The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  “I can’t compete with her,” Sara admitted. “And I can’t be with you if I’m worried about you wanting to be with her.”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be with her.” She waited for him to say that he wanted to be with Sara. But he didn’t.

  She tried again. “I can’t be second place. I can’t know that no matter how much I might need you, you’ll always go running to Angie first.”

  Again, she waited for him to say something—anything—that would convince her that she was wrong. Seconds ticked by. It felt like an eternity.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet that she could barely hear him. “She cried wolf a lot.” He licked his lips. “When we were little, I mean.” He glanced up to make sure Sara was listening, then looked back down at their hands. “There was this one time when we were placed together. It was a foster home. More like a factory farm. They were doing it for the money. At least the wife was. The husband was doing it for the teenage girls.”

  Sara felt her throat tighten. She struggled against the impulse to feel sorry for Angie.

  “So, like I said, Angie cried wolf a lot. When she accused the guy of molesting her, the caseworker didn’t believe her. Didn’t even open a file. Didn’t listen to me when I said she wasn’t lying this time.” His shoulders went up in a shrug. “I would hear her at night sometimes. Screaming when he hurt her. He hurt her a lot. None of the other kids cared. I guess they were happy it wasn’t happening to them. But for me …” His words trailed off. He watched his thumb move along the back of her fingers. “I knew that they’d have to open an investigation if one of us got hurt. Or hurt ourselves.” He tightened his grip around her hand. “So, I told Angie, this is what I’m going to do. And I did it. I took a razor blade out of the medicine cabinet and I cut myself. I knew it couldn’t be a half measure. You’ve seen it.” He gave a strained laugh. “It’s not a half measure.”

  “No,” she agreed. It was hard to understand how he’d managed not to pass out from the pain.

  “So,” Will said. “That got us out of that home and they shut it down and the people running it weren’t allowed to foster kids anymore.” He looked up, blinking a few times to clear his eyes. “You know, one of the things Angie said to me the other night was that I would never do that for you—never cut myself like that—and I think she’s right.” There was a sadness in his smile. “Not because I don’t care about you, but because you would never put me in that kind of situation. You would never ask me to make that choice.”

  Sara looked into his eyes. The sun streaming in through the windows turned his eyelashes white. She could not imagine what he’d been through, the level of desperation that had driven him to take that razor in hand.

  “I should let you get on with your day.” He leaned over and kissed her hand, letting his lips linger for a few seconds. When he straightened up, something about him had changed. His voice was firmer, more determined. “You have to know that if you ever need me, I’ll be there. No matter what else happens. I’ll be there.”

  There was something final in what he said, as if everything was settled. He almost seemed relieved.

  “Will—”

  “It’s all right.” He gave one of his awkward laughs. “I guess you’re immune to my astounding charm.”

  Sara felt a lump in her throat. She couldn’t believe that he was giving in so easily. She wanted him to fight for this. She wanted him to pound his fist on the table and tell her there was no way this was over, that he wasn’t going to give her up that easily.

  But he didn’t. He just slid his hand out of hers and stood up. “Thank you. I know that sounds stupid.” He glanced at her, then at the door. “Just—thank you.”

  She heard his footsteps cross the floor, the noise from the hallway as the door swung open. Sara pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to stop the tears. She couldn’t get past his tone of resignation, his easy acquiescence to what he clearly felt was inevitable. She had no idea what his story about Angie was meant to accomplish. Was Sara supposed to feel sorry for the woman? Was she supposed to find it romantic that Will was ready to kill himself in order to rescue her?

  She realized now that Will was more like Jeffrey than she’d wanted to admit. Maybe Sara had a thing for firemen, not cops. Both men had shown a propensity for running straight into burning buildings. In the last week alone, Will had been shot at by gangsters, threatened by a psychopath, browbeaten by at least three women, emasculated in front of strangers, crammed into the trunk of a car for hours on end, and willingly volunteered himself to go into a situation where he knew there was a high probability that he would be killed. He was so damn intent on rescuing everyone else in the world that Will didn’t realize what he really needed was rescuing from himself. Everyone took advantage of him. Everyone exploited his good graces, his decency, his kindness. No one thought to ask Will what he needed.

  His whole life had been spent in the shadows, the stoic kid sitting in the back of the classroom, afraid to open his mouth for fear of being found out. Angie kept him in the dark because it served her selfish needs. Sara had quickly realized her first time with Will that he’d never been with a woman who really knew how to love him. No wonder he had capitulated so easily when she’d told him it was over. Will had taken it as a given that nothing good in his life would ever last. That was why he had sounded so relieved. His toes had been dangling over the edge. He was too afraid to take the leap because he’d never really fallen.

  Sara felt her mouth open in surprise. She was just as guilty as the rest of them. She had been so desperate for Will to fight for her that it had never occurred to her that Will was waiting for Sara to fight for him.

  She was through the door and running down the hallway before logic could intervene. As usual, the ER was packed. Nurses ran with bags of IVs. Gurneys flew past. Sara sprinted to the elevator. She stabbed the down button a dozen times, silently begging the doors to open. The stairs exited at the back of the hospital. Parking was in the front. Will would be home by the time she ran around the building. Sara looked at her watch, wondering how much time she had wasted feeling sorry for herself. Will was probably halfway to the decks by now. Three structures. Six stories of cars. More if he’d used one of the decks for the university. She should wait in the street. Sara tried to map the roads in her head. Bell. Armstrong. Maybe he had parked at the Grady Detention Center.

  The doors finally opened. George, the security guard, was standing there with his arm resting on his gun. Will was beside him.

  George asked, “Everything okay, Doc?”

  Sara could only nod.

  Will stepped off the elevator, a sheepish look on his face. “I forgot that Betty’s at your place.” He gave that familiar, awkward smile. “At the risk of sounding like a country music singer, you can take my heart, but I can’t let you take my dog.”

  Sara was bumped by an EMT passing behind her. She braced her palms against Will’s chest to keep from falling. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, smiling down at her with a curious look on his face. Who had ever taken up for this man? Not his family, who’d abandoned him to state care. Not the foster parents who’d thought he was expendable. Not the doctors who’d experimented on his busted lip. Not the teachers and social workers who’d taken his dyslexia for stupidity. And especially not Angie, who had so easily gambled with his life. His precious life.

  “Sara?” Will looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

  She slid her hands up to his shoulders. Sara could feel the familiar hard muscle beneath his shirt, the heat from his skin. She had kissed his eyelids this morning. He had delicate lashes, blond and soft. She had teased him, kissing his eyebrows, his nose, his chin, letting her hair drape across his face and chest. How many hours had Sara spent over the last year wondering how the scar above his mouth would feel against her lips? How many nights had she dreamt about waking up in his arms?

  So many hours. So many nights.

  Sara stoo
d on her toes to look him in the eye. “Do you want to be with me?”

  “Yes.”

  She relished the sound of his certainty. “I want to be with you, too.”

  Will shook his head. He looked like he was waiting for the punch line to a very bad joke. “I don’t understand.”

  “It worked.”

  “What worked?”

  “Your astounding charm.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What charm?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  He still didn’t seem to believe her.

  “Kiss me,” she told him. “I changed my mind.”

  To all the librarians in the world

  on behalf of all the kids y’all helped

  grow up to be writers

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, tremendous thanks go to Victoria Sanders, my agent, and my editors Kate Miciak and Kate Elton. Angela Cheng Caplan should be in here somewhere, too. I would also like to thank everyone at my publishing houses for their continued support. Gina Centrello and Libby McGuire, it’s been a pleasure getting to know y’all. Adam Humphrey, I appreciate your letting me kill you. And beat you. And humiliate you. And all the other things Claire takes for granted.

  Thanks to the incomparable Vernon Jordan for regaling me with tales of 1970s Atlanta. You, sir, are a legend. David Harper, this is at least your tenth year of helping me make Sara look like a doctor. As always, I am enormously grateful for your help and apologize for any errors, which were committed in service of story. Special Agent John Heinen, the same goes for you. Any gun mistakes are my own. I have many people to thank at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, including Pete Stuart, Wayne Smith, John Bankhead, and Director Vernon Keenan. Y’all are so generous with your time, and so passionate about what you do, that it’s a pleasure to be in your company. Speaker David Ralston, I appreciate your continued support.

  Daddies don’t get much page time in this book, but I’d like to thank mine for being such a wonderful father. I’d write a story about you, but no one would believe how good you are. And speaking of goodness, DA—as always, you are my heart.

  To my readers, please note that this is a work of fiction. Though I have been an Atlanta resident for more than half my life, I am also a writer, and have changed streets, building design, and neighborhoods to suit my dastardly needs. (Come on, Sherwood Forest, you know you deserve it!)

  BY KARIN SLAUGHTER

  Blindsighted

  Kisscut

  A Faint Cold Fear

  Indelible

  Like a Charm (Editor)

  Faithless

  Triptych

  Beyond Reach

  Fractured

  Undone

  Broken

  Fallen

  Snatched (A Novella)

  Criminal

  KARIN SLAUGHTER is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of twelve novels, including Criminal, Fallen, Broken, Undone, Fractured, Beyond Reach, which was a Publishers Weekly best book of the year, and A Faint Cold Fear, which was named an International Book of the Month selection. She contributed to and edited Like a Charm. She is a native of Georgia, where she currently lives and is working on her next novel.

  www.karinslaughter.com

  Karin Slaughter is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact the Random House Speakers Bureau at 212-572-2013 or rhspeakers@randomhouse.com.

  Read on for an excerpt from Karin Slaughter’s next thriller Criminal

  one

  August 15, 1974

  LUCY BENNETT

  A cinnamon brown Oldsmobile Cutlass crawled up Edgewood Avenue, the windows lowered, the driver hunched down in his seat. The lights from the console showed narrow, beady eyes tracing along the line of girls standing under the street sign. Jane. Mary. Lydia. The car stopped. Predictably, the man tilted up his chin toward Kitty. She trotted over, adjusting her miniskirt as she navigated her spiked heels across the uneven asphalt. Two weeks ago, when Juice had first brought Kitty onto the corner, she’d told the other girls she was sixteen, which probably meant fifteen, though she looked no older than twelve.

  They had all hated her on sight.

  Kitty leaned down into the open window of the car. Her stiff vinyl skirt tipped up like the bottom of a bell. She always got picked first, which was becoming a problem that everyone but Juice could see. Kitty got special favors. She could talk men into doing anything. The girl was fresh, childlike, though like all of them, she carried a kitchen knife in her purse and knew how to use it. Nobody wanted to do what they were doing, but to have another girl—a newer girl—picked over them hurt just as much as if they were all standing on the sidelines at the debutante ball.

  Inside the Oldsmobile, the transaction was quickly negotiated, no haggling because what was on offer was still worth the price. Kitty made the signal to Juice, waited for his nod, then got into the car. The muffler chugged exhaust as the Olds made a wide turn onto a narrow side street. The car shook once as the gear was shoved into park. The driver’s hand flew up, clamped around the back of Kitty’s head, and she disappeared.

  Lucy Bennett turned away, looking up the dark, soulless avenue. No headlights coming. No traffic. No business. Atlanta wasn’t a nighttime town. The last person to leave the Equitable building usually turned off the lights, but Lucy could see the bulbs from the Flatiron glowing clear across Central City Park. If she squinted hard enough, she could find the familiar green of the C&S sign that anchored the business district. The New South. Progress through commerce. The City Too Busy to Hate.

  If there were men out walking these streets tonight, it was with no amount of good on their minds.

  Jane lit a smoke, then tucked the pack back into her purse. She wasn’t the kind to share, but she was certainly the kind to take. Her eyes met Lucy’s. The dead in them was hard to look at. Jane must’ve felt the same. She quickly glanced away.

  Lucy shivered, even though it was the middle of August, heat wafting off the pavement like smoke from a fire. Her feet were sore. Her back ached. Her head was pounding like a metronome. Her gut felt like she’d swallowed a truckload of concrete. Cotton filled her mouth. Her hands felt the constant prick of pins and needles. A clump of her blonde hair had come out in the sink this morning. She had turned nineteen two days ago and already she was an old woman.

  In the side street, the brown Olds shook again. Kitty’s head came up. She wiped her mouth as she got out of the car. No dawdling. No giving the john time to reconsider his purchase. The car drove away before she could shut the door, and Kitty teetered for a moment on the high heels, looking lost, afraid, and then angry. They were all angry. Fury was their refuge, their comfort, the only thing that they could truly call their own.

  Lucy watched Kitty pick her way back toward the corner. She gave Juice the cash, trying to keep her forward momentum, but he caught her arm to make her stop. Kitty spat on the sidewalk, trying to look like she wasn’t terrified as Juice unfolded the wad of cash, counted off each bill. Kitty stood there, waiting. They all waited.

  Finally, Juice lifted his chin. The money was good. Kitty took her place back in the line. She didn’t look at any of the other girls. She just stared blankly into the street, waiting for the next car to roll up, waiting for the next man who would either give her a nod or pass her by. It’d taken two days, tops, for her eyes to develop the same dead look as the rest of the girls. What was going through her mind? Probably the same as Lucy, that familiar chant that rocked her to sleep every night: When-will-this-be-over? When-will-this-be-over? When-will-this-be-over?

  Lucy had been fifteen once. From this distance, she could barely remember that girl. Passing notes in class. Giggling about boys. Rushing home from school every day to watch her soap. Dancing in her room to the Jackson Five with her best friend, Jill Henderson. Lucy was fifteen years old, and then life had opened up like a chasm, and little Lucy had plummeted down, down into the unrelenting darkness.
<
br />   She had started taking speed to lose weight. Just pills at first. Benzedrine, which her friend Jill had found in her mother’s medicine cabinet. They took them sparingly, cautiously, until the feds had gone crazy and banned the pills. The medicine cabinet was empty one day, and the next—or so it seemed—Lucy’s weight ballooned back up to well over one hundred fifty pounds. She was the only overweight kid in school save for Fat George, the boy who picked his nose and sat by himself at the lunch table. Lucy hated him the same way he hated her, the same way she hated her own reflection in the mirror.

  It was Jill’s mother who taught Lucy how to shoot up. Mrs. Henderson wasn’t stupid; she had noticed the missing pills, been pleased to see Lucy finally doing something to get rid of her baby fat. The woman availed herself of the drug for the same reason. She was a nurse at Clayton General Hospital. She walked out of the emergency room with glass vials of Methedrine chattering like teeth in the pocket of her white uniform. Injectable amphetamine, she told Lucy. The same as the pills, only faster.

  Lucy was fifteen years old the first time the needle pierced her skin.

  “Just a little bit at a time,” Mrs. Henderson coached, drawing a red tinge of blood into the syringe, then slowly pressing home the plunger. “You control it. Don’t let it control you.”

  There was no real high, just a lightheadedness, and then of course the welcome loss of appetite. Mrs. Henderson was right. The liquid was faster than the pills, easier. Five pounds. Ten pounds. Fifteen. Then—nothing. So Lucy had redefined her “just a little bit at a time” until she was drawing back not five cc’s, but ten, then ten turned to fifteen, then her head exploded and she was on fire.

  What did she care about after that?