Genesis (50 page)

"You're a good cop, Faith, and I'm glad you're my partner."

There were few things he could have said that would have
stunned her more. "Really?"

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. Before she could
respond, he told her, "If you ever see Angie on top of me like that,
don't give her a warning, all right? Just pull the trigger."

S
ARA STOOD BACK AS THEY ROLLED HER PATIENT OUT OF THE
trauma room. The man had been in a head-on collision with a motorcyclist
who thought red lights were only for cars. The cyclist was
dead, but the man had a good chance thanks to the fact that he was
wearing his seatbelt. Sara was constantly amazed at the number of
people she saw in the Grady ER who believed seatbelts were unnecessary.
She had seen almost as many in the morgue during her years
as coroner for Grant County.

Mary came into the room to clean up the mess for the next patient.
"Good save," she said.

Sara felt herself smiling. Grady saw only the worst of the worst.
She didn't hear that often enough.

"How's that hysterical pregnant cop doing? Mitchell?"

"Faith," Sara supplied. "Good, I guess." She hadn't talked to Faith
since the woman had been airlifted to the emergency room two
weeks ago. Every time Sara thought to pick up the phone to check on
her, something stopped her from making the call. For her part, Faith
hadn't called, either. She was probably embarrassed that Sara had seen
her at such a low moment. For a woman who hadn't been sure
whether or not she was going to keep her baby, Faith Mitchell had
sobbed like a child when she thought she'd lost it.

Mary asked, "Isn't your shift over?"

Sara glanced at the clock. Her shift had ended twenty minutes
ago. "You need help?" She indicated various detritus she'd thrown on
the floor minutes earlier as she'd worked to save her patient's life.

"Go on," Mary told her. "You've been here all night."

"So have you," Sara reminded her, but she didn't have to be told
twice to leave.

Sara walked down the hall toward the doctor's lounge, stepping
aside as gurneys whizzed by. Patients were stacked up like sardines
again, and she ducked under the counter at the nurses' station to take
a short cut away from them. CNN was on the television over the
desk; she saw that the Tom Coldfield case was still in the news.

As big as the story was, Sara found it remarkable that more people
had not come forward to tell their version of events. She hadn't expected
Anna Lindsey to exploit herself for money, but the fact that
the two surviving women were equally as tight-lipped was surprising
in this age of instant movie deals and television exclusives. Sara had
gleaned from the news reports that there was more to the story than
GBI was letting on, but she was hard-pressed to find anyone who was
willing to share the truth.

She certainly could not be faulted for trying. Faith had been incapable
of communicating anything when she'd been brought into the
ER, but Will Trent had been kept overnight for observation. The
kitchen knife had missed all the major arteries, but his tendons were
another story. He was looking at months in physical therapy before
he got back his full range of motion. Despite this, Sara had gone into
his room the next morning with the blatant intent of pumping him
for information. He'd been different with her, and kept pulling up
the bedsheet, finally tucking it under his chin in an oddly chaste
manner, as if Sara had never seen a man's chest before.

Will's wife had shown up a few minutes later, and Sara had realized
instantly that the awkward moment she'd had with Will Trent
on her couch was purely a figment of her imagination. Angie Trent
was striking and sexy in that dangerous-looking way that drives men
to extremes. Standing beside her, Sara had felt slightly less interesting
than the hospital wallpaper. She had made her excuses and left as
quickly as politeness would allow. Men who liked women like Angie
Trent did not like women like Sara.

She was relieved by the revelation, if only slightly disappointed.
It had been nice thinking that a man had found her attractive. Not
that she would do anything about it. Sara would never be able to give
her heart away to another human being the way she had with Jeffrey.
It wasn't that she was incapable of love; she was simply incapable of
repeating that kind of abandon.

"Hey there." Krakauer was walking out of the lounge as she went
in. "You off ?"

"Yes," Sara told him, but the doctor was already down the hall,
staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the patients who were calling
to him.

She went to her locker and spun the dial. She took out her purse
and dropped it on the bench behind her. The zipper gaped open. She
saw the edge of the letter tucked in between her wallet and her keys.

The Letter. The explanation. The excuse. The plea for absolution.
The shifting of blame.

What could the woman who had single-handedly brought about
Jeffrey's death possibly have to say?

Sara took out the envelope. She rubbed it between her fingers.
There was no one else in the lounge. She was alone with her
thoughts. Alone with the diatribe. The ramblings. The juvenile justifications.

What could be said? Lena Adams had worked for Jeffrey. She was
one of his detectives on the Grant County police force. He had covered
for Lena, bailed her out of trouble, and fixed her mistakes, for
over ten years. In return, she had put his life in jeopardy, gotten him
mixed up with the kind of men who killed for sport. Lena had not
planted that bomb or even known about it. There was no court of
law that would condemn her for her actions, but Sara knew—knew
to the core of her being—that Lena was responsible for Jeffrey's
death. It was Lena who had gotten him involved with those bloodless
mercenaries. It was Lena who had put Jeffrey in the way of the men
who murdered him. As usual, Jeffrey had been protecting Lena, and
it had gotten him killed.

And for that, Lena was as guilty as the man who had planted the
bomb. Even guiltier, as far as Sara was concerned, because Sara knew
that Lena's conscience was eased by now. She knew that there were
no charges that could be brought, no punishment to bring down on
her head. Lena would not be fingerprinted or humiliated as they
photographed and strip-searched her. She would not be put into solitary
confinement because the inmates wanted to kill the cop who'd
just been sentenced to prison. She would not feel the needle in her
arm. She would not look out into the viewing area of the death
chamber at the state penitentiary and see Sara sitting there, waiting
for Lena Adams to finally die for her crimes.

She had gotten away with cold blooded murder, and she would
never be punished for it.

Sara tore off the corner of the envelope and slipped her thumb
along the edge, breaking the seal. The letter was on yellow legal paper,
one-sided, each of the three pages numbered. The ink was blue,
probably from a ballpoint pen.

Jeffrey had favored yellow legal pads. Most cops do. They keep
stacks of them on hand, and they always produce a fresh one when a
suspect is ready to write a confession. They slide the tablet across the
table, uncap a fresh new pen and watch the words flow from pen to
paper, the confessor turn from suspect to criminal.

Juries like confessions written on yellow legal paper. It's something
familiar to them, less formal than a typed statement, though
there was always a typed statement to back it up. Sara wondered if
somewhere there was a transcription of the printed capital letters
that crossed the pages she now held in her hands. Because, as sure as
Sara was standing in the doctor's lounge at Grady Hospital, this was a
confession.

Would it make a difference, though? Would Lena's words change
anything? Would they bring back Jeffrey? Would they give Sara back
her old life—the life where she belonged?

After the last three and a half years, Sara knew better. Nothing
would bring that back, not pleading or pills or punishments. No list
would ever capture a moment. No memory would ever recreate that
state of bliss. There would only be the emptiness, the gaping hole in
Sara's life that had once been filled by the only man in the world she
could ever possibly love.

In short, no matter what Lena had to say, it would never bring
Sara any peace. Maybe knowing this made it easier.

Sara sat down on the bench behind her and read the letter anyway.

F
IRST OFF , I WANT TO THANK MY READERS FROM THE BOTTOM
of my heart for their continued support. I felt such a sense of purpose
while I was writing Sara's story, and I hope y'all think it was worth it.

On the publishing side, the usual suspects are to be thanked: the
Kates (M and E, respectively), Victoria Sanders, and everyone at
Random House U.S., U.K., and Germany. Special appreciation goes
to my friends at the Busy Bee. I wanted to thank you in Dutch, but
the only Dutch words I know are the bad ones.
Schijten!

The Georgia Bureau of Investigation was kind enough to let me
go behind the scenes with some of their special agents and technicians.
Holy crap at the job y'all do. Director Vernon Keenan, John
Bankhead, Jerrie Gass, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Jesse
Maddox, Special Agent Wes Horner, Special Agent David Norman
and others unnamed here—thank you all for your time and patience,
especially when I was asking the crazier questions.

Sara continues to benefit from Dr. David Harper's many years in
medicine. Trish Hawkins and Debbie Teague were again instrumental
in giving Will obstacles—and helping me figure ways around them.
Don Taylor, you are a peach and a true friend.

My daddy made me vegetable soup when I was too loopy from
cold medicine to string two sentences together. D.A. ordered pizza
when my fingers were too tired from typing.

Oh—and, yet again, I have taken liberties with roads and landmarks.
For instance, Georgia Route 316 in Conyers is not meant to
be Highway 316, which runs through Dacula. It's fiction, y'all.

K
ARIN
S
LAUGHTER
grew up in a small south
Georgia town and has been writing short stories
and novels since she was a child. She is the author
of the Grant County series of international
bestsellers
Blindsighted, Kisscut
,
A Faint Cold Fear
,
Indelible
,
Faithless
and
Skin Privilege
, and the
bestselling thrillers set in Atlanta,
Triptych
and
Fractured
. She is also the author of the darkly
comic novella,
Martin Misunderstood
and the
editor of
Like A Charm
, a collaboration of British
and American crime fiction writers. She lives in
Atlanta.