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  “Oh,” Cathy said. Sara waited for more, but all her mother said was, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Sara assured her. “We had a nice time with his friends. They all went to school together. It’s just like home, only smaller.”

  “Is that so?”

  Sara tried to decipher her tone, but could not. “We’re at his mother’s now. I haven’t met her yet, but I’m sure she’s nice, too.”

  “Well, let us know when you get to Florida tomorrow if you have the time.”

  “Okay,” Sara answered, still unable to read her mother’s tone. She wanted to tell her what had happened, what Jeffrey had said, but she did not have the courage. What’s more, she did not want to be called a fool.

  Cathy seemed to read nothing into Sara’s hesitation. She said, “Good night, then.”

  Sara wished her the same, and hung up the phone before her father could get back on the line. She pressed her head back against the kitchen cabinet, wondering if she should call them again. As much as she hated her mother being in her business, Sara valued Cathy’s opinion. Too much was happening right now. She needed to talk to someone about it.

  A loud bump came from the dining room as someone fell against the table and a woman’s voice growled a curse.

  “Hello?” Sara said, trying not to surprise Jeffrey’s mother.

  “I know you’re there,” she said, her voice raspy and cold. “Jesus Christ,” she mumbled to herself, opening the refrigerator door. In the light, Sara saw a bent-over old woman with salt-and-pepper hair. Her face was wrinkled far beyond her years, and every line in her mouth seemed devoted to smoking a cigarette. She held one there now, ash hanging off the end.

  May Tolliver pounded a bottle of gin onto the counter, took a long drag from her cigarette, then turned her attention on Sara. “What do you do?” she asked, then gave a nasty chuckle. “That is, other than fuck my son?”

  Sara was so taken aback she began to stutter. “I…I…d-don’t…”

  “Fancy doctor,” she said. “Isn’t that right?” The laugh came again, this time even nastier. “He’ll bring you down a peg or two. You think you’re the first one? You think you’re special?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” the old woman barked. “I can smell him on your cunt from here.”

  Seconds later, Sara was in the street. She could not recall finding the key or opening the front door or even leaving the house. The only thing she knew was that she had to put as much distance between herself and Jeffrey’s mother as she could. Never in her life had another woman spoken to her that way. Sara’s face burned from the shame of it, and when she finally stopped under a street lamp to catch her breath, she found that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “Shit,” she hissed as she turned in a full circle, trying to get her bearings. She had taken a left turn at least, but beyond that, Sara was completely unsure of her surroundings. She could not even recall the name of Jeffrey’s street, let alone remember what his house looked like. A dog barked as she passed a yellow house with a white picket fence, and Sara felt a chill as she realized that she did not recognize the dog or the fence. To make matters worse, her feet were burning from the hot asphalt and mosquitoes had come out in force to feast on the idiot who was walking around alone, wearing nothing but a thin pair of cotton pajamas, in the middle of the night. She did not know why she cared about finding the house. Even if she made it back, Sara would sleep in the street before she went back in. Her only hope was to backtrack from Jeffrey’s to find Nell and Possum’s house. There was a magnetic key safe on the undercarriage of the BMW. Jeffrey could find his own ride to Grant. Sara did not care if she ever saw her clothes or suitcase again.

  Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the night. Sara stopped mid-stride, tension filling the air like molasses. A car backfire sounded like gunshot, and adrenaline tensed every muscle in her body. In the distance, she could see a tall figure moving quickly toward her, and instinctively Sara turned, running away as fast as she could. Heavy footsteps pounded behind her, and she pumped her arms, her lungs nearly exploding in her chest as she pushed herself to get away.

  “Sara,” Jeffrey called, his fingertips brushing against her back. She stopped so quickly that he smacked into her, knocking them both down. He managed to cushion the fall with his body, but her elbow was jarred against the pavement.

  “What is wrong with you?” he demanded, jerking her up by the arm. He slapped grit off the side of her pajama leg. “Did you scream?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped, suddenly angrier with him than she had ever imagined herself capable. Why had he brought her here? What did he hope to accomplish?

  “Just calm down,” he said, reaching out at if to soothe her.

  She slapped away his hand. “Don’t touch me” was all she could say before the car backfired again. Though this time, Sara knew it was not a car. She had been to the firing range often enough to know the sound of a weapon being discharged.

  Jeffrey cocked his head to the side as he tried to figure out from which direction the sound had come. Again, there was a single gunshot, and he turned away from her, saying, “Stay here,” as he bolted down the road toward the yellow house with the picket fence.

  Sara followed as best she could, going around the fence that Jeffrey had hurdled, using a worn path in someone’s garden to get to the backyard of the yellow house. There was a bright flash of light as Jeffrey kicked in the back door, followed by another scream. He ran out seconds later, and all the lights seemed to turn on in the house at once.

  “Sara!” Jeffrey yelled, waving her in. “Hurry!”

  She jogged toward him, feeling a sharp sting in the arch of her foot as she crossed the grass. There were pine needles and cones in the yard, and she tried to step as carefully as she could without slowing down.

  Jeffrey grabbed her arm and pulled her the rest of the way into the house. The layout was similar to Possum’s, with a long hallway down the center and the bedrooms on the right.

  “Down there,” Jeffrey said, pushing her toward the hall. He picked up the kitchen phone, telling her, “I’ll call the police.”

  Shock overcame Sara for a moment as she walked into the master bedroom.

  The ceiling fan wobbled out of balance overhead, the blades making an awkward chopping sound. Jessie stood beside an open window, her mouth moving but no noise coming out. A shirtless man lay facedown on the floor by the bed. The right side of his head was blown off. Streaks of blood led to a short-nosed gun that looked as if it had been kicked away from the area near his left hand.

  “My God,” Sara breathed. Blood sprayed the area by the bed in a fine mist, spattering parts of the ceiling and the light on the fan. A chunk of skull and scalp was hanging from the bedside table; what looked like a section of earlobe was stuck to the front of the drawer.

  Despite the horrific scene in front of her, Sara felt her medical training kick in. She went to the man, pressing her fingers against his neck, trying to find a pulse. She checked his carotids and found nothing, her fingers sticking to the skin when she pulled them away. There was a sheen of sweat on the body. The sickly sweet smell of vanilla filled the air.

  “Is he dead?”

  Sara spun around at the question.

  Robert stood behind the bedroom door. He was partially bent over, leaning against the wall for support. His left hand covered a wound in his side, blood seeping out between his fingers. His right hand held a gun that was pointed toward the dead man.

  Sara told Jessie, “Get me some towels,” but the woman did not move.

  “Are you okay?” Sara asked, keeping her distance from Robert. He still held the gun at his side and there was a glassy look to his eyes, like he did not know where he was.

  Jeffrey entered, assessing the scene with a quick glance. “Robert?” he said, taking a few steps toward his friend. The other man blinked, then seemed to recognize Jeffrey.

  Jeffrey indicated the gun. �
�Why don’t you give me that, man?”

  His hand shook as he handed the weapon to Jeffrey muzzle first. Jeffrey engaged the safety and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.

  Sara told Robert, “I need to take off your shirt, okay?”

  He looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Is he dead?”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” she suggested, but he shook his head, leaning back against the wall again. He was a tall man and very muscular. Even in his undershirt and boxer shorts, he looked like someone who was not used to taking orders.

  Jeffrey caught Sara’s eye before asking, “What happened, Bobby?”

  Robert’s mouth worked, as if he had difficulty speaking. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Jeffrey stood between his friend and the body. “What happened?”

  Jessie spoke in a rush, pointing to the window. “Here,” she said. “He came in through here.”

  Jeffrey walked along the periphery of the room, peering though the open window without touching it. He said, “The screen’s off.”

  Robert hissed with pain as Sara peeled back the shirt. Still, he helped her lift it over his head so she could see the full extent of the damage. He cursed between his teeth, gripping his shirt in his hand as she tentatively pressed the wound. Blood dribbled steadily from the small hole in his side into the waistband of his boxer shorts, but he put his shirt over the area to staunch the blood before Sara could properly examine the wound. She could see an exit wound higher up in his back before he turned his body away from her. The bullet was lodged in the wall directly behind him, red pinpricks of blood forming a circle around the hole.

  “Bob,” Jeffrey said, his tone sharp. “Come on, man. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Robert said, practically grinding his shirt into the wound. “He just…”

  Jessie interrupted, “He shot Bobby.”

  “He shot you?” Jeffrey repeated, obviously trying to get the story from Robert. There was a surprising underlayer of anger to his tone as he looked around the room, probably trying to reconstruct the scene in his head.

  Jeffrey pointed to a bullet hole in the wall on the far side of the bed. “Is this from his gun or yours?”

  “His,” Jessie said in a high-pitched voice. From the way she was acting, Sara guessed the other woman was talking loudly to try to hide the fact that she was stoned out of her mind. She swayed back and forth like a pendulum, her pupils wide enough to blind her in direct sunlight.

  Jeffrey hushed Jessie with a look. “Robert, tell me what happened.”

  Robert shook his head, holding his hand tightly to his wounded side.

  Jeffrey demanded, “Goddammit, Robert, let’s get your story straight before somebody puts it on paper.”

  Sara tried to help, saying, “Just tell us what happened.”

  “Bob?” Jeffrey prodded, his anger still palpable.

  Sara tried to be gentle, telling Robert, “This would be easier if you sat down.”

  “It’d be easier if he fucking talked,” Jeffrey yelled.

  Robert looked at his wife, his mouth a straight line. He shook his head, and Sara thought she saw tears in his eyes. For her part, Jessie just stood there, slightly swaying, her robe pulled around her as if to stop a chill. She probably would not even realize how close they had both come to death until the morning.

  “He came in through the window,” Robert finally told them. “He put a gun on Jess. A gun to her head.”

  Jessie’s expression as he said this was unreadable. Even from this distance, Sara could see that the other woman was having difficulty following the story. At Jessie’s feet were several opened prescription bottles that had probably fallen from the bedside table. Blood splotched the triangular-shaped white pills. Sara could see where her footprints had smeared into the thick pile of the carpet. Jessie had run past the body on the way to the window. Sara wondered what she had been thinking. Was she trying to escape while her husband fought for his life?

  Jeffrey asked, “What happened next?”

  “Jessie screamed, and I pushed…” Robert glanced at the dead man on the floor. “I pushed him back and he fell…and then he shot at me—shot me—and I…” He stopped, trying to control the emotion that obviously wanted to come.

  “There were three shots,” Sara remembered. She looked around the room, trying to reconcile what she had heard in the street with the story he told.

  Robert stared at the dead man. “Are you sure he’s gone?”

  “Yes,” she told him, knowing that lying would serve no purpose.

  “Here?” Jeffrey said, obviously trying to distract Robert from the grim truth. He pointed to the bullet hole by the bed. “He missed the first time?”

  Robert made a visible swallow. Sara could see a bead of sweat roll down his neck when he answered, “Yeah.”

  “He came in through the window,” Jeffrey began. “He put a gun to Jessie’s head.” He looked at Jessie for confirmation, and she nodded quickly. “You pushed him off the bed and he shot at you. You got your gun then. Right?” Robert gave a curt nod, but Jeffrey was not finished. “You keep your piece where? The closet? In the drawer?” He waited, but again Robert was reluctant. “Where do you keep your piece?”

  Jessie opened her mouth, but closed it when Robert pointed to the closed armoire opposite the bed, saying, “There,” before Jeffrey could repeat himself.

  “You got your gun,” Jeffrey said, opening the armoire door. A shirt fell out and he replaced it on the pile. Over his shoulder, Sara could see there was a plastic-molded gun safe on the top shelf. “You keep your backup in here, too?”

  He shook his head. “The living room.”

  “All right.” Jeffrey rested his hand on the open door. “You went for your gun. He shot you then?”

  “Yes,” Robert nodded, though he did not sound convinced. His voice was stronger when he added, “And then I shot him.”

  Jeffrey turned back to the scene, nodding his head as if he was having a conversation with himself, working everything out. He walked over to the window again and looked out. Sara watched him do all of this, shocked. Not only had Jeffrey changed the crime scene, now he was helping Robert concoct a plausible story for how this had all happened.

  Jessie cleared her throat, and her voice shook when she asked Sara, “Is he going to be okay?”

  Sara took a moment to realize Jessie was talking to her. She was still focused on Jeffrey, wondering what he would do next. He’d had a few minutes alone with Robert and Jessie before he called Sara into the house. What had he done during that time? What had they worked out?

  “Sara?” Jessie prompted.

  Sara made herself concentrate on what she could control, asking Robert, “Can I look?”

  He moved his hand away from the bullet wound and Sara resumed the examination. His shirt had smeared the blood, but she thought she could make out a V-shaped sear pattern just below the opening.

  She tried to wipe away the blood, but Robert put his hand back over the wound, saying, “I’m all right.”

  “I should check—”

  He interrupted her. “I’m fine.”

  Sara tried to hold his gaze, but he looked away. She said, “Maybe you should sit down until the ambulance gets here.”

  Jeffrey asked, “Is it bad?”

  “It’s okay,” Robert answered for her, leaning back against the wall again. He told Sara, “Thank you.”

  “Sara?” Jeffrey asked.

  She shrugged, not knowing what to say. In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. Jessie crossed her arms over her chest with a shudder. Sara wanted to see that shirt, wanted to see if the material was burned in the same pattern as Robert’s skin, but he held it tightly in his fist, pressing it into the wound.

  Sara had been a coroner for only two years, but the type of marking she thought she had seen was textbook quality. Even a rookie cop two days on the job would know what it meant.

  The gun had been fired at contact ran
ge.

  Chapter Seven

  11:45 A.M.

  Lena stood in the front of Burgess’s Cleaners, looking across Main Street at the police station. The tinted glass door was too dark to see anything inside, but still she stared as if she could see into the building, knew exactly what was happening. Another shot had been fired thirty minutes ago. Of the two cops missing at the start of this, only Mike Dugdale had checked in. Marilyn Edwards was still missing and Frank said he thought the attractive young police officer had been in the squad room at the start of the attack. Everyone from the Grant force was walking around like the living dead. All Lena could think was that if she had gone into work a few minutes earlier, she might have been able to do something. She might have been able to save Jeffrey. Right now, she wanted to be in that building so bad that she could taste it.

  She turned around, watching Nick and Frank talking by the map table. The GBI agents were milling around the coffee machine, voices low as they waited for orders. Pat Morris talked with Molly Stoddard, and Lena wondered if Pat had been one of Sara’s patients. He was young enough.

  “The hell you say,” Frank told Nick, his voice loud enough to be heard over the activity. Everyone in the room looked up.

  Nick indicated old man Burgess’s office. “In here.”

  They both went into the small, windowless room, shutting the door behind them. The tension they stirred up was still in the room, and a few people went to the back of the cleaners, probably to go outside to smoke and talk about the outburst.

  Lena took out her cell phone and waited for it to power up. It chirped twice, indicating she had messages waiting. She debated who to call, Nan or Ethan. Her uncle Hank briefly entered her mind, but considering their conversation that morning during which he practically begged her to lean on his shoulder, calling him now seemed like giving in, and Lena was not about to do that. She hated the thought of needing people almost as much as she hated having to reach out to them. In the end, she turned off the phone and tucked it back into her pocket, wondering why she had turned the damn thing on in the first place.