah and a handful of his pals got to live while the rest of the world’s population was wiped off the face of the earth.”
“The story is a metaphor.”
“For genocide.”
“Your pass has expired,” Tessa said. “I’ll inform our mother of your request.”
The call disconnected.
Sara reached into her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose. A quick glance in the rearview mirror told her that her waterproof mascara was not living up to its promise. She still felt shaky and anxious. Telling her sister all of the insane things she had done the night before had only made her feel more insane. Sara had never in her existence let a man get to her this way. Even when she was certain Jeffrey was cheating, it was Tessa who had taped together shredded hotel receipts and followed him around town like a demented Nancy Drew so that Sara could take the high road.
She was so far off that road right now that she might as well be at the bottom of the ocean.
The speedometer had somehow inched up to ninety. Sara backed off, slipping into the slow lane. She coasted behind a pick-up truck with a faded NO MALARKEY! sticker on the bumper. Her mind traced over the well-worn lines of recrimination from the last twenty-four hours. Beckey Caterino. Tommi Humphrey. Jeffrey. Will. She added Tessa to the list, because she wasn’t being fair to her baby sister. Tessa was a grown woman, a mother, a soon-to-be divorcee. She was clearly going through a life crisis. Instead of teasing her, Sara should be holding her up.
Another relationship she had to fix.
Brock’s exit came up sooner than Sara had anticipated. An angry woman in a Mercedes treated Sara to a one-finger salute as she swerved around the Porsche. Sara took a right onto the main road. Fast-food restaurants littered the strip. She was in an industrial area filled with warehouses, car dealerships and auto-parts stores.
Over the years, Sara had met Brock at work half a dozen times, but not recently enough to remember the exact location. She used the Porsche’s voice control to access the street number from her address book. According to the GPS, AllCare AfterLife Services was one mile away.
Brock’s employer was much smaller in scope than Dunedin Life Services Group, the conglomerate that owned the Ingle Funeral Home of Sautee. Sara knew that AllCare had headhunted Brock, adding a hefty bonus to the sale of the Brock Family Funeral Home in order to entice him to work for the company. His division handled the behind-the-scenes details that most mourners assumed took place in the basement of their local funeral parlor.
Georgia’s population was around 10.5 million. Roughly 60,000 people died every year. Large corporations were all about the economy of scale. In the funeral business, this meant that the bodies were transported to warehouses full of undertakers who washed, embalmed, dressed and casketed the dead before sending them back to the local homes for services. There was a lot of money to be had in streamlining a process that very few people ever thought about until they were forced to.
Sara recognized the nondescript building from before. The AllCare sign was tucked away under a large canopy, probably to discourage the general public from sussing out what took place inside. Sara pulled into a visitor parking space. She realized twenty minutes too late that she should’ve called Brock ahead of time. He was always so accommodating that sometimes she had to remind herself to not take advantage of him.
Too late now.
She tucked her phone into the front pocket of her purse, taking it as a small victory that she didn’t check to see if Will had turned his phone back on or by some miracle sent her a text.
The AllCare warehouse was as deep as it was wide, approximately the shape and size of a football field. The parking lot was filled with high-end cars. The day was ramping up. A line of mortuary vans idled, waiting to drop off or pick up bodies. Sara counted six semi-trucks pulled up to six loading docks. Two belonged to a local casket maker, another to a funeral supply house, and the remaining three to UPS.
The three drivers were carting dollies full of boxed caskets into the warehouse. By federal law, funeral homes were required to accept caskets purchased online. As with any consumer good, Costco, Walmart and Amazon had a big chunk of the market. The savings could be significant, much to the chagrin of companies like AllCare. The only thing that could take down a large corporation was another large corporation.
Sara’s phone beeped with a text. She expected Amanda and hoped for Will, but got her sister instead.
Tessa: You’re an asshole.
Sara wrote back: My sister is one, too.
Since she had her phone in her hand, Sara checked the Find My app. Will’s location was still frozen at Lena’s. She carefully placed her phone back in her purse as she walked up the concrete stairs to the entrance.
“Good morning.” The AllCare receptionist smiled as Sara entered the lobby. “How can I help you?”
“Good morning.” Sara placed her business card on the counter. “I’m looking for Dan Brock.”
“Brock just got back from a meeting.” The smile had brightened at his name. “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Sara was too antsy to sit. She paced around the small lobby as she waited for Brock. The warehouse did not serve the general public. The posters on the walls were geared toward the industry: pre-need funeral contracts, Treasured Tributes burial containers, an advertisement for a seminar on applying shadows to facial features. Someone had placed a sticker above the front door—
Drive Slow! We Don’t Need the Business!
“Sara?” Brock was grinning when she turned around. “What on earth?”
Before she could answer, he threw his arms around her in a bear hug. He smelled of embalming fluid and Old Spice, the same two scents she had associated with him since the age of ten.
He said, “My goodness, you look all done up. Were you on your way to a party?”
Sara smiled. “I’m here on business. I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead.”
“I’m always here for you, Sara. You know that.” He waited for the receptionist to buzz open the door. “Let’s go back.”
Brock’s office overlooked the embalming area, which put him at the back end of the building. He caught Sara up on gossip as he led her down a long corridor, past several closed doors and a large employee b
reakroom. His mother’s asthma was acting up again, but she seemed content with the retirement home. He’d heard the pastor of the Heartsdale Methodist church had left under a cloud of suspicion. He was trying a new dating app for singles in the funeral business called Lucky Stiffs.
Sara asked, “It didn’t work out with Liz?”
He winced. Brock’s dating life had never been easy. He changed the subject, asking, “How’s your mama and them?”
“Will is doing great,” Sara said, engaging in a bit of wish fulfillment. “Daddy is semi-retired. Mama is still running around like crazy. Tessa is thinking about becoming a midwife.”
Brock stopped at the door to the warehouse. “Well, that’s wonderful news. She’s such a loving person. I think she’d be a terrific midwife.”
Sara felt guilty that she hadn’t reacted the same way when Tessa had mentioned her plans. “It’s a lot to learn.”
“Anybody can memorize a textbook. Look at me. You can’t learn compassion, can you? It’s either there or it’s not.”
“You’re right.”
Brock laughed. “You’re the only woman in my life who ever tells me those words. Come through.”
He opened the door to the main part of the warehouse. The pungent stench of formaldehyde hit Sara like a rock to the face. The chemical was the main ingredient in embalming fluid. She counted at least thirty embalmers leaning over thirty bodies. Most of the workers were women and all of them were white. The funeral business was notoriously segregated.
Sara stepped over a long hose snaking across the floor. A sucking sound came from the drains. Thirty pumps chugged as they forced fluid into thirty carotid arteries and blood out of thirty jugulars. The final handling took place at the loading docks. Caskets were either loaded into waiting mortuary vans or boxed for shipment.
Brock said, “I just came from a meeting about Honey Creek Woodlands. They’re really taking a bite out of us.”
Sara had read about the green burial movement. Looking around the warehouse, she understood why people were opting to forgo embalming and choosing to place their loved ones in a more natural setting. She said, “There’s something to be said for ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
“That’s blasphemy in this building.” Brock laughed good-naturedly. “Thank goodness for Macon-Bibb County. They passed an ordinance requiring leak-proof containers for every burial. We’re hoping we can get legislation passed on the state level.”
“Speaking of vaults.” Sara was grateful for the opening. “I’ve got a possible exhumation on a victim from three years ago. According to the funeral home, she was placed in an air-sealed vault.”
“Composite or concrete?”
“Not sure.”
Brock opened the door to his corner office. Florescent bulbs offered the only light. The two windows looking out at the warehouse were covered by dark wooden shutters that were tightly closed. The room was spacious, or at least Sara thought it might be. Brock had never been a tidy man. Stacks of papers and books were everywhere. His filing cabinets were overflowing.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I’ve lost two secretaries in the past three years. I can’t blame the first one, but the second one liked a nip at lunch, and you know how I feel about that.”
Brock’s father had been a high-functioning alcoholic, an open secret that the town kept because drinking had only made him more pleasant.
Brock asked, “Do you want coffee or tea?”
Sara wanted a hot shower to rid herself of the formaldehyde. “No, thank you. I’m still technically on the clock.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” Brock cleared off a space at a small table for Sara to sit down. He took the other chair. “Now, I’ll spare you the legal mumbo jumbo about there being no guarantee that the body will be preserved. You and I both know the odds are good, especially since it’s air-sealed. Unless the vault is concrete. That might be a problem. We’ve seen some degradation over the years, especially on the coast where the water table is higher.”
“The body is in Villa Rica.”
“Your odds just got much better. That’s some good soil around there. There’s three homes servicing the area. They all use composite and they know how to air-seal. Villa Rica is in part of my stomping ground.” Brock pointed to the map of Georgia taped to the wall. Sara gathered that the shaded blue counties were serviced by AllCare. She saw White County, where Alexandra McAllister had been found, was outside Brock’s area.
He said, “I’m a little confused, Sara. We don’t do the digging. That’s the local funeral home. Do you need me to reach out on your behalf?”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I’m here for.” She explained, “Two older cases have come back up. Rebecca Caterino and Leslie Truong.”
The smile disappeared from his face. He looked as horrified now as he had eight years ago. “God forgive me, I haven’t thought of those poor young women in quite a while. They’re the reason I resigned from the coroner’s position.”
“I know.”
“Goodness.” The shock did not abate. “I guess it’s been about ten years. Is that girl, Rebecca, still in a wheelchair?”
“Yes.” Sara spared him the details. “The exhumation I told you about is tied to their cases.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me they let that fella out of prison?”
“Daryl Nesbitt, and no, he’s still in prison. But there is evidence that possibly exonerates him. At least as far as the attack and murder are concerned.”
“Evidence? Well, that’s—” Brock went silent. He looked around his office as if the books and piles of papers could explain how this happened. “You know I don’t like to be contrary, Sara, but it seems to me Jeffrey caught that Daryl fella dead to rights. No one in town was surprised it was a Nesbitt. Daddy always said those Dew-Lollies killing each other over a chicken bone is what kept our doors open during the economic downturn. I just can’t see how Jeffrey could’ve been wrong on this one.”
“He was,” Sara said, which felt like a betrayal but was still the truth. “The GBI has uncovered new information that indicates the killer might still be active.”
“Active?” The color had left his face. “There are more victims?”
“Yes.”
In the silence, Sara could hear the pumps working outside.
“Are you sure it’s not somebody who’s trying to look like the bad guy?” Brock shook his head, dismissing the possibility. “That’s a pretty bad guy, Sara. I feel sick about this. What did we miss?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Of course. You’ll need my coroner’s report. I’ve got your autopsy notes, and the labs, and—” He went to his desk. He found a ring of keys in the drawer. “Everything’s at the U-Store. Unit 522. I just got back from a meeting, so I need to be here. We can both go tonight after work or you can go now on your own.”
“I’d like to go now.” Sara watched him slide the small padlock key off the ring. “We’re chasing down leads as fast as we can.”
“I can’t see what we missed. It all lined up to Daryl Nesbitt. And then there was all that stuff with the hammer.” Brock shook his head, clearly coming up with the same non-answer as Sara. “You said there’s evidence that exonerates him?”
“Yes.”
“What—of course you can’t tell me. I’m sorry I even asked.” He freed the key. “Can you let me know what happens? I mean, as much as you can say. I know you’ve got to keep this quiet for now, but good Lord, more women murdered. Plus poor Leslie Truong. That’s a serial killer, Sara.”
Sara took the key. The metal felt clammy from his hand. “We’ll find him this time.”
“I pray that you do, but I’m glad Jeffrey didn’t have to hear about this,” Brock said. “You know how much he loved our little town. It would’ve killed him all over again to know that he got this one wrong.”
Sara bit her lip to fight back an unexpected flood of tears.
Brock looked mortified. “Oh, gosh, I’m s
o sorry. I didn’t think about—”
“It’s okay.” Sara had to get out of here before the dam broke open. “I’ll let you know what we find out.”
“Let me walk you back to the—”
“I’ve got it. Thank you. I’ll call for dinner soon, okay?”
“Sure, but—”
Sara left his office before he could finish the sentence.
She kept her head down as she walked through the warehouse, mouth open because she couldn’t breathe through her nose. She ran into some employees leaving the breakroom. All of the offices off the corridor were filled with workers who looked up as she passed. In the lobby the receptionist wished her a good morning, but Sara was beyond good mornings.
She let out a string of curses as she tripped down the stairs. She should’ve asked Brock if he knew where Delilah or Tommi Humphrey were living. The only place better than a church for picking up gossip was the local funeral home. The Brock Family Funeral Home had serviced the tri-county area for two generations. Either Brock or his mother were always up on the local news.
She stopped in her tracks, but only for a moment.
The thought of going back inside was a non-starter. Instead, Sara made a beeline for her car. She rolled down all the windows to let in the fresh air. She still had to breathe through her mouth. A sharp pain made her loosen her grip on the padlock key. She was squeezing it so tightly that the metal had dug a groove into her palm.
Brock had likely chosen the U-Store for the same reason as Sara. It was the only facility in Grant County that offered climate-controlled storage. Otherwise, Jeffrey’s police files and Sara’s medical examiner reports would’ve rotted in the humidity or crumbled in the heat. She could not send Tessa back to the facility for a second time. Not because Tessa would refuse, but because there was a chain of custody protocol to follow. Sara would have to go herself, which meant driving to Grant County, which brought up the same guilt she had struggled with yesterday.
She considered calling Will to tell him where she was going, but Find My app aside, their relationship was predicated on trust. She did not have to report her movements to him, and he would be puzzled if she tried.
The Silent Wife: From the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author comes a gripping new crime thriller (Will Trent Series, Book 10) Page 32