“Blue Man Group?”
“Right.” Callie searched for the bartender again. “I looked like I was gang banged by the Blue Man Group.”
She was laughing, but Faith could see the tears in her eyes.
“Anyway, I puked it all out. I stood up. I started walking. Stumbling, really. My legs were like spaghetti. I found the road. This nice couple picked me up. My God, I felt bad about that. I looked a mess, and they were so worried. I tried to pay them afterward, a sort of reward for saving me, and they refused, and I kept pushing, and finally, they had me donate the money to their church building fund.” She told Faith, “It’s a 501(c)3, but I didn’t take the tax deduction. Please don’t tell anyone. My career would be over.”
Faith tried to swallow the burning in her throat. She asked, “Did Rod ever admit to you that it was him?”
Again, she laughed. “Oh hell no. He’s too much of a coward. That’s his deep, dark secret. That’s why he beats women: because he’s terrified of them. And now, he’s terrified of me.”
Faith gripped together her hands. Callie was clearly drunk. How could Faith tell this woman that her moment of triumph, her final revenge, was a lie?
“Rod and I had this moment in my lawyer’s office.” Callie turned toward Faith. “It was just the two of us. I told the lawyers to leave. I took my hair down. I shook it out like Cindy fucking Crawford. I said to Rod, ‘Your life is in my hands, asshole. I can destroy you with the snap of my fingers.’”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, the usual. He called me a crazy bitch, kept insisting I was making the whole thing up, but it was the look in his eyes.” Callie pointed to her own eyes. “He was scared of me. His hands were shaking. He started groveling, begging me not to go to the police, whining about how he would never do anything like that. That he loved me. That he would never hurt me.”
Her bitter laughter carried across the room.
“You know what I said to him?”
She clearly wanted a response.
Faith had to swallow before she could ask, “What?”
“I got in his face, looked him straight in his beady little pig eyes, and I said, ‘I won.’” She banged her fist on the bar. “Fuck. You. Rod. I. Fucking. Won.”
23
Gina couldn’t open her eyes.
Or maybe she could open them, but she really did not want to. She had forgotten what it felt like to sleep. Like, for real sleep. The way you slept when you were a kid and you reached that sweet spot between puberty and college and you could close your eyes and wake up at noon the next day in a state of full bliss.
Where was she?
Not where was she in the metaphoric sense. In the physical sense. Like, where the fuck was her body located on planet earth right now?
Her eyelids slitted open.
Dusk, leaves, dirt, birds singing, trees swaying, insects insecting.
Good God, Target’s camping display was brilliantly realistic! She could practically smell s’mores cooking on an open flame. Or baked beans, like that scene in Blazing Saddles where they all started farting.
Gina laughed.
Then she coughed.
Then she started to cry.
She was lying on her back in the woods. She was bleeding where the hammer had cracked against her head. She was going to be raped. She needed to get the hell out of here.
Why couldn’t she move?
Gina had no understanding of anatomy, but there had to be a power line of some sort that plugged into her brain and went to her legs and made them move up and down or sideways so that she could roll over and stand up.
Gina kept her eyes closed. She tried to clear her mind. She imagined the line. Tried to send a current into the line. Wake up, line. Let’s get some movement, line. Hello, line.
I am a lineman for the county …
Oh, how her mother had laughed at Gina praising R.E.M. for Wichita Lineman when Glen Close was the singer who’d made it famous.
Glen Close?
Glen Campbell.
Had anyone seen Michael Stipe lately? He looked like Julian Assange had fucked the Unabomber.
Gina’s eyes flooded with tears. She was going to be raped. She was going to be raped. She was going to be raped.
Why couldn’t she move her legs?
Her toes. Feet. Ankles. Knees. Fingers. Elbows. Even her eyelids.
Nothing would move.
Was she paralyzed?
She could hear breathing. She didn’t think the breaths were coming from her own lungs. Someone was behind her. Sitting behind her.
The man from the car.
The one with the hammer.
He was sobbing.
Gina had seen an adult man cry exactly once in her life; her father on 9-11. Gina had been at the library when the news broke about the first airplane. She had jumped into her car and driven to the safest place she knew, her parents’ home. They had all huddled around the television. Gina, her mother and father. Her sister Nancy was in lockdown at work. Diane Sawyer was in her red sweater. They watched in horror as thousands of people were murdered in front of their eyes. Her father had held onto Gina, grabbed onto her, like he was afraid to let her go. His tears had mixed with Gina’s. Everyone had been crying. The entire country had wept.
Her father was dead from lung cancer less than a year later.
And now Gina was in the woods.
The crying man was not her father.
He was going to rape her.
He had hit her with a hammer.
He had taken her into the woods.
He had drugged her.
He was going to rape her.
Gina had seen his face in the car. The memory tickled at the back of her brain. She could not summon his features, but a sense of familiarity was there. She had seen him before. In the gym? At the store? Inside the office when she went in for monthly meetings?
The face belonged to the man who had been watching her. He was the source of her paranoia. He was the person who had stolen her pink scrunchie from the bowl on the sink. He was the reason Gina had shut her blinds, checked her locks, hermitted inside of her house.
Nancy had no idea that Gina was missing. They had talked on the phone before Gina had left for the Target. Her sister called once a month, maybe. Her mother called once a week, but the last call was yesterday so the next call would not be for another six days.
Six days.
Her twelve-year-old boss already had her Beijing report. He would email her, but Gina had trained him not to expect quick responses to his tedious emails because elderly people did not understand computers. Her nosey neighbor was not actually that nosey. The only person who would notice her absence was the InstaCart delivery boy, and she knew that he was seeing other people.
Gina’s brain clicked back into the present.
The man’s sobs died out like water gurgling down a drain.
He sniffed once, with finality.
He was up, moving around, then his knees dug into either side of her hips and he was on top of her.
He was going to rape her. He was going to rape her.
Gina felt his fingers dig into her cheeks. He was forcing open her mouth. She wanted to resist, but her muscles would not respond. She waited for his penis to be shoved down her throat. She braced herself. She prayed for strength, for a momentary surge of power that forced her jaw to clamp closed when he started to rape her.
Plastic clashed against her teeth.
He was holding a bottle to her lips.
She coughed, then choked, then swallowed the liquid that filled her mouth. It tasted—what did it taste like?
Sugar. Cotton candy. Urine.
Her mouth was closed.
The man moved off her. Her head was lifted up. He scooted around in the leaves. He let her head rest against his crotch. The back of her head, not the front. His semi-erect cock fingered against her neck. His legs rested along either side of her body. He had pulled her into his lap like they wer
e old lovers watching fireworks together on the fourth.
Gina felt her scalp being tugged. Pressure against her head. A gentle, familiar scratching.
The man was brushing her hair.
24
Sara felt jittery as she walked into GBI headquarters. Lack of sleep was catching up with her. The hour and a half drive back from Grant County had stretched into three hours because of an accident and rush hour traffic. The monotony had lulled her into a state of semi-consciousness. Her clothes reeked of formaldehyde from Brock’s warehouse and damp from the musty U-Store. She wanted desperately to get a coffee but she was already running late. Sara wrenched open the door to the stairs. Her brain felt as if it was pounding inside of her skull as she made her way up.
“Dr. Linton.” Amanda was waiting for her on the first-floor landing. She looked up from her phone. “Caroline put the Van Dornes in the conference room. Will and Faith are downtown interviewing a possible victim.”
Sara instantly thought of Tommi Humphrey. “What victim?”
“Callie Zanger. Tax lawyer. We’ll get the details as they come.” Amanda started up the stairs. “I called the funeral home that handled Shay Van Dorne’s body. They confirmed that she was buried in a composite vault. Air-sealed, as you mentioned. The parents are Aimee and Larry. They divorced soon after Shay’s death. Caroline told them that we were considering re-opening the case, but she didn’t specify why.”
“You didn’t talk to them yourself?” Sara stopped. “You let Caroline handle it?”
“Yes, Dr. Linton. It’s easier to say you don’t know the details when you actually don’t know the details.” Amanda kept climbing. “Caroline says there’s definitely some tension between them. You and I can work them together.”
Sara didn’t express her distaste over the word work. The Van Dornes were grieving parents. Their child had unexpectedly died three years ago. Their marriage had broken apart shortly after. Sara wasn’t here to manipulate them. She was here to give them a choice.
She told Amanda, “I’d like to speak to them alone.”
“Because?”
Sara was bone-tired of confrontations. “Because I want to.”
“Your call, Dr. Linton.” Amanda already had her head buried in her phone as she took the next flight of stairs.
Sara rubbed her eyes. She could feel her mascara clumping. On the way to the conference room, she dashed into the bathroom to make sure she looked presentable. The mirror told her that she barely passed the mark, but at least her mascara hadn’t turned her into a raccoon. Sara splashed water onto her face. There was nothing she could do about the smell in her clothes. There was nothing she could do about any of this but knuckle through. She tried to brace herself as she headed toward the conference room.
The Van Dornes both stood when Sara opened the door.
They had taken opposite sides of the long, wide conference table. Shay’s parents did not look the way Sara had expected. She had for some reason conjured the image of an older woman in a June Cleaver shirt dress and a suited man with a buzz cut.
Aimee Van Dorne was wearing a black silk blouse and black pencil skirt with heels. Her blonde-tipped hair was stylishly textured with a sweeping bang. Larry was in baggy jeans and a flannel work shirt. His hair was the color of dryer lint, longer than Sara’s, braided down the back. The divorced couple were the embodiment of city vs. country folk.
She said, “I’m Dr. Linton. I apologize for making you wait.”
They all shook hands, made introductions, and studiously ignored the nervous tension in the room. Sara had to sit at the head of the table so that she could address both of them at once. She reminded herself that the only thing she could do to make this slightly less painful was to get straight to the point.
She said, “I’m a medical examiner for the state. I know Caroline told you that we are considering re-opening your daughter’s case. The reason for that is, in the course of reviewing the coroner’s report regarding Shay’s accident, I found some inconsistencies that—”
“I knew it, Larry!” Aimee pointed her finger at her ex-husband. “I told you something wasn’t right about that accident. I told you!”
Larry had startled at the sound of Aimee’s voice.
Sara gave him a moment to recover before asking the woman, “Is there a reason you don’t agree with the coroner’s finding?”
“Several.” Aimee dove straight in. “Shay never went into the woods. Ever. And she was dressed for school. Why would she be out hiking when she had a class to teach? And why were her purse and phone locked in the trunk of her car? And then there was that creepy feeling she had. I know she dismissed it, but a mother knows when something is wrong with her daughter.”
Sara looked to Larry for confirmation.
He cleared his throat. “Shay was depressed.”
Aimee crossed her arms. “She wasn’t depressed. She was in transition. Every woman goes through a reckoning in their mid-thirties. I did it, my mother did it.”
Sara could tell this was a familiar argument. She asked Larry, “What was Shay depressed about?”
“Life?” He guessed. “Shay was getting older. Her job was becoming political. Things hadn’t worked out with Tyler.”
“Her ex,” Aimee explained. “They were together since college, but Shay didn’t want children and Tyler did, so they agreed it was best to split up. It wasn’t easy, but it was a decision they made together.”
Sara said, “From the police report, I gathered Shay was seeing someone new?”
“A trifle,” Aimee said. “He was just a side of fun.”
Larry countered, “They spent a lot of nights together.”
“That’s what you do when you’re having fun.” Aimee told Sara, “Shay was still in love with Tyler. I thought she would change her mind about babies, but she was stubborn.”
Larry said, “Wonder where she gets that?”
The observation could’ve sparked an argument, but it had the opposite effect. Aimee smiled. Larry smiled. Sara could tell there was still something between them. That something, she guessed, was their child.
Sara said, “There’s no easy way to ask this, but I’d like to re-examine Shay’s body.”
Neither parent had an immediate response. They looked at each other. They slowly turned back at Sara.
Larry was the first to speak. “How? Is there a machine?”
“Larry,” Aimee said. “The woman’s not talking about sonar. She wants to take Shay out of the ground.”
His dry lips parted in surprise.
“Officially, it’s called exhumation,” Sara said. “But yes, I am asking you if we can remove your daughter’s body from her grave.”
Larry stared down at his hands. They were gnarled from arthritis. Sara could see a callous along the webbing between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He was used to holding tools, fixing or creating things. Aimee was clearly a businesswoman, the one who took care of the details. Sara’s own parents shared the same dynamic.
Sara offered, “Let me walk you through the steps of what an exhumation encompasses. You can ask as many questions as you like. I will answer as honestly as I can. Then I can leave you alone, or you can go away to talk, so that you can both make an informed decision.”
“You need our permission?” Larry asked.
Amanda could find a way around it, but not with Sara’s help. She told the father, “Yes, I need your written permission before I will exhume the body.”
“Could Shay have …” He searched for the words. “If she did it to herself, you would see that? You could tell us?”
Sara said, “I can’t make guarantees, but if there is evidence of self-harm, it’s possible I’ll be able to find it.”
He said, “So, you don’t really know what you’re looking for, and you don’t really know what you’ll find.”
Sara was not going to give them the brutal details. “I can only promise that I will be as respectful, and as thorough, with your d
aughter’s remains as possible.”
“But,” Aimee said. “You suspect something. You think something is suspicious, otherwise, you wouldn’t go through this, correct?”
“Correct.”
“We don’t—” Larry stopped himself. “I don’t have a lot of money.”
“You would not have to pay for the exhumation or the re-internment.”
“Okay. Well.” He was running out of reasons to say no, other than that his heart was shattering all over again. “When do you need an answer?”
“I don’t want to rush you,” Sara looked back at Aimee so that she felt included. “This is an important decision, but if you’re asking me for a deadline, I would say the sooner the better.”
He nodded slowly, acknowledging the information. “And then what? We write a letter?”
“There are forms that—”
“I don’t need forms, or steps or time,” Aimee said. “You’ll dig her up. You’ll look inside of her. You’ll tell us what happened. I say yes, do it now. Larry?”
Larry’s palm was pressed to his chest. He wasn’t ready. “It’s been three years. Wouldn’t she be …”
Sara explained, “When you arranged the burial, you requested that she be placed in a vault. If the air-seal is intact, and I have no reason to believe it isn’t, then the body would be in good condition.”
Larry’s eyes closed. Tears squeezed out. Every muscle in his body was tensed, as if he wanted to physically fight off Sara’s request.
Aimee wasn’t blind to her ex-husband’s pain. Her voice was softer when she told Sara, “Maybe I do need the steps. How would this work?”
“We would schedule the exhumation early in the morning. That’s best so you don’t get onlookers.” She watched Larry wince. “You could be there if you wanted to be. Or you don’t have to attend. It’s your choice. All of this is your choice.”
“Would we—” Larry stopped. “Would we see her?”
“I would strongly advise against it.”
Aimee had taken a tissue from her purse. She blotted away her tears, trying not to smudge her eyeliner. “You would do the autopsy here?”
The Silent Wife: From the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author comes a gripping new crime thriller (Will Trent Series, Book 10) Page 41