The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  Hoyt spoke in a deep, resonant voice that perfectly matched his zillion-dollar suit and handmade loafers. “The only thing we’re going to do by waving around more money is convince the kidnapper that he should hold out for more.”

  Paul shook his head. His lips were moving, no words coming out. It was as if his anger had a stranglehold on him. For Will’s part, he was surprised to find that Paul wasn’t more cowed by the father-in-law. He sensed a camaraderie between Hoyt and Amanda that Paul seemed to be missing. They had already decided how to approach this, the best way to get things done. Will was not surprised that the two would see eye-to-eye. In her own way, Amanda Wagner was a captain of her own industry. Hoyt Bentley would appreciate that.

  Amanda suggested, “Why don’t we talk about this?” She indicated the long hallway before them, the skanky set of windows overlooking the railroad trellis.

  Paul looked back and forth between his father-in-law and Amanda. He nodded once, then walked down the hallway with them. No one talked until they were far away enough not to be heard.

  Will tried not to feel completely emasculated as he watched them—the child who wasn’t allowed to sit at the adult table. As if to put a fine point on it, he noticed that he was standing right by the women’s restroom. Will made himself look away, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Before he turned, he noticed that Paul’s opening tactic was the usual one—he jabbed his finger in Amanda’s face. Even from twenty feet away, Will could feel the tension his bluster created. There were just some people in the world who had to be the center of attention at all times. Paul was king of them.

  Abigail said, “He’s not all bad.”

  Will raised his eyebrows, his nose throbbing from the gesture. He realized he should stop feeling sorry for himself and take the opportunity to talk to Abigail Campano, whom he’d yet to find alone.

  “I said some horrible things to him yesterday. Today. This morning.” She gave a faint smile. “In the bathroom. In the driveway. In the car.”

  “You’re under a lot of pressure.”

  “I’ve never been the type of person to strike out,” she said, though, to Will, yesterday’s performance in the carriage house had seemed pretty natural. “I think maybe I used to be. Maybe some time ago. It’s all coming back to me now.”

  She wasn’t making much sense, but Will preferred talking to her rather than straining to hear the exchange between the adults. “You just need to do what you can do to hold on. The press conference won’t take long, and Amanda will handle everything.”

  “Why am I here?” Her question was so straightforward that Will found himself unable to answer her. She continued, “I’m not going to make a plea. You’re not going to let me beg for the safe return of my daughter. Why is that?”

  He did not tell her that if a sadist had her child, watching Abigail’s pain might inspire him to get more creative with his victim. Even without that, Abigail proved every time she opened her mouth that she was unpredictable.

  He told the woman a softer version of the truth. “It’s easier if you let Amanda do all the talking.”

  “So they won’t ask me about killing Adam?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Aren’t they going to wonder why I’m not at home waiting for the second phone call?”

  He gathered she was speaking more for herself than the members of the press. “This is a very tense time—not just for us, but for whoever has Emma. We need the press to tone down the rhetoric. We don’t need them running with some wild story, making up clues and chasing down crazy theories while we’re trying to negotiate for Emma’s return.”

  She slowly nodded her head. “What will it be like in there? In front of all those cameras?”

  Excruciating, Will thought, but said, “I’ll be standing in the back of the room. Just look at me, okay?” She nodded, and he continued, “There will be a lot of cameras flashing, lots of people asking questions. Just stare at me and try to ignore them. I’m kind of easy to pick out of a crowd.”

  She didn’t laugh at the joke. He noticed that she was holding her purse against her stomach. It was small, what he thought was called a clutch. Will had seen her closet, a spectacularly furnished room that was larger than his kitchen. There were evening gowns and designer labels and slinky high heels, but nothing in her wardrobe had appeared understated. He wondered if she had bought the outfit for the occasion, or borrowed it from a friend.

  As if she could read his mind, she asked, “Do I fit the part of the bereaved killer?”

  Will had heard the news call her as much this morning. The reporters were having a field day with the savage-mother-protecting-her-daughter angle. The irony was too rich to pass up. “You shouldn’t watch television. At least until this is over.”

  She opened her purse. He saw a tube of lipstick, a set of keys, and a bundle of photographs that she rested her fingers on but did not take out. Instead, she pulled a tissue from the bottom and used it to wipe her nose. “How can I not watch? How can I not soak up every horrible thing that comes out of their mouths?”

  Will did not know how he was expected to answer, so he said nothing.

  One of Paul’s ubiquitous “fuck you”s came from down the hallway. Whatever Amanda said was more of a murmur, but the tone sent out a chill that could be felt even from this distance.

  Abigail said, “I like your boss.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “She wrote my statement for me.”

  Will knew this already. Amanda wouldn’t have trusted the mother to prepare a plea for the return of her child. The semantics were too important. One wrong word could send the wrong message, then they would suddenly find themselves going from working a kidnapping to working a murder case.

  “She doesn’t lie to me,” Abigail said. “Are you going to lie to me?”

  “About what?”

  “Are they going to ask me questions about Adam?”

  “If they’re any good at their jobs—yes. They’ll try. But keep in mind, you’re not here to answer questions. The reporters know the ground rules. That doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily follow them, but you have to. Don’t let them bait you. Don’t let them force you into a situation where you have to explain yourself, or where you say something that might later be used against you.”

  “I killed him. In every sense of the word, I murdered him.”

  “You probably shouldn’t say that to a cop.”

  “I used to be a lawyer,” she said. “I know how this works.”

  “How?”

  “It all depends on how things go from now on, doesn’t it? Whether or not you charge me. If Emma comes back in one piece, or if she’s …” Abigail sniffed, wiping her nose again. “If the newspapers are with me, if they paint me as some kind of cold-blooded killer, if the parents push for prosecution … so many ifs.”

  Will assured her, “I’m not going to charge you with anything.”

  Abigail indicated Amanda. “She might.”

  Will admitted to himself that the woman had a point. “It’s not my place to advise you, but you’re not going to do yourself any favors talking like this.”

  “He was just a child. He had his whole life in front of him.” She pressed her lips together, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Think of all the things I took from him—from his parents. There’s nothing for them now. Just eighteen years, then nothing.”

  Will wasn’t sure what he would be saying in her place, but he found himself wondering if Abigail was focusing so much on Adam Humphrey because the alternative—focusing on the fate of her own daughter—was too much to bear.

  She asked, “What should I say when the reporters ask me about Adam?”

  “Nothing,” he told her. “We told them from the start that they’re only supposed to direct their questions to Amanda. They won’t do that, of course, but you don’t have to talk to them.”

  “What if I want to?”

  “What would you say?” Will asked. “Because
if it’s the things you just told me, I can tell you right now that they’ll have you nailed to a cross by nightfall.” He added, “If you want to punish yourself for what happened to Adam Humphrey, then take some pills or try experimenting with heroin. You’ll be much better off than throwing yourself onto the mercy of the press.”

  “You are honest.”

  “I guess I am,” Will admitted. “Save yourself for Emma. If you can’t be strong for yourself, then be strong for her.”

  “I’m so sick of people telling me to be strong.”

  Will wondered what else could be said—be weak? Fall on the floor? Rend your clothes? Wail? All of these things seemed like obvious reactions that a normal person might have, but they certainly wouldn’t play well for the cameras.

  Abigail said, “I’m not usually this melodramatic. I’m afraid I might …” She shook her head. “What if he sees me on television and thinks that Emma deserves it? What if I do something wrong or don’t look grieved enough, or look too grieved, or—”

  “You can’t keep playing this game in your head.”

  “Game?” she asked. “I want this all to be a game. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and yell at Emma to get ready for school. I want to scream at my husband for screwing around on me. I want to play tennis with my friends and throw dinner parties and decorate my house and ignore my husband’s affairs and …” Her composure had held up longer than he’d thought it would. Slowly, she started to shatter. It started in her mouth—a slight tremble of her bottom lip that spread up her face like a tic. “I want to change places with her. He can do whatever he wants to me. Fuck me, sodomize me, beat me, burn me. I don’t care.” The tears came pouring now. “She’s just a baby. She can’t take it. She won’t survive …”

  Even as he took her hand, Will felt the awkwardness of the gesture. He did not know this woman and certainly was in no position to comfort her. “Emma’s alive,” Will reminded her. “That’s what you need to hold on to. Your daughter is alive.”

  Impossibly, the moment turned more awkward. Gently, she slipped her hand from his. She ran her fingers under her eyes in that magical way women do to keep their eyeliner from smudging. Unexpectedly she asked, “How do you know my husband?”

  “We met a long time ago.”

  “Were you one of the boys who bullied him?”

  Will felt his mouth open, but could not find any words to answer.

  “My husband doesn’t talk much about his childhood.”

  Will could’ve told her some stories. Instead he said, “That’s probably a good thing.”

  Abigail looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they’d met. He could feel her eyes scanning the scars on his face, the thin, pink line where his lip had been split so badly that there wasn’t enough good skin left to sew it back together straight.

  Her gaze was so intimate that it was almost like a touch.

  They both looked away uncomfortably. Will checked his watch to make sure the battery was working. Abigail rummaged around in her purse.

  Footsteps clicked against the tiles as Hoyt, Amanda and Paul made their way back up the hallway. Paul looked positively defeated, and Will wished that he had paid more attention to the exchange. Paul silently took his wife’s hand and placed it on his arm.

  Amanda said, “Thank you,” to Hoyt, shaking his hand. He kissed his daughter on the cheek, gave Paul a clap on the shoulder, then headed toward the exit. Will guessed the millionaire’s work here was done.

  Amanda took both of Abigail’s hands in hers. The naturalness of the gesture was surprising, but women—even Amanda—could get away with that sort of thing. “Chin up,” she said. “Don’t let them see you break.”

  Will chewed his lower lip, knowing that Amanda was hoping for the exact opposite. The grieving-mother card could never be played enough times in situations like this. Paul was simply an accessory. Knowing how these things worked, Will guessed that half the people following the story assumed that the father was the root of all this evil. If Abigail came across as too strong, then they would toss her onto the list of suspects, as well. Then, of course, there was the only opinion that mattered—that of the person who was holding Emma Campano. If the abductor thought that the parents were unworthy, then he might have second thoughts about returning their child.

  “This way,” Amanda said, indicating the opposite end of the hallway. She opened the door to the pressroom and lights flashed like a strobe, blinding them all for several seconds.

  Will stood at the edge of the door, making sure the cameras followed Amanda and the Campanos to the impromptu stage at the end of the narrow room. He didn’t want his picture in the paper. He didn’t want to answer their stupid questions. He just wanted the kidnapper to see Abigail Campano, her sunken eyes and chapped lips, her thin shoulders. He wanted the man who had taken Emma Campano to see what he had done to her mother.

  The reporters shuffled around as Amanda took her sweet time adjusting the microphone, unfolding the prepared statement. There were about fifty reporters in all, most of them men, all of them giving off a slightly desperate smell in the cramped room. The air-conditioning wasn’t doing much to help matters, and hot air was blasting through a broken window like heat from a flame. Not much news had leaked out on the case, mostly because no one on Amanda’s team was stupid enough to open their mouths. This had left the press to their own devices, and from what Will had heard on the radio this morning, they had started to report on what other stations were reporting.

  Without preamble, Amanda read from the statement. “The reward for any information leading to the safe return of Emma Campano has been increased to one hundred thousand dollars.” She gave the particulars—the toll-free number, the assurance that the call would be completely anonymous. “As you already know, Emma Eleanor Campano is a seventeen-year-old girl who attends a private school outside of the city. Emma was abducted from her home three days ago between the hours of eleven a.m. and twelve noon. At approximately ten-thirty yesterday morning, a call was made from a man claiming to be Emma’s kidnapper. A ransom demand was made. We are awaiting details and will brief you at this same time tomorrow morning. I will now read from a statement written by Abigail Campano, Emma Campano’s mother.”

  The cameras flashed like mad, and Will could see Abigail Campano looking for him in the back of the room. He stood up straighter, his height giving him a natural advantage. She finally found him, and he could read the terror in her eyes.

  Maybe Will had spent too much time with Amanda lately. He was glad to see the terror, glad that the cameras would pick up this woman’s fear. You could read every second of the last three days in the mother’s expression—the sleepless nights, the arguments with her husband, the absolute horror of what had happened.

  Amanda read, “ ‘To the man who has Emma: please know that we—her father and I—love Emma and cherish her, and will do whatever you want in order to have our daughter returned to us. Emma is only seventeen years old. She likes ice cream and watching reruns of Friends with us on family night. Her father and I are not interested in vengeance or punishment. We just want Emma returned.’ ” Amanda looked up over her glasses. “ ‘Please return our Emma to us.’ ” She folded the paper. “I’ll take a few questions.”

  A local reporter shouted, “Abby, what did it feel like to kill—”

  “Rules, please,” Amanda cut him off. “Remember to direct all your questions to me.”

  The reporter didn’t give up. “Are you going to press charges against Abigail Campano for the murder of Adam Humphrey?”

  “We have no plans to pursue charges at this time.”

  Abigail stared blankly at Will, as if unworried about the equivocation. Beside her, Paul seemed to be struggling to hold his tongue.

  Another local reporter asked, “What leads do you have at the moment? Are there any suspects?”

  “Obviously, we’re full speed ahead on this investigation. I can’t tell you about particulars.”
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  And yet another question came. “You’ve posted police around Westfield Academy. Are you worried this is the work of a serial killer?”

  The serial killer angle was a hot topic of debate on the talk shows. The Hiker Murders back in January were still fresh on everyone’s mind.

  Amanda told them, “This has absolutely none of the markings of a serial case at this time.”

  Will felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. The flashes seemed to be making the room hotter. He opened the door to let in some fresh air.

  “When do you think an arrest will be made?” someone in the front asked.

  Amanda artfully dodged, “As soon as we are certain we have our bad guy.”

  “What other lines of investigation are you following?”

  “We’re pursuing any and all leads.”

  “Which are?”

  Amanda smiled. “I can’t go into particulars at this time.”

  Will caught Abigail’s eye again. He could see that she was swaying and did not know if it was the heat or the circumstances. Her face had turned completely white. She looked like she might faint.

  Will tilted up his chin, which was enough to get Amanda’s attention. She did not need to look at Abigail to know what was worrying him. Instead of calling the meeting to a close, she asked, “Any more questions?”

  A man in the back wearing a blazer that screamed New York and a sneer that screamed Yankee even louder, asked, “Don’t you agree that valuable time was lost due to the incompetence of the Atlanta Police Department?”

  Amanda’s eyes found the man, and she gave him one of her special smiles. “At this point in time, we’re more focused on finding Emma Campano than we are on pointing fingers.”

  “But wouldn’t—”

  Amanda cut him off. “You’ve had your turn. Give the others a chance.”

  Will heard some of the more seasoned local reporters snicker. For his part, Will was more interested in Abigail Campano. She was searching in her purse again, her head down. She was leaning too far forward in the chair. For just a moment, it seemed like she might fall to the floor, but Paul caught her at the last moment, putting his arm around her, shoring her up. He whispered something in her ear and Abigail numbly nodded her head. She looked up at the people crowding in on her, the crush of humanity seeking to drain every emotion from her face. Her mouth opened for air. The camera flashes blinked wildly. Will could almost hear the reporters trying to come up with adjectives for the captions: devastated, crushed, mournful, broken. Amanda’s plan had worked beautifully. Abigail had swayed them all without even saying a word.