“Sounds about right.” Sara had seen this scenario play out again and again with her kids in the ER. One day she was treating them for an earache, the next they were handcuffed to a gurney awaiting transport to jail. Will’s transcendence of this soul-killing pattern was one of the things that she most admired about him. He had succeeded despite the odds.
Which Sara was fairly certain Will would not want her discussing with Faith. She changed the subject. “Are you working this Ashleigh Snyder case?”
“I wish,” Faith said. “Though I don’t see there’s much hope. It hasn’t broken on the news yet, but she’s been missing for a while, and those so-called friends of hers who’re hogging the camera have no idea.”
“How long?”
“Since before spring break.”
“That was last week.” The ER had seen a resulting spike in alcohol poisoning and drug-induced psychosis. “No one noticed she was gone?”
“Her parents thought she went to the Redneck Riviera, her friends thought she was with her parents. Her roommate waited two days to report her missing. She thought Ashleigh had met a guy and didn’t want to get her in trouble.”
“So there’s no chance she’s faking it?”
“There was a lot of blood in her bedroom—on the pillow, the carpet.”
“The roommate didn’t think that was odd?”
“My son’s that age. They’re professionally obtuse. I doubt a spaceship landing on his forehead would strike him as odd.” Faith returned to their earlier conversation. “Can you look at Will’s medical records?”
Sara felt caught out by the question.
Faith added, “His juvenile files are sealed—trust me, I’ve tried—but there has to be something at Grady from when he was a kid.”
A deep blush worked its way up Sara’s chest and face. She’d actually considered this once, but common sense had won out. “It’s illegal for me to access anyone’s records without their permission. Besides—”
Sara stopped talking. She wasn’t being completely honest. She’d made it as far as the records department. One of the secretaries had pulled Will’s patient chart. Sara hadn’t touched the file, but the name on the label listed him as Wilbur Trent. Will’s license gave his legal name as William Trent. Sara had seen it the other night when he’d opened his wallet to pay for dinner.
So why had Amanda called him Wilbur?
“Hello?” Faith snapped her fingers. “You in there?”
“Sorry. I zoned out.” Sara shifted Emma onto her other shoulder. “I’m just …” She tried to remember what they’d been talking about. “I’m not going to spy on him.” That, at least, was the truth. Sara wanted to know about Will because they were lovers, not because she was writing a salacious exposé. “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”
“Good luck with that,” Faith said. “Meanwhile, if you find out anything good, let me know.”
Sara chewed her lip as she stared at Faith. The overwhelming urge to strike a bargain started to well up from deep inside. Amanda showing up at the children’s home. The hammer. Will’s unexplained anger. His sudden desire to be alone.
Faith was whip-smart. She’d worked as a homicide detective on the Atlanta police force before becoming a special agent with the GBI. She’d been Will’s partner for two years. Faith’s mother was one of Amanda’s oldest friends. If Sara shared what had happened at the children’s home tonight, maybe Faith could help Sara put together the clues.
And then Will really would be lost to her forever.
“Faith,” Sara began. “I’m glad we’re friends. I like you a lot. But I can’t talk about Will behind his back. He has to always know I’m on his side.”
She took it better than Sara expected. “You’re far too healthy to be in a relationship with a cop. Especially Will.”
The thought occurred to Sara that they might not even be in a relationship anymore, but she said, “Thank you for understanding.”
Faith waved to an older woman who was standing at the nurses’ station. No pantsuit—she was dressed in jeans and a flowery blouse—but there was the unmistakable air of a police officer about her. It was the way she looked around the room, noting the good guys, singling out the possible bad ones. The woman waved at Faith, checked the patient board, then escorted herself toward Amanda’s room.
“She trained with Mossad after 9/11,” Faith provided. “Two kids. Three grandkids. Divorced five times. Twice from the same man. And did it all without ever wearing a pantsuit.” Faith sounded reverential. “She’s my role model.”
Sara cradled Emma so she could look at her face. There was a soft, powdery scent coming off her, a mixture of baby wipes and sweat. “Your mom’s a pretty good role model, too.”
“We’re too different.” Faith shrugged. “Mom’s quiet, methodical, always in charge, and I’m ‘oh my God, we’re all going to die.’ ”
The evaluation was strange coming from a woman who kept a loaded shotgun in the trunk of her car. Sara said, “I feel safe knowing you’re with Will.” Faith would never know what kind of compliment Sara had paid her. “You’re pretty good under fire.”
“Once I stop freaking out.” She pointed toward Amanda’s room. “You could blow up a bomb right now and as soon as the dust cleared, all of them would still be right there, guns drawn, ready to fight the bad guys.”
Sara had seen Amanda in some tough situations. She didn’t doubt it one bit.
“Mom told me when they joined up, the first question on the polygraph was about their sex lives. Were they virgins? If not, how many men had they been with—was it more than one? Was it less than three?”
“Is that legal?”
“Anything’s legal if you can get away with it.” She grinned. “They asked mom if she was joining the force so she could have sex with policemen. She told them it depended on what the policeman looked like.”
Sara asked, “What about Amanda?” The fall in the basement had her recalling her early days on the force. Maybe there was a reason. “Was she always a cop?”
“Far as I know.”
“She never worked for children’s services?”
Faith narrowed her eyes. Sara could practically see her detective’s brain click on. “What are you getting at?”
Sara kept her attention on Emma. “I was just curious. Will hasn’t told me much about her.”
“He wouldn’t,” Faith said, as if she needed reminding. “I grew up with Amanda. She dated my uncle for years, but the idiot never asked her to marry him.”
“She never got married? Had kids?”
“She can’t have children. I know she tried, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
Sara kept her gaze on Emma. There was one thing she shared with Amanda Wagner. It wasn’t the kind of club you bragged about belonging to.
Faith said, “Can you imagine her as a mother? You’d be better off with Casey Anthony.”
Emma hiccupped. Sara rubbed her tummy. She smiled at Faith, wishing—longing—to talk to her, but knowing she could not. Sara had not felt this cut off in a long while.
Of course, she could always call her mother, but Sara wasn’t up for a lecture about right and wrong, especially because Sara could clearly see the difference, which made her less the subject of a torrid love affair and more like a woman who had resigned herself to being a doormat. Because that was exactly what Cathy Linton would say: why are you giving a man everything when he won’t or can’t give you anything in return?
Faith asked, “Was that you or Emma?”
Sara realized she’d grunted. “Me. I just figured out my mother was right about something.”
“God, I hate when that happens.” Faith sat up straight. “Speaking of …”
Evelyn Mitchell was standing by the nurses’ station. The woman was cut from the same cloth as her friends: matching pantsuit, trim figure, perfect posture even though she couldn’t stand without crutches. She was obviously looking for her daughter.