The girl screamed again, but not before Amanda heard something behind her.
A shoe scuffing on concrete.
Amanda started to turn, but a large hand grabbed her from behind.
twenty-three
July 15, 1975
LUCY BENNETT
Her shoulders were free, but she did not care.
Her arms were free, but she did not care.
Her waist, her hips—free for the first time in over a year.
But she did not care.
Could not care.
There was only the baby delivered from her body. The beautiful little boy. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Perfect blond hair. Perfect little mouth.
Lucy ran her finger along his lips. The first woman to touch him. The first woman to open her heart and feel the absolute joy that was this creature.
She wiped the slime from his nose and mouth. She lightly rested her palm on his chest and felt his beating heart. Flutter, flutter, like a butterfly. He was so beautiful. So tiny. How had something so perfect grown inside of her? How had something so sweet come out of something so utterly spoiled?
“You’re dying.”
Lucy felt her senses sharpen.
Patty Hearst.
The second girl. The other woman from the other room.
She stood in the doorway, afraid to come in. She was dressed. He let her wear clothes. He let her walk around. He let her do anything but come into Lucy’s room. Even now, both of them alone, her toes would not cross the threshold.
“You’re dying,” the woman repeated.
They both heard the noises outside the window. Yelling. Gunfire. He would win. He would always win.
The baby cooed, legs kicking up.
Lucy looked down at her child. Her perfect baby. Her redemption. Her salvation. Her one good thing.
She tried to concentrate on his beautiful face, the light flowing back and forth between their bodies.
Nothing else mattered. Not the pain. Not the smell. Not the wheezing breaths coming from her own mouth.
Not the sucking of wind around the large knife sticking out of her chest.
twenty-four
Present Day
WEDNESDAY
Sara woke to the smell of Betty’s hot breath. The dog was curled on the couch in front of her, body twisted, snout inches from Sara’s face. Sara rolled the little thing over like a baker making bread. Betty’s collar tinkled. She yawned.
Will’s clothes were on the floor, but he wasn’t in the room. Sara put her hand to her face. Touched her lips where Will had touched them. Stroked her throat. Her mouth felt bruised from his kisses. Her skin tingled at the thought of him.
She was in it now. Maybe it had happened back when Will was washing dishes in her mother’s kitchen. Or that day at work when Sara had felt completely inconsolable until he gently caressed her hand. Or last night when he had stared at her so intently that she felt as if everything inside her was opening up to him.
No matter when it had happened, the possibility had been rendered fact. Sara was deeply and profoundly in love with Will Trent. There was no walking back from it. No denying it. Her heart had made the decision while her brain was making excuses. She knew it the minute she saw him last night. Sara would do anything to keep him. Accept his secrets. Tolerate his silences. Put up with his awful wife.
Help send his father to death row.
Pete Hanson would be dead by the time the case went to trial. Sara would be called to testify. It would be a capital case. The girl had been kidnapped and murdered, the combination of which met Georgia’s legal requirement for seeking the death penalty.
Will’s father had meticulously cleaned Ashleigh Snyder, but the man had been behind bars for the last three decades. Television and prison science would’ve educated him on the forensic progress happening outside his cellblock, but it was highly unlikely that he’d ever heard of hair extensions. Which was ironic, considering the killer’s predilection for needle and thread.
The process of weaving hair took hours. A thin cornrow, or “track,” was braided in a tight half circle around the back of the head. Then a needle and thread were used to sew in patches of new, longer, fuller hair. Several more rows were added one at a time, depending on how much money and time the woman was willing to spend. It wasn’t cheap. The natural hair eventually grew out. The weave had to be tightened every two weeks. More stitches were added each time. Simple shampooing couldn’t clean out all the nooks and crevices between the old hair and new.
This was where Sara had recovered traces of semen—tiny dried specks trapped between thin strings of thread. She would eventually have to walk the jury through her discovery, describe the weaving technique and explain why the proteins in seminal fluid fluoresce under black light.
And then the judge would likely hand down a sentence of death by lethal injection.
Sara let out a heavy sigh. She looked at the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. She was supposed to be at work by eight. She found Will’s shirt and put it on, buttoning it as she walked into the kitchen.
He was standing at the stove making pancakes. He smiled at her. “Hungry?”
“Very.” Sara kissed the back of his neck. His skin was warm. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him and declare her love. Will’s life was complicated enough right now without Sara putting him on the spot. Telling someone you loved them was tantamount to asking them to repeat the words back.
Will said, “Sorry I don’t have any coffee.”
Sara sat down at the table. Will didn’t drink coffee. He drank hot chocolate every morning, and because that wasn’t enough sugar, he usually complemented his beverage with a Pop-Tart. “I’ll get some later.”
He offered, “I can make eggs if you want.”
“No, thank you.” Sara rubbed her face with her hands. Her brain wasn’t awake yet, but she could tell that there was something wrong. Will was already dressed for work in a navy suit and tie. His jacket was draped over the kitchen chair. His hair was combed. His face was freshly shaven. He seemed happy, which wasn’t that unusual, but he was too happy. Too bouncy. He couldn’t stand still. His foot tapped as he stood at the stove. When he slid the pancakes onto a plate, his fingers drummed on the counter.
Sara had seen this kind of attitude before. It usually came when someone had made up their mind. The pressure was off. The decision was made. They were all in. Ready to get it over with.
“Madam.” He put the plate in front of her.
She smelled it then—oil and cordite. On his hands. On the table.
“Thanks.” Sara stood from the chair. She washed her hands at the sink. The smell was stronger now that she was awake and thinking. Will had cleaned up after himself, but not well enough. She wiped her hands with a paper towel. When she opened the cabinet for the trash, she saw the dirty cleaning patches.
Sara closed the cabinet door. She’d grown up around guns. She knew the smell of cleaning oil. She knew Will kept a backup weapon in his safe. She knew the look of a man who’d made up his mind.
She turned around.
Will was sitting at the table, fork in his hand. His plate was dripping with syrup. He talked around a mouthful of pancakes. “I got your gym bag out of the car.” He used the fork to point to the bag on the floor. “Sorry about tearing your dress.”