A Grant County Collection (123 page)

Sara sat on the front porch, talking on the phone to her mother. Jeffrey had called half an hour ago and said he was just crossing the Grant County line, but she wasn't going to feel safe until he was home. He had told her he needed to talk to her about something, and Sara guessed it was the same thing that had been bothering her for the last few days. She couldn't keep going on like this. Something had to give.

Her mother sounded exasperated. 'Are you listening to me?'

'Yes, Mama,' Sara lied.

'He told me that he'd fixed the automatic sprinkler. Half the plants are dead.'

'I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose.'

'We've been home less than a week and he still hasn't offered a credible explanation.'

'I'm sure he meant to fix the sprinkler.'

'Sara,' Cathy began, and Sara braced herself for a lecture. Surprisingly, her mother offered, 'Do you want me to come back over? I can be there in five minutes.'

Sara loved her mother, but Cathy had been with her practically twenty-four hours a day over the last week. She needed time alone to think. 'Jeffrey will be home soon.'

'You sound so distant. Is it the lawsuit?'

'No,' Sara answered, but the word brought a sour taste to her mouth. Buddy Conford had called two days ago to tell Sara that Global Indemnity was settling with the Powells. The parents would get two million dollars for their son's death, barely enough to cover Jimmy's hospital and lab fees. Buddy had tried to make a joke about how rare it was that an insurance company was actually paying off somebody's medical bills, but Sara hadn't been in the mood for humor.

'If it's not the lawsuit, what is it?'

'Mama ...'

Obviously, she'd had enough. 'Sara Ann Linton, I am your mother, and I know when something is bothering you.'

Sara let out a stream of breath between her teeth.

Cathy cut straight to the heart of the matter. 'Did you hear from the adoption agency?'

'Yes,' she said. The social worker had left a message on the machine that morning while Sara was at her parents' house. She'd come home to find the red button flashing, but had let three hours pass before she pressed play. It was the same thing that kept her from checking the mailbox or listening to the voice mail on her cell phone. Sara had waited so long to hear that there was a child out there for them, but now that the moment was at hand, she could not bring herself to reach out.

'And?' Cathy prompted. 'What did she say?'

'She said that they have a nine-month-old boy,' Sara answered. 'He's mixed race, Asian and African-American.'

'Oh, honey, that's wonderful!'

'Is it?' Sara asked, feeling like her heart was going to break. Just saying the words had conjured up the creamy skin and wiry hair – the way his little feet would curve into the palm of her hand. 'What am I going to do, Mama, stay up with a baby all night while I wait for the phone to ring so some stranger can tell me my husband's dead?'

'Stop being ridiculous,' Cathy snapped. 'Cops have families, Sara.
Plumbers
have families. You take a risk every time you get behind the wheel of a car or go to the post office. You can't put your life on hold because you're scared of something that
might
happen.'

'Jeffrey's so stubborn,' she argued. 'He never listens.'

'Welcome to marriage, honey. I'm sorry we can't organize you a parade.'

Sara put her hand to her neck, tried to coax the words that needed to come. 'What if ...' she tried. 'What if ...' She dropped her head in her hand, finally voicing her darkest concern. 'What if I can't take care of him, Mama? What if he gets sick or injured and I can't ...'

Her mother was gentle, but stern. 'It is not your fault that Jimmy Powell died of leukemia.'

'What if my baby gets sick?'

'I know you pretend you don't believe in these things, but you'll know the first time you hold your child that he is a gift on loan from God. For however long that gift lasts, you cherish it, you hold it to your heart, and you do the best you can to never let go.'

'I just can't ...' Sara thought about Jimmy Powell the last time she had seen him alive. His eyes had lit up when Sara entered his hospital room. He'd always had such a crush on her. She was as close as he would ever come to having a girlfriend. He would never steal a kiss from a girl after school or make out in the back of his father's car. He would never have a wife or a child. His mother would never have grandchildren. For the rest of her life, Beckey Powell would have nothing but lost milestones to remind her of her dead son. Other children would go to school. Other families would take holidays together. Beckey would only have an empty calendar, days without Jimmy stretching before her like a bottomless pit.

Cathy's tone softened. 'What did you tell the social worker?'

'That I would need to talk to Jeffrey.'

'You call her back right now and tell them you want that baby.'

'Mama, I don't know.'

'I do,' Cathy interrupted. 'I'm hanging up the phone so you can call her.' She paused. 'Call me right back, okay? I want to hear all about my first grandbaby.'

The line went dead, but Sara didn't make the call. Now that she had time alone, she found herself incapable of putting together any logical thoughts. Her mind kept jumping from Jimmy Powell, to Jeffrey, to the baby that was waiting for them. She sat motionless, staring at the street until her BMW pulled up in front of the house.

Jeffrey waved at her through the windshield, giving a half-smile. He had told her there was something he needed to tell her, something important. This wasn't just her decision. Maybe he was having second thoughts, too.

Sara put the phone down on the steps and walked toward the car.

He opened the door, saying, 'Man, I'm sick of driving.' He saw her face, asked, 'What's wrong?'

'The adoption agency called.'

He closed the distance between them, scooping her up into his arms. 'A baby!' he yelled. 'Oh, God, Sara.' He spun her around. 'I can't believe it. I can't believe—' He was laughing, trying to catch his breath. 'Is it a girl or a boy?'

'A boy.'

'Ha!' he said, spinning her around again.

Sara laughed, too, caught up in his excitement. 'You'll make me dizzy.'

He put her down, cupped her face in his hands. 'I've got a boy!' He kissed her. 'This is it, Sara. This is the beginning of our lives.' He kissed her again, deeper this time. 'God, I love you.'

She could see tears in his eyes, the absolute joy he felt at the news. Suddenly, all of her doubts fell away, meaningless distractions. She wanted a child with this man, wanted nothing more in her life than to raise their baby together.

He asked, 'Can we pick him up tonight? Right now?'

'Tomorrow,' she said, laughing at his eagerness. 'We have to meet at the agency and start the foster care procedures.'

'Paperwork,' he groaned, but he was still smiling. 'Oh, God, Sara. I love you so much.'

She put her hand to his cheek. 'I know.'

He laughed again, almost a whoop. 'What do we do now?'

'They said they already sent the forms,' she told him. 'Check the mailbox. I'll get the phone.'

She was halfway up the front walk when he yelled at her. 'Hey, foxy mama!'

Sara turned around, her face blushing red. 'Hush,' she warned him. 'The neighbors.'

'Call them all!' he yelled. 'We're gonna be parents!'

He opened the mailbox. There was a flash of light. Jeffrey flew up and back, his body twisting as the air cracked from the explosion.

Sara was running toward him before her mind processed what she had seen.

A bomb. Somebody had put a bomb in the mailbox.

'Jeffrey!' she gasped, falling down on her knees beside him. Chunks of metal were everywhere, mail flying all around them. She saw his open chest – bone, muscle, beating heart.

'Help!' she screamed. 'Somebody help me!'

He opened his mouth and blood pooled out. His right arm lay on the asphalt a few feet away, torn from his shoulder. She pressed her hands to the open wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. Blood poured between her fingers, soaked her hands.

'No,' she whispered. 'No.'

'You . . .' he said, his teeth chattering.

She pressed her lips to his, kissed him on his mouth, his face. 'Oh, my love . . . my love ....'

'You . . .' he whispered, blindly reaching for her. She could see the pain in his eyes, knew that his life was slipping away.

'Don't leave me,' she pleaded, squeezing his hand. 'Oh, God, Jeffrey – please don't leave me.'

'You . . .'

'No,' she begged, willing him to hold on. 'Please! I love you. I love you.' Why had she always teased him, never telling him the words? 'Jeffrey, I love you.'

'Only ...'

She kissed him again, tasting his blood in her mouth. This couldn't be happening. He could not leave her.

'Only ...' he tried, blood gurgling in his throat. 'Only . . . ever . . .'

'Only ever what, baby? Only what?'

'You ...' He gasped, choking. '... Only ... ever ... you ...'

His body relaxed. The blood stopped spurting from his shoulder. Sara realized that their neighbors had come. They stood in a circle around her, not knowing what to do. She screamed, ordering them to go away. She didn't want them to see him like this, didn't want anyone to touch him. The ambulance came, then the police; his men, his friends. She railed against them all, begging them to leave. She lifted Jeffrey up, holding him in her arms, refusing to let them near. She held on to him like this, keening like a child, until her mother came and made Sara let them take him away.

There are many people to thank for helping me with this novel. My agent, Victoria Sanders, has been there from the beginning. Susan Sandon, Kate Elton and Kate Miciak – as always – were invaluable. I would also like to single out Rina Gill; my champion, my Bossy Sheila, the best publicist and friend a gal could hope for. Richard Cable belongs in here somewhere: thank you so much for all you do. Claire Round, Adam Humphrey and Rob Waddington deserve special praise as well. It's so brilliant to work with people whose company you really enjoy. Dave Parrish and Simon Littlewood, you are both international superstars. Richard Ogle again did a great job on design. Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, thanks for keeping the wheels turning. Speaking of which – Gail Rebuck, you have my undying gratitude for putting together the most well-oiled machine in publishing. And spea1king of well oiled . . . Simon Master, you are most certainly missed.

Sue Kurylowicz was the winner of the 'Get Slaughtered!' contest, granting her the dubious honor of having her name appear in this book. Sue, honey, you
did
ask to be bad ...

On the medical side of things, David Harper, MD, was again a huge help. It's not many people who will keep listening when you begin a conversation with, 'So, I want to burn someone alive . . .' Family-wise, I want to thank my daddy for teaching me the important things early on, and to DA, as always, you are my heart.

I've written a little note for my readers that can be found at karinslaughter.com/letter. Please note that this letter contains major spoilers for this novel, so don't ruin it for youself and save it for after you've read the book.

Coming soon . . . Karin Slaughter's breathtaking new novel

Read on for an exclusive extract . . .

Abigail Campano sat in her car parked on the street outside her own house. She was looking up at the mansion they had remodeled almost ten years ago. The house was huge – too much space for three people, especially since one of them, God willing, would be going off to college in less than a year. What would she do with herself once her daughter was busy starting a new life of her own? It would be Abigail and Paul again, just like before Emma was born.

The thought made her stomach clench.

Paul's voice crackled through the car speakers as he came back on the telephone. 'Babe, listen—' he began, but her mind was already wandering as she stared up at the house. When had her life gotten so small? When had the most pressing questions of her day turned into concerns about other people, other things: Were Paul's shirts ready at the tailor? Did Emma have volleyball practice tonight? Did the decorator order the new desk for the office? Did somebody remember to let out the dog or was she going to spend the next twenty minutes wiping up two gallons of pee off the kitchen floor?

Abigail swallowed, her throat tightening.

'I don't think you're listening to me,' Paul said.

'I'm listening.' She turned off the car. There was a click, then through the magic of technology, Paul's voice transferred from the car speakers to the cell phone. Abigail pushed open the door, tossing her keys into her purse. She cradled the phone to her ear as she checked the mailbox. Electric bill, Amex, Emma's school fees . . .

Paul paused for a breath and she took that as her cue.

'If she doesn't mean anything to you, why did you give her a car? Why did you take her to a place where you knew my friends might show up?' Abigail said the words as she walked up the driveway but she didn't feel them deep in her gut like she had the first few times this had happened. Her only question then had been, 'Why am I not enough?'

Now, her only question was, 'Why are you such a needy bastard?'

'I just needed a break,' he told her, another old standard.

She dug her hand into her purse for her keys as she climbed the porch stairs. She had left the club because of him, skipped her weekly massage and lunch with her closest friends because she was mortified that they had all seen Paul out with some bottle-blonde twenty-year-old he'd had the gall to take to their favorite restaurant. She didn't know if she would ever be able to show her face there again.

Abigail said, 'I'd like a break, too, Paul. How would you like it if I took a break? How would you like it if you were talking to your friends one day and you knew something was going on, and you had to practically beg them to tell you what was wrong before they finally told you that they saw
me
with another man?'

'I'd find out his fucking name and I'd go to his house and I'd kill him.'

Why did part of her always feel flattered when he said things like that? As the mother of a teenage girl, she had trained herself to look for the positive aspects of even the most savage remarks, but this was ridiculous. Besides, Paul's knees were so bad that he could barely take the garbage down to the curb on trash day. The biggest shock in all of this should have been that he could still find a twenty-year-old to screw him.

Abigail slid her key into the old metal lock on the front door. The hinges squeaked like in a horror movie.

The door was already open.

'Wait a minute,' she said, as if interrupting, though Paul hadn't been talking. 'The front door is open.'

'What?'

He hadn't been listening to her, either. 'I said the front door is already open,' she repeated, pushing it open wider.

'Aw, Jesus. School's only been back for three weeks and she's already skipping again?'

'Maybe the cleaners—' She stopped, her foot crunching glass. Abigail looked down, feeling a sharp, cold panic building somewhere at the base of her spine. 'There's glass all over the floor. I just stepped in it.'

Paul said something she didn't hear.

'Okay,' Abigail answered, automatic. She turned around. One of the tall side windows by the front door was broken. Her mind flashed on a hand reaching in, unlatching the bolt, opening the door.

She shook her head. In broad daylight? In this neighborhood? They couldn't have more than three people over at a time without the batty old woman across the street calling to complain about the noise.

'Abby?'

She was in some kind of bubble, her hearing muffled. She told her husband, 'I think someone broke in.'

Paul barked, 'Get out of the house! They could still be there!'

She dropped the mail onto the hall table, catching her reflection in the mirror. She had been playing tennis for the last two hours. Her hair was still damp, stray wisps plastered to the back of her neck where her ponytail was starting to come loose. The house was cool, but she was sweating.

'Abby?' Paul yelled. 'Get out right now. I'm calling the police on the other line.'

She turned, mouth open to say something – what? – when she saw the bloody footprint on the floor.

'Emma,' she whispered, dropping the phone as she bolted up the stairs toward her daughter's bedroom.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, shocked at the broken furniture, the splintered glass on the floor. Her vision tunneled and she saw Emma lying in a bloody heap at the end of the hallway. A man stood over her, a knife in his hand.

For a few seconds, Abigail was too stunned to move, her breath catching, throat closing. The man started toward her. Her eyes couldn't focus on any one thing. She went back and forth between the knife clenched in his bloody fist and her daughter's body on the floor.

'No—'

The man lunged toward her. Without thinking, Abigail stepped back. She tripped, falling down the stairs, hip and shoulder blades thumping the hard wood as she slid head first. There was a chorus of pain from her body: elbow hitting the stiles on the railing, anklebone cracking against the wall, a searing burn in her neck as she tried to keep her head from popping against the sharp tread of the stairs. She landed in the foyer, the breath knocked out of her lungs.

The dog. Where was the stupid dog?

Abigail rolled onto her back, wiping blood out of her eyes, feeling broken glass grind into her scalp.

The man was rushing down the stairs, the knife still in his hand. Abigail didn't think. She kicked up as he came off the last tread, lodging the toe of her sneaker somewhere between his asshole and his scrotum. She was far off the mark, but it didn't matter. The man stumbled, cursing as he went down on one knee.

She rolled onto her stomach and scrambled toward the door. He grabbed her leg, yanking her back so hard that a white-hot pain shot up her spine and into her shoulder. She clutched at the glass on the floor, trying to find a piece to hurt him with but the tiny shards only ripped open the skin of her hand. She started kicking at him, legs flailing wildly behind her as she inched toward the front door.

'Stop it!' he screamed, both his hands clamping down on her ankles. 'God dammit, I said stop!'

She stopped, trying to catch her breath, trying to think. Her head was still ringing, her mind unable to focus. Two feet ahead, the front door was still open, offering a view down the gentle slope of the walk to her car parked on the street. She twisted around so she could face her attacker. He still held her ankles to keep her from kicking. The knife was beside him on the floor. His eyes were a sinister black – two pieces of granite showing beneath heavy lids. His broad chest rose and fell as he panted for breath. Blood soaked his shirt.

Emma's blood.

Abigail tensed her stomach muscles and lunged up toward him, fingers straight out as her nails stabbed into his eyes.

He slapped the side of her ear with his open palm but she kept at it, digging her thumbs into his eye sockets, feeling them start to give. His hands clamped around her wrists, forcing her fingers away. He was twenty times stronger than her, but Abigail was thinking of Emma now, that split second when she'd seen her daughter upstairs, the way her body was positioned, her shirt pushed up over her small breasts. She was barely recognizable, her head a bloody, red mass. He had taken everything, even her daughter's beautiful face.

'You bastard!' Abigail screamed, feeling like her arms were going to break as he pried her hands away from his eyes. She bit his fingers until teeth met with bone. The man screamed, but still held on. This time when Abigail brought up her knee, it made contact squarely between his legs. The man's bloody eyes went wide and his mouth opened, releasing a huff of sour breath. His grip loosened but still did not release. As he fell onto his back, he pulled Abigail along with him.

Automatically, her hands wrapped around his thick neck. She could feel the cartilage in his throat move, the rings that lined the esophagus bending like soft plastic. His grip went tighter around her wrists but her elbows were locked now, her shoulders in line with her hands as she pressed all of her weight into the man's neck. Lightning bolts of pain shot through her shaking arms and shoulders. Her hands cramped as if thousands of tiny needles stabbed into her nerves. She could feel vibrations through her palms as he tried to speak. Her vision tunneled again. She saw starbursts of red dotting his eyes, his wet lips opening, tongue protruding. She was sitting on him, straddling him, and she became aware of the fact that she could feel the man's hipbones pressing into the meat of her thighs as he arched up, trying to buck her off.

Unbidden, she thought of Paul, the night they had made Emma – how Abigail had known, just known, that they were making a baby. She had straddled her husband like this, wanting to make sure she got every drop of him to make their perfect child.

And Emma
was
perfect . . . her sweet smile, her open face. The way she trusted everyone she met no matter how many times Paul warned her.

Emma lying upstairs. Dead. Blood pooled around her. Underwear yanked down. Her poor baby. What had she gone through? What humiliation had she suffered at the hands of this man?

Abigail felt a sudden warmness between her legs. The man had urinated on them both. He stared at her – really saw her – then his eyes glassed over. His arms fell to the side, hands popping against the glass-strewn tile. His body went limp, mouth gaping open.

Abigail sat back on her heels, looking at the lifeless man in front of her.

She had killed him.