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

  “I dunno. He’s been dead for two thousand years and we’re still talking about him.”

  Sara’s smile was still begrudging. But it was still a smile.

  She asked, “Be honest with me. It won’t heal things, but it’ll help them scab over.”

  He knew what she wanted, but he said, “Be honest about what?”

  “The women. If you want to make this right, be honest. I know it wasn’t just Jolene.”

  She didn’t know anything. “I told you, Sara. It was only Jolene, only a few times. And none of it meant a damn thing.”

  She nodded her head once, like that settled it. “I’m leaving.”

  “Sara—”

  “My parents are expecting me for lunch.”

  Jeffrey watched her gather her purse, her car keys.

  He said, “This isn’t over, Sara. I’m not going to lose you.”

  She walked toward him. She rested her hands on his shoulders. She raised herself onto her tiptoes so she could look him in the eye.

  They stayed like that for a moment, locked into each other. She chewed her bottom lip, drawing his attention to her exquisite mouth.

  Jeffrey started to move toward her.

  Her hands patted his shoulders. “Turn off the lights when you leave.”

  Jeffrey watched her until the door closed off his view. Her shadow didn’t linger in the frosted glass. On the other side of the masking tape, he could still see the TOLLIVER.

  He took as deep a breath as his smoke-damaged lungs would allow. He looked around the ancient morgue. Sara’s office was in the back. He could see she’d brought in cardboard boxes to store her new files. A bulk pack of pens. An unopened stack of legal pads. The ancient compressor on the walk-in freezer started to whine as the motor ramped up.

  Other than buying a ridiculously expensive sports car, Sara had made two life-altering decisions the day after she’d kicked Jeffrey out. She’d filed divorce papers down at the courthouse. She’d left her letter of resignation from the coroner’s position with the mayor. Here they were one short year later and only one of those things was still in effect.

  Jeffrey liked those odds.

  He took out his BlackBerry. He clicked the scroll wheel to access the notes section.

  Jeffrey was old school in every aspect of his life but one. He still had a Rolodex. All of his case notes and reminders were written down. He kept a paper calendar. His spiral-bound notebooks were stacked in boxes in his attic and would probably end up in the attic of whatever house he was living in when he retired.

  Sara was going to be living in that house with him if it was the last thing he did.

  Jeffrey looked at the secret list of names and phone numbers on his screen.

  Heidi. Lillie. Kathy. Kaitlin. Emmie. Jolene.

  One by one, he went through the list and deleted them.

  Atlanta

  28

  Sara’s shirt was off. She stood with her arms out while Faith taped a small microphone to her bare chest. They were in the GBI’s crime scene investigation bus. The monitors on the wall showed a live image of the closed back doors. The camera was concealed inside Sara’s purse. The tiny hole piercing the leather was no larger than the circumference of her pinky finger.

  Faith tore another piece of tape off the roll.

  Sara looked up at the ceiling. She had to keep her eyes dry, but thinking about what she had missed, what had been right in front of her eight years ago, made her feel like she was tumbling inside of an avalanche.

  The latex in Shay Van Dorne’s teeth had set off the first tremor. Sara had been mentally walking herself through the sequence—the latex had not been in the teeth before Shay was embalmed, yet it was there afterward—when Tommi Humphrey had called.

  The second tremor was caused by a familiar phrase.

  Tommi’s attacker claimed he had been forced to abduct her because she was too stuck up to give him the time of day.

  Stuck up.

  Sara could recall Brock staring longingly at the cheerleaders as they walked to the popular table in the cafeteria.

  “They won’t even look at me,” Brock had whispered. “They’re too stuck up to give me the time of day.”

  The third tremor was the sobbing.

  Sara did not know Daryl Nesbitt personally, but she could not imagine him crying over any of his crimes. The only man she had ever met who routinely broke down was the same man who had sat beside her on a school bus for ten years.

  The fourth and final tremor had brought down the sky.

  Brock’s mother had been admitted to the hospital the last week of October. Sara could not recall all of the details, but she could still remember how different Brock had been when he’d come to relieve her in the middle of the night. His overly obsequious manner was gone. He’d been animated, practically giddy. Sara had chalked it up to anxiety about his mother. In retrospect, she could see his behavior for what it was.

  Triumph.

  “Almost finished.” Faith stood behind Sara, clipping the transceiver for the microphone to the back of her pants.

  Dan Brock had spent two years earning his associate degree in mortuary sciences. The classes were intense, demanding an intimate understanding of thanatology, chemistry and human anatomy. As the county coroner, he had been mandated to attend forty hours of training at the Georgia Public Safety Training Center in Forsyth. There, he had learned about forensics and crime scene investigation. Every year, he’d been required to undergo twenty-four hours of additional in-service training so that he was up-to-date on any advances in death investigation sciences.

  He would know how to paralyze a person. He would know how to cover his tracks.

  Beneath the rubble of the avalanche, Sara had located the final, most damning clue.

  She had texted Brock’s photo to Tommi Humphrey, asking—

  Is this him?

  After four unbearable minutes, Tommi had texted back—

  Yes.

  “Okay,” Faith said. “You can put your shirt back on.”

  Sara buttoned her shirt. Her fingers felt thick. She thought about Faith’s math equation during yesterday morning’s briefing.

  A + B = C.

  The man who had attacked and mutilated Tommi Humphrey was the same man who had attacked Rebecca Caterino and Leslie Truong.

  He was the same man who had murdered the women on Miranda Newberry’s spreadsheet.

  He was the same man who had abducted, drugged and raped Callie Zanger.

  He was the same man that Sara had called her friend.

  Tears flooded her eyes. She was angry. She was terrified. She was devastated.

  For over three decades, Sara had felt such warmth and true affection for Dan Brock. How could the little boy who’d sat beside her in kindergarten, the gawky teenager who’d been so self-deprecatingly funny, be the monster who had tortured, raped and killed so many women?

  “Go ahead.” Faith was holding one side of the headphones to her ear.

  Sara tried to keep her voice as normal-sounding as possible. “One-two-three. One-two-three.”

  “Good.” Faith rested the headphones on the table. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “No,” Sara admitted. “But we don’t have bodies or crime scenes. We have guesses and a spreadsheet. The families deserve answers and this is the only way to get them.”

  “We could roll the dice,” Faith said. “Arrest him. Scare the shit out of him. He could still talk.”

  Sara knew that would never happen. “Once it’s out there in public, he will do everything he can to deny it. The Van Dornes, Callie Zanger, Gerald Caterino—all of the victims he left behind. They will never know the truth. Brock won’t go on the record, especially while his mother is still alive.”

  Faith looked grim. She opened the door.

  Will was standing vigil outside. He was wearing a Kevlar vest. His rifle was slung over his shoulder. Menace came off his body like sweat.

  He looked at Sara, silent,
but the silence said everything.

  Sara pulled on her blue cardigan with the deep pockets.

  Amanda climbed into the van, telling Sara, “The codeword is salad.”

  Sara looked back at Will. He shook his head. He did not want her to do this.

  Amanda continued, “The moment you want to shut it down, for any reason, just say the word and we’ll come running. Yes?”

  Sara cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  Faith studied the monitors. They were half a mile down the road from the AllCare facility. The camera on the dashboard of Nick’s car showed them the front of the warehouse. There were no cameras inside because of privacy concerns.

  Amanda coached, “A full confession to all of the murders would be glorious, but any specifics you can get out of Brock about Caterino or Truong will be enough to stick a needle in his arm.”

  She meant the death penalty.

  Amanda said, “I’ve got men outside the loading dock and around the back, but we can’t go in. We don’t know if the window shutters inside Brock’s office are still closed. Once you’re in the warehouse, Will and Faith will stage in the corridor. That’s the closest anyone can get without risking exposure. Everything the camera and mic pick up will stream to their phones. If you say the codeword, count on it taking them roughly eight to ten seconds to breach the office door.”

  Sara nodded. Her body had gone numb.

  “Here.” Faith held out a loaded revolver, the muzzle pointing down. “If you need to use this, keep pulling the trigger until the cylinder is empty, okay? Six shots. Don’t hesitate. Don’t shoot to wound. Shoot to stop.”

  Sara weighed the revolver in her hand. She glanced at Will. She tucked the gun into one of the deep pockets of her cardigan.

  “Nick?” Amanda spoke into the radio. “Report?”

  “The target is still inside.” Nick’s voice scratched through the speaker. “Lunch shift cleared out the building. We snagged them once they hit the street. I hooked the manager and had a sit-down talk. They don’t start back up taking deliveries until one. We’ve got the street blocked off at both ends. There’s nine cars left in the parking lot. One belongs to Brock. The others are registered to employees. The manager says they’re probably in the breakroom.”

  Amanda said, “Faith, job one is getting those civilians out without alerting Brock.”

  “The breakroom has a window that overlooks the warehouse,” Faith said. She had found the blueprints for the building on the county website. “We’ll have to be careful.”

  “Every second of this operation should be careful.” Amanda turned to Sara. “Your call, Dr. Linton. We can take him down right now. Tommi can identify him. She would be a compelling witness. We can build a case without a confession.”

  Shay Van Dorne. Alexandra McAllister. Rebecca Caterino. Leslie Truong. Callie Zanger. Pia Danske. Theresa Singer. Alice Scott. Joan Feeney …

  Sara slipped the purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”

  Will helped her down from the van. She held onto his hand. She kissed him on the mouth.

  She told him, “We’ll get McDonald’s for dinner.”

  He wouldn’t let her lighten the mood. “If he touches you, I will kill him.”

  Sara squeezed his fingers before letting go. The farther she walked away from Will, the more numb she felt. A sort of anesthesia spread from her limbs into her chest, so that by the time Sara made it to her car, her movements were robotic. She put on her seatbelt. Started the engine. Selected the gear. Pulled onto the road.

  Will and Faith trailed behind her in a black sedan. Sara could see the resigned set to Will’s jaw in her rearview mirror. The half-mile drive to the warehouse stretched out endlessly. Her mind filled with everything and nothing at the same time.

  Should she do this? Could she do this? What if Brock didn’t talk? What if he got angry? She had told everyone that Brock would never hurt her, that he could’ve done that long ago if he wanted, but what if the Brock that Sara knew turned into the Brock who took pleasure in the suffering of women? She had seen first-hand evidence of his madness. He hadn’t been content to rape the women. He had destroyed them. Sara was about to push him to the brink. Would he try to destroy her, too?

  She tapped down the blinker. She made the turn.

  The AllCare warehouse looked the same as it had the day before. Except where it didn’t. SWAT was already on the roof of the building. A glimpse across the street told her that a sniper was covering the front entrance. Sara knew that another sniper would be guarding the rear. Two more black-clad men were on either side of the concrete stairs to the lobby.

  If all went as planned, Brock would be waiting for her inside of his cluttered office. Sara had called to tell him she would drop off the key to his storage unit. Brock had sounded delighted that he would get to see her again. He would be eating lunch at his desk. He’d offered to share some cake that he’d brought from home.

  Mama’s recipe.

  Sara coasted into a parking space by the front door. She should take a moment to breathe, to calm her pounding heart, but the exercise would be futile. Nothing could calm her.

  She adjusted the purse on her right shoulder as she got out of the car. Her left hand tucked into the pocket of the cardigan. She held onto the gun so it wouldn’t bump against her hip as she walked toward the entrance.

  Two men with rifles were on either side of the concrete stoop. Their backs were to the wall. Their eyes tracked Sara as she climbed the stairs.

  Behind her, a car engine turned off. Doors were opened and closed. Sara did not turn to find Will again, but she knew what he was doing as he followed her from a distance. Her lover was an inveterate list maker. He would be mentally cataloging all of the possible outcomes—

  1. Brock confesses and gives himself up

  2. Brock confesses and doesn’t give himself up

  3. Brock takes Sara hostage

  4. Will shoots Brock

  Sara added her own addendum—

  5. Brock explains how this is all a terrible misunderstanding

  Inside the empty lobby, Sara adjusted her purse so the camera pointed straight on. The receptionist had put an out to lunch sign on the counter. A plastic clock with adjustable hands read 1 p.m., indicating the time of her return.

  Sara drew in a shallow breath. She gripped the strap of her purse. She tightened her hand around the revolver.

  She felt lightheaded as she walked down the corridor. She heard Will and Faith enter the lobby. Sara desperately wanted to turn around, but she wasn’t sure she could keep moving forward if she saw Will again.

  Eight to ten seconds.

  That was how long Amanda estimated it would take to breach Brock’s office.

  Sara doubted it would take Will more than three.

  The door to the warehouse was five steps away. A bead of sweat rolled down her chest. She could feel it slip past the concealed mic, pool into her bra. She glanced at the photographs on the wall.

  David Harper, Employee of the Month.

  Hal Watson, Facility Manager.

  Dan Brock, Director of Embalming Services.

  A map of the state was taped beside Brock’s photo. Shaded blue areas indicated AllCare’s territory. This was a newer version than the map in Brock’s office. White County was solid blue.

  My stomping ground.

  Sara heard the chatter of low voices. She turned around. Faith was clearing the employees out of the breakroom. Will had his hand on his rifle, finger resting along the trigger guard.

  Their eyes met one last time.

  Sara took a deep breath.

  She opened the door and walked into the warehouse.

  Her senses were overloaded. The smell of formaldehyde. The harsh overhead lights that sharpened every corner of the room. The thirty stainless-steel tables were empty but for one. An embalmer had washed the hair of the deceased woman at her station. Her hand stroked back and forth as she combed out the tangles.

  Sara ch
ecked that the wooden shutters on Brock’s office windows were closed. She cleared her throat. She told the woman, “Hal asked if you could come to his office for a second.”

  “Hal?” the woman repeated, surprised. “I just need to—”

  Sara checked the shutters again. “Go.”

  The woman’s eyes went to the breakroom window, then back to Sara. She put down the comb. Removed her gloves. She untied her apron as she quickly walked away.

  Sara felt her heartbeat triple as she neared Brock’s office. Her hands had started to shake. Years of practice as a doctor, a surgeon, and a medical examiner had given her the ability to mute her emotions. Standing outside Brock’s closed office door, she found herself unable to flip the switch.

  He was one of her oldest friends.

  He was a rapist.

  He was a murderer.

  Sara knocked on his door.

  “Sara? Is that you?”

  The door swung open.

  Brock was smiling his same old smile. He went to hug her, but she backed away.

  “S-sorry.” Sara panicked over the stutter. She had planned this part. She had known he would try to hug her because they always hugged. “I’m getting a cold. I don’t want you to catch it.”

  “I’ve got the constitution of a goat after working in this place.” He waved her in. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go to lunch. I had to prepare for a meeting.”

  Sara’s left hand stayed in her pocket. The revolver was coated in her sweat. She forced her legs to move. She looked around, expecting everything to look the same as it had the day before.

  Nothing was the same.

  Brock had cleaned his office. He must’ve worked through the night. The overflowing files had been tidied away. The forms and purchase orders were neatly stacked in labeled trays. His desktop was clean but for two large ring-binders. Each one was at least three inches thick. The vinyl covers were dark green. She could see the AllCare logos embossed in gold on the front. She tried not to look nervous as she glanced at the closed slats on the wooden shutters.

  They could not see out. No one could see in.

  “Sorry it’s so warm in here.” Brock had unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt. He was rolling up his sleeves. “Do you want some water or something to drink?”