Eleven fifty-eight.
It was almost midnight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sara listened to the kitchen clock tick as the hands moved past midnight. She had been sitting at the table staring at the pile of dirty dishes stacked in and around the sink for longer than she cared to remember. It wasn’t just lethargy that kept her rooted to the chair. Her mother’s kitchen makeover included two dishwashers that were so modern it was impossible to tell whether or not they were running, yet she still insisted on hand washing her china and all the pots and pans. Or, insisted that Sara do the chore, which made Cathy’s anachronistic ways even more outrageous.
The mindless task should have been a welcome end to Sara’s day. Working at Grady Hospital was like trying to stand still on a spinning merry-go-round. The flow of patients never ebbed, and Sara generally was juggling twenty cases at any given time. Between consultations and her usual workload, she saw an average of fifty to sixty patients during any twelve-hour shift. Slowing all this down, focusing on just one patient at a time, should have been an easier task, but Sara found that her mind worked differently now.
She realized that the constant pressure of the ER was a gift in many ways. When Sara had lived in Grant County, her life had taken on a far more leisurely pace. She usually ate breakfast with Jeffrey in the morning. Two or three times a week, they had supper with her family. Sara was the team doctor for the local high school football team. She helped coach volleyball in the summer. Her free time was infinite if she managed her schedule right. Going to the grocery store could take several hours if she ran into a friend. She clipped articles from magazines to share with her sister. She’d even joined her mother’s book club, until they started reading too many serious books to make it fun anymore.
By contrast, the fast pace of her work in Atlanta kept Sara from thinking about her life too much. Usually by the time she finished dictating her charts, all she could do was drag herself home and take a bath before falling asleep on the couch. Her days off were equally wasted with what she now saw was busywork. Her chores were something to get out of the way quickly. She scheduled lunches and dinners so that she didn’t have too much time alone with herself. Alone with her thoughts.
All of her usual crutches had disappeared in the basement of Brock’s funeral home. An autopsy certainly required a great deal of attention, but after a point, the motions were rote. Measure, weigh, biopsy, record. Neither Allison Spooner nor Jason Howell had left any remarkable clues in their deaths. The only thing that bound them together was the knife that had been used to kill them. The stab wounds were nearly identical—each made by a small, sharp blade that had been twisted before it was removed to ensure maximum damage.
As for Tommy Braham, Sara had found only one item that stood out: the boy had a small metal spring in the front pocket of his jeans, the type that you usually found in a ballpoint pen.
The hall light snapped on. Cathy yelled, “Those dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.”
“Yes, Mama.” Sara glared at the kitchen sink. Hare had come for dinner, but she guessed the spread put on was really intended for Will. Cathy loved cooking for an appreciative audience and Will certainly fit that bill. Her mother had used every piece of china in the house, serving coffee in teacups with saucers, which Sara thought was very sweet until her mother informed the table that Sara was going to wash every last piece. Hare had brayed like a donkey at the expression on her face.
“Try twitching your nose while you stare at them,” Tessa offered as she came into the kitchen. She was dressed in a billowing yellow nightgown that formed a tent over her belly.
“You could always offer to help.”
“I read in People magazine that dishwater is bad for the baby.” She opened the refrigerator and stared at the mountains of food inside. “You should’ve watched the movie with us. It was funny.”
Sara sat back in her chair. She wasn’t up for a romantic comedy right now. “Who called a while ago?”
Tess pushed around the Tupperware containers lining the shelves. “Frank’s ex. You remember Maxine?” Sara nodded. “He’s still refusing to go to the hospital.”
Frank had suffered a mild heart attack at the police station this afternoon. Fortunately, Hare was down the street at the diner or things might have been a lot worse. Five years ago, Sara would have rushed to Frank’s side. Today, when she had heard the news at the funeral home, all she could muster was sadness. “What did Maxine want?”
“Same as usual. To complain about Frank. He’s a stubborn old coot.” Tessa put a tub of Cool Whip on the table and went back to the fridge. “You all right?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Me too. Being pregnant’s hard work.” She sat down across from Sara with a leg of fried chicken in her hand. She scooped it into the Cool Whip.
“Please tell me you’re not going to eat that.”
Tessa offered her the leg.
Despite her better judgment, Sara tried the ungodly mix. “Wow. It’s sort of salty and sweet at the same time.” She passed the leg back to her sister.
“I know, right?” Tessa dipped it into the tub again and took a bite. She chewed thoughtfully. “You know, I pray for you every night.”
Sara laughed before she could catch herself. She apologized as quickly as she could. “I’m sorry. I just …”
“Just what?”
She thought now was as good a time as any for the truth. “I didn’t think you really believed in all that.”
“I’m a missionary, you dumbass. What do you think I’ve been doing with my life for the last three years?”
Sara struggled to dig herself out of an ever-deepening hole. “I thought you wanted to go to Africa and help children.” She didn’t know what else to say. Her sister had always enjoyed life. Sometimes it felt like Tessa was enjoying it for both of them. Sara had always had her mind on school and then work. Meanwhile, Tessa dated whom she pleased, slept with whoever struck her fancy, and never made apologies for any of it. “You have to admit that you’re not a typical missionary.”
“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but you’ve got to believe in something.”
“It’s hard to believe in a God who would let my husband die in my arms.”
“You can’t fall off the floor, Sissy. If somebody throws you a rope, then you better start climbing.”
Cathy had told Sara as much when she’d first lost Jeffrey. “I’m glad you’ve found something that gives you peace.”
“I think you’ve found something, too.” Tessa had finished the chicken leg, but she used the bone to spoon up more Cool Whip. “You’re different from when you first got here. You’re doing the work that you want to do.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Where’s Will?”
Sara groaned. “Please don’t start that again.”
“The next time you see him, take that band out of your hair. You look prettier with it down.”
“Please, please stop.”
Tessa reached out and took her hand. “Can I tell you something?”
“As long as it’s not advice on chasing after a married man.”
She squeezed Sara’s hand. “I’m really in love with my husband.”
Sara gave a careful “Okay.”
“I know you think Lem is boring and too earnest and too self-righteous, and believe me, he can be all those things, but a thousand times a day, I hear a song, or I think of something funny, or Daddy says one of his stupid puns, and the first thing that comes into my head is ‘I want to tell Lem about this.’ And I know that halfway around the world, he’s thinking the same thing.” She paused. “That’s what love is, Sara, when there are so many things about you that you only want one person in the world to know.”
Sara remembered how that felt. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket.
Tessa laughed. “Good Lord, I’m gonna start crying. When Lem gets home, he’s gonna think I’m some kind of basket case.”
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br /> Sara put her hand over Tessa’s. “I’m glad you’ve found someone.” Her words were genuine. She could see that her sister was happy. “You deserve to be loved.”
Tessa smiled knowingly. “So do you.”
Sara chuckled. “I walked right into that.”
“I’d better get to bed.” She groaned as she stood. “Wash your hands. You smell like chicken and Cool Whip.”
Sara smelled her hands. Her sister was right. She stared again at the full sink, thinking she might as well start on the dishes so she could go to bed. She groaned as loudly as Tessa had when she got up from the table. Her back was hurting her from leaning over all day. Her eyes were tired. She rummaged under the cabinet for the dish liquid, hoping that her mother was out so she would have a legitimate excuse to leave the dishes until morning.
“Crap,” Sara mumbled, finding the Dawn behind a full box of dishwashing powder that her mother had never opened. She heard footsteps in the hall. “Did you come back for the Cool Whip?” she asked. Tessa didn’t answer, but Sara was sure that she was there. “Don’t tell me you’re here to help.” She went into the hall and saw not Tessa, but Will Trent.
“Hey.”
He stood in the center of the hall. His leather briefcase was at his side. There was something different about him that Sara couldn’t quite put her finger on. He looked the same. He was even wearing the same clothes she’d seen him in for the last two days. There was definitely something wrong, though. He had a sadness about him that cut straight through.
She waved him into the kitchen. “Come on in.” Sara put the dish liquid on the counter. Will hovered in the kitchen doorway.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your sister let me in. I was staring through the window in the door trying to figure out if y’all were still awake. I know it’s late.” He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed. “It’s really late.”
“Is everything okay?”
He nervously moved his briefcase from one hand to the other, then back again. “Please tell your mother I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner. We had a lot to do, and I—”
“It’s all right. She understands.”
“Did the autopsies—” He stopped again, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. His hair was wet from the rain. “I was thinking while I was driving over here that maybe Jason’s murder was a copycat.”
“No,” she told him. “The wounds were identical.” Sara paused. Obviously, something awful had happened. “Let’s sit down, okay?”
“That’s all right, I—”
She sat down at the table. “Come on. What’s wrong?”
He glanced back toward the front door. She could tell he didn’t want to be here, but he seemed incapable of leaving.
Sara finally took his hand and pulled him to the chair. He sat, the briefcase in his lap. “I’m sorry about this.”
She leaned forward, resisting the urge to hold his hand. “Sorry for what?”
He swallowed again. She let him speak in his own time. His voice was low in the large room: “Faith had her baby.”
Sara put her hand to her mouth. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Both of them are fine.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket and showed her a picture of a red-faced newborn in a pink knit hat. “I guess it’s a girl.”
Faith had given the baby’s weight as well as her name in the message. Sara told him, “ ‘Emma Lee.’ ”
“Eight pounds, six ounces.”
“Will—”
“I found this.” He put the briefcase on the table and opened the locks. She saw a stack of papers, an evidence bag with a red seal. He pulled a college notebook with a blue plastic cover from one of the pockets. Black fingerprint powder spotted the cover. “I tried to clean it up,” he said, wiping the grime on the front of his sweater. “I’m sorry. It was in Allison’s car and I …” He flipped through the pages, showing her the scrawled handwriting. “I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t.”
She realized that Will hadn’t looked at her once since walking into the room. He had such an air of defeat about him, as if every word that came from his mouth caused him pain.
Sara’s purse was on the counter. She got up and found her reading glasses. She told Will, “Mama fixed a plate for you. Why don’t you eat something and I’ll start on this?”
He stared at the notebook in front of him. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You’ve already missed supper. If you don’t eat that food, my mother will never forgive you.”
“I really can’t—”
Sara opened the warming drawer. Her mother had cooked for an army again, this time roast beef, potatoes, collards, green beans, and snap peas. The cornbread was wrapped in aluminum foil. Sara put the plate in front of Will, then went back to get silverware and a napkin. She poured a glass of iced tea and found some lemon in the refrigerator. While she was up, she turned on the oven so that she could warm the cherry cobbler sitting on the counter.
She sat down across from Will and opened the notebook. She looked at him over her glasses. He hadn’t moved. “Eat,” she said.
“I really—”
“That’s the deal,” she told him. “You eat. I read.” She stared at him, making it clear that she wasn’t going to back down.
Reluctantly, Will picked up the fork. She waited until he had taken a bite of potatoes to open the spiral-bound notebook.
“Her name’s on the inside of the cover with the date, August first.” Sara went to the first page. “ ‘August first. Day one.’ ” She thumbed through the pages. “Each entry has the same format. Day two, day three …” She flipped to the back. “All the way to day one hundred four.”
Will didn’t comment. He was eating, but she could tell he was having difficulty swallowing. Sara could not imagine his frustration over having to have the journal read to him. He clearly took it as a personal failure. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but obviously, asking for Sara’s help had taken so much out of him that she couldn’t risk pushing him any further.
She returned to the first page. “ ‘Day one,’ ” she repeated. “ ‘Prof. C was sarcastic today. Cried later for about twenty minutes. Just couldn’t stop. Was really annoyed in Dr. K’s class because D behind me kept passing notes to V and I couldn’t concentrate because they kept laughing.’ ”
She turned the page. “ ‘Day two. Cut myself shaving my leg pretty bad. Hurt all day. Was two minutes late for work but L didn’t say anything. Felt paranoid all day that he was going to yell at me. Can’t take him being mad.’ ”
Sara kept reading, page after page of Allison’s thoughts on L at the diner and J who had forgotten that they were supposed to meet for lunch. Every notation described Allison’s feelings about the situation, but never in florid detail. She was either happy or sad or depressed. She cried, usually for a period of time that seemed unusually long given the circumstances. Despite the emotional revelations, there was something clinical about the telling, as if the girl was an observer watching her life go by.
Getting through the entire journal took over an hour. Will finished his supper, then ate most of the cobbler. He folded his hands on the table and stared straight ahead at the wall. He paced until he realized the distraction slowed down her reading. When Sara’s voice started to falter, he got her a glass of ice water. Eventually, he noticed the dishes in the sink, and she read over her shame as he turned on the faucet and started cleaning. Her legs started to cramp from sitting so long. Sara ended up standing by him at the sink, so at least there was the appearance of her helping. Will had made it through all the pots and pans and was starting on the china when Sara finally reached the last entry.
“ ‘Day one hundred four. Work was all right. Concentration bad all day. Slept nine hours last night. Took a two-hour nap during lunch. Should have studied. Felt guilty and depressed all day. No word from J. I guess he hates me now. Can’t blame him.’ ” She looked up at Will. “That’s it.”
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nbsp; He glanced up from the bread plate in his hands. “I counted all the pages. There are two hundred fifty.”
She checked the front cover, noting the page count. The girl hadn’t torn out any pages. Sara told him, “She stopped writing two weeks before she died.”
“Something happened two weeks ago that she didn’t want to write down.”
Sara put the notebook on the table and grabbed a towel. Will was doing a much more thorough job than Sara ever had. He changed out the water often and dried everything as he went along. There wasn’t much space left on the counters, so he’d made educated guesses about where things went. Sara would have to go back through and put the pots and pans in their proper place, but she didn’t want to do that in front of Will now.
He saw the towel in her hands. “I’ve got this.”
“Let me help.”
“I think you’ve helped enough.” She thought he was going to leave it at that, but Will told her, “It’s been worse today than usual.”
“Stress is a contributing factor—when you get tired or if something emotional happens.”
He scrubbed hard at the plate in his hands. Sara saw that he hadn’t bothered to roll up his sleeves. The cuffs of his sweater were soaked. He said, “I’ve been trying to dig a new sewer line to my house. That’s why my laundry is behind.”
Sara had been expecting a non sequitur, but she’d hoped he could hold off for a few moments longer. “My father built this house with money from people who try to do their own plumbing.”
“Maybe he can give me some pointers. I’m pretty sure the trench I started is filled in by now.”
“You didn’t use a trench box?” Sara stopped drying the plate. “That’s dangerous. You shouldn’t go past four feet without shoring up the sides.”
He gave her a sideways glance.
“I’m my father’s daughter. Call me when you’re back in Atlanta. I know my way around a backhoe.”
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