CHAPTER 3

FROM THE MOMENT JAMES OGLETHORPE first set foot in Georgia, men had been trying to chop up the state into their own perfect little pieces. The first attempt came in 1741, when the Trustees decided to split the land into two colonies: Savannah and Frederica. When Georgia became a royal colony and adopted the Church of England as their official religion, the territory was sectioned into eight parishes. After the Revolutionary War, Creek and Cherokee land in the south was taken for white expansion, then later more Cherokee land was claimed in the north.

By the mid-1800s, no Indian territory remained, so the good ol’ boys decided to start subdividing existing counties. Once 1877 rolled around, there were 137 counties in Georgia—so many little pockets of political power that the state constitution was amended to stop the overdevelopment, then amended again in 1945 to close loopholes that had allowed the creation of 16 counties in between. The final number allowed was 159, each with its own representative in the state assembly, its own county seat, its own tax base, schools, judges, political systems, and its own locally elected sheriff.

Jeffrey did not know much about Elawah County, other than that its founders had obviously borrowed the name from the Indians they had kicked out for the land. Night had come by the time he and Sara reached the town limits, and from what they could see, the place was not much to write home about. Lena was hardly the type to sit down and chat about her childhood, and Jeffrey understood why as he drove through Reese, Elawah’s county seat. Even the dark of night could not obscure the town’s depressing bleakness.

Jeffrey had studied American history at Auburn University, but you wouldn’t find it written in any textbook that there were some places in the South that still had not recovered from Reconstruction. Running water, indoor plumbing, basic necessities that other Americans took for granted, were considered luxuries to people living on the wrong side of Reese’s tracks. Jeffrey’s hometown of Sylacauga, Alabama, had been poor, but not this kind of poor. Reese was the sort of festering wound that was only exposed when some kind of natural disaster yanked off the scab.

“Up here on the left,” Sara said, reading the directions Jeffrey had gotten from the sheriff.

Jeffrey took the turn, glancing at Sara as a streetlight illuminated the car’s interior. She had changed into jeans and a sweater, but her face was still drawn. He wasn’t sure if this was because of the malpractice deposition or because of the situation with Lena. He had been surprised when Sara had volunteered to come. She was certainly no fan of Lena’s. While the two women had managed to keep their exchanges civil over the years, some of the worst arguments Jeffrey and Sara had had in recent memory were over the young detective—Lena’s stubbornness, her quick temper, what Sara saw as the other woman’s casual disregard for her own safety and Jeffrey saw as the makings of a damn good cop.

Part of Sara’s bad opinion was Jeffrey’s fault. At home, he only talked about Lena in the context of her screwups. He’d never had a conversation with Sara about the things Lena did well: the way she could work an interrogation or the fact that sometimes she actually learned from her mistakes. Having made colossal mistakes of his own early on in the job, Jeffrey was more forgiving. Truthfully, Lena reminded him a lot of himself when he was her age. Maybe Sara felt the same way; she wasn’t exactly a big fan of the Jeffrey Tolliver she’d known ten years ago.

If Jeffrey had to guess, he’d say that Sara’s offer to tag along came because she hadn’t wanted to be by herself. Or maybe she’d just wanted to get the hell out of town. Jeffrey wasn’t too pleased with how the citizens of Grant County were treating his wife right now, either. For the last two months, he’d been keeping a running list in his head of people who would never have a speeding ticket fixed for them again.

“Up here,” she said, pointing to a side street that looked like a dead end.

“You sure?”

Sara scanned the directions again. “It says take a right at the barbecue joint.”

He slowed the car as he blindly reached overhead, looking for a way to turn on the interior lights.

“Here,” she said, pressing a button near the rearview mirror. Sara’s BMW was like butter on the road, but all the bells and whistles made Jeffrey’s head hurt.

He took the directions from her, holding them up to the light.

She said, “It’s not like I can’t read your handwriting. You have the penmanship of a first grade teacher.”

He pointed to the satellite navigation screen on the dash, which had read, “No data available for this position” for the last half hour. “How much extra did you pay for this thing?”

“What does that have to do with your handwriting?”

He didn’t answer as he looked at his notes. He’d clearly written “right at barbecue joint.”

Jeffrey handed the sheet of paper back to Sara and took the right. He drove slowly, the car’s tires dipping into one pothole after another. He was about to turn around when Sara spotted a familiar blue road sign with an H on it. Farther up ahead, they could see the bright lights of a parking lot, and beyond this, what could only be the hospital.

“Fifth Avenue,” Sara read off the street sign. She didn’t say anything more as he pulled into the parking lot.

The Elawah County Medical Center was across from a Dunkin’ Donuts and a Kentucky Fried Chicken, both closed this time of night. The hospital building was an architect’s nightmare. Part poured concrete, part cinder block, and yet another part brick, the two-story structure looked like a mangy dog that had been kicked to the curb. The few vehicles scattered around the parking lot were mostly trucks, mud caked around their wheel wells from a recent rain. NASCAR stickers and Jesus fish dotted the chrome bumpers. They had driven almost three hours straight to get here, but there was no mistaking they were still in a small southern town.

Jeffrey took an empty space right by the emergency room entrance. He didn’t get out of the car, didn’t turn off the ignition. He just sat there, thinking about what little information he’d been given. Lena had been involved in an explosion. She was being treated at the hospital. She had been arrested.

What has she done now?

Those were Sara’s words—Sara, who couldn’t understand why Jeffrey had stood by Lena all these years, who didn’t know what it was like to grow up with no one rooting for you, no one thinking you’d end up doing anything but making your parents’ own stupid mistakes. If that were the case, Jeffrey would die a worthless drunk like his old man and Lena would—he didn’t know what would happen to Lena. Her only saving grace was that she had rejected Hank Norton as a role model. As for the rest of the people in Lena’s life, Jeffrey had only met one of them, an ex-boyfriend, ex-felon, ex-neo-Nazi whose sorry ass Jeffrey had happily hauled back to prison.

“Hey,” Sara said, softly. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He turned to her. “Listen, I know how you feel about Lena, but—”

“Keep it to myself?” she interrupted. He studied her face, trying to figure out if she was annoyed or angered by the request. Neither emotion seemed to register, and she actually managed a smile. “Let’s just get this over with and go home.”

“Good plan.” He turned off the ignition and got out of the car. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the air, and Jeffrey could see a couple of paramedics leaning against an ambulance, shooting the shit as they waited for their next call. One of them tossed Jeffrey a wave and he nodded back as he walked around to open Sara’s door.

Jeffrey warned, “I’m not sure how this is going to go.”

“I can wait in the car,” she offered. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

“You’re not going to get in my way,” he answered, though the thought had occurred to him. He opened the back door and took out his suit jacket. “You can examine her. Make sure she’s okay.”

Sara hesitated. He knew what she was thinking, that she hadn’t felt much like a doctor lately, that with the lawsuit hanging over her head, she didn’t quite trust her instincts anymore. “I’m not really—”

Jeffrey didn’t press her. “It’s okay,” he said. “Come on.”

The glass doors slid open as they walked into the emergency department. Inside, the waiting room was empty but for an elderly man in a wheelchair and a younger woman sitting in a chair beside him. They were both wearing surgical masks, eyes trained on the television hanging from the ceiling. Jeffrey was reminded of the health warnings he’d been seeing on the news lately about yet another new strain of flu that was going to kill them all. The receptionist behind the front counter wasn’t wearing a mask, but he guessed from the sour look on her face as they approached that any germ floating around would be too frightened to go near her.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman cut him off, slapping down a clipboard on the counter and saying, “Fill these out. Follow the yellow line to the business office to work out a payment plan, then come back here. We’re running about two hours behind right now, so if you’re not here for a good reason, you might as well go home and try to sleep it off.”

Jeffrey pulled out his badge and placed it on the counter beside the clipboard. “I’m here to see Sheriff Valentine.”

The woman ran her tongue along her bottom teeth, making it look as if she had a pinch of snuff there. Finally, she gave a noisy sigh, pulled back the clipboard, and turned toward her computer, where a couple of clicks brought up a hand of solitaire she’d obviously been playing.

Jeffrey looked at Sara, as if she could decipher the goings-on of the hospital. She shrugged, and he was thinking they’d been given the brush-off when the receptionist heaved another heavy sigh, then said, “Follow the green line to the elevator, take it to the third floor, then follow the blue line to the nurses’ station. They might know what you’re talking about.”

He looked down. There were five painted lines under their feet. Two led down a hallway, one led toward the elevator, and the last one, a red line, led to the exit, which was less than ten feet behind him.

Jeffrey picked up his badge and tucked it back into his pocket. He let Sara walk ahead of him toward the elevator. As if by magic, the doors slid open on their approach. The floor of the car was reddish-pink from dirt, and the faint odor of Pine-Sol and vomit filled the air.

Sara stopped. “Maybe we could take the stairs?”

“What about the blue line?” Jeffrey asked, only half-joking.

She shrugged and got on. He followed suit, pressing the three button, noticing that there was a two but not a one. They both stood there, waiting for the doors to close. Nothing happened, so he pressed the three button again. Still, nothing happened. He pressed the two button and the doors closed. Above them, machinery whirred, and the elevator moved upward.

Sara said, “I really shouldn’t be here.”

He hated that she felt so out of place. “I want you here.” He tried to sound more convincing. “I need you here.”

“You don’t,” she insisted, “but I appreciate the lie.”

“Sara—”

She turned around, studying the notice board screwed to the back of the elevator. “Meth is Death!” one of the posters warned, showing before and after photos of a beautiful blonde teenager who, after a scant year on meth, turned into a soulless crone with no teeth and festering wounds erupting from her once perfect skin. A number at the bottom was scribbled over, a crude drawing of a joint obscuring the last two digits. Another poster outlining the steps to performing CPR took up most of the remaining space. This one was vandalized with the usual graffiti you found in spaces like this: dirty limericks, phone numbers for loose women, and messages for various people to go fuck themselves.

Finally, the elevator doors groaned open and a bell dinged. A dimly lit hallway greeted them, and Jeffrey guessed the lights had been turned off so that patients could sleep. The emergency exit sign across from the elevator gave off a warm red glow, pointing toward a doorway at the very end of the hall. Jeffrey glanced around, holding the elevator doors open, wondering if they were on the wrong floor.

“There’s the stripe,” Sara whispered, indicating the single blue line on the floor. Jeffrey saw that it went to the right, past the emergency stairway, and around the corner. He looked up the hall to the left, but all he could see were more patients’ rooms and another exit sign.

They followed the painted line to the nurses’ station. He realized as soon as they got there that the hallway circled around and that they could have just as easily taken a left and gotten to the same place.

“This is why people hate hospitals,” Jeffrey told Sara, keeping his voice low. “If they can’t make you feel sicker, they drive you crazy.”

Sara rolled her eyes, and Jeffrey remembered the first time he’d told Sara that he hated hospitals. Her response had been almost automatic: “Everybody hates hospitals.”

The nurses’ station was oblong, open at both ends, and packed to the gills with charts and colored sheets of paper. There was one desk with a lamp casting a harsh light over the blotter. A newspaper was folded to the crossword, some of the squares filled in. Jeffrey guessed from the half-eaten pack of crackers beside an open can of Diet Coke that whoever had been sitting there must’ve been called away mid-snack.

Sara leaned against the wall, arms folded over her chest. “The nurse must be making rounds.”

“I guess we’ll wait here.”

“We could find Lena on our own.”

“I don’t think the sheriff would appreciate that.”

She gave him a curious look, as if she was surprised that he cared.

He was about to respond when he heard a toilet flush behind him. “Guess the nurse just finished her rounds.”

They both waited, Sara leaning against the wall, Jeffrey pacing, reading the signs that had been taped to some of the patients’ doors. “No Water.” “No Solids.” “No Unattended Toilet.”

Christ, they knew how to bring you low in these places.

He heard water running from the bathroom faucet, then the familiar squeak of a paper-towel dispenser. Seconds later, the door opened and a gray-haired man in a uniform came out. He did a double take when he saw Jeffrey. “Chief Tolliver?”

“Jeffrey,” he offered, walking over to shake the man’s hand. He realized a second too late that he wasn’t talking to the sheriff. The insignia on the dark brown and taupe uniform identified the man as a deputy. “This is my wife, Dr. Sara Linton.”

“Donald Cook.” The man shook Jeffrey’s hand, nodding at Sara. He had a loud, booming voice, and didn’t seem to be worried if he woke up any of the patients. “Sorry if I kept y’all waiting.”

Jeffrey got straight to the point. “How’s my detective doing?”

“No trouble at all,” Cook answered. “She’s been quiet as a mouse.”

In a different situation, Jeffrey would have made some joke about mistaken identity. “Was she burned? Your sheriff said there was some kind of explosion—”

“She’s got smoke inhalation, some cuts and scrapes. Doc says she’ll heal up fine.”

Jeffrey waited for Sara to press the man about Lena’s condition, but she just stood there, listening. This wasn’t like her. The hospital was Sara’s element. He’d expected her to at least ask for Lena’s chart or try to find the doctor in charge.

Then again, Sara didn’t usually tag along when he was working. Jeffrey guessed she was trying not to interfere. He asked the deputy, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Best talk to Jake about that.” The man made his way behind the counter and fell back into the desk chair with a groan. He picked up the phone, saying, “Sorry I can’t offer y’all a seat.” He slipped on a pair of reading glasses so he could make out the numbers on the telephone. “They had a junkie in here last night who puked all over the chairs. Easier to just throw them out and order some new ones.”

“No problem,” Jeffrey said, tucking his hands into his pockets, trying to resist the urge to resume pacing. Though Sara seemed to be keeping her own counsel, he could see that she was just as surprised by the situation as Jeffrey. Lena’s armed guard was a joke. The deputy should be sitting outside her room, not eating crackers and taking a crap when the mood suited him. Sara had been right. Jeffrey should’ve looked for Lena on his own instead of attempting to play the diplomat.

Cook unnecessarily held up his hand for silence, saying into the phone, “Jake? He’s here. Yeah, brought a doctor with him.” He nodded, then hung up, telling Jeffrey, “Jake said he’s just pulling into the parking lot. Went home to get some supper. We figured it’d take a little longer for you to get here.”

“What was she arrested for?” When the man didn’t answer, Jeffrey gave him some options. “Property damage? Criminal neglect?”

Cook’s lips turned up in a grin. “Not exactly.”

Jeffrey knew what a “not exactly” meant—they had charged her with something small in order to buy time to figure out how to charge her with something big. He glanced back at Sara, feeling pulled in two different directions. Bringing Sara here was probably not one of his brighter ideas. Everything about the hospital was likely reminding her of the malpractice suit, the fact that somewhere back in Grant County her professional and private lives were being raked over the coals.

With some effort, Jeffrey shifted his focus back to Lena. “Can we go ahead and see her?”

“Might not be a good idea,” Cook said, sliding a cracker out of the pack. Jeffrey felt his stomach rumble and realized he’d missed supper. Cook must have heard it because he offered, “You want one?” Jeffrey shook his head, and the man held the pack toward Sara, who shook her head, too.

Cook sat back, chewing his cracker. He raised his eyebrows at Jeffrey. “Bad situation.”

Jeffrey knew that he was being played by the old man. Cook was probably bored out of his mind doing babysitting duty. Tossing Jeffrey a bone and seeing if he’d fetch was obviously more entertaining than doing the crossword. What the deputy didn’t count on was that the dog might bite. Jeffrey looked at his watch, thinking he had wasted enough time. He could get his chain pulled in the comfort of his own home.

He told the deputy, “I’d really like to see her.”

“That explosion was deliberately set.” Cook’s tone was a warning.

Jeffrey heard Sara shift behind him. “That so?” he asked.

“Yep.”

He couldn’t help himself. “You think my detective started it?”

“Like I said—”

“Talk to Jake.”

“Right,” Cook said, crumbs dropping onto his uniform as he chewed the cracker. Out of nowhere, he announced, “I worked with Calvin Adams.”

Jeffrey guessed he meant Lena’s father.

“Good man, Cal,” Cook continued. “Took two in the head on a traffic stop. Liked to killed me when it happened.”

Jeffrey didn’t respond, but he knew all too well the feeling of losing a fellow cop. It was a loss that haunted you every day of your life—harder, maybe, than losing a family member or a spouse.

Cook was still leaning back in his chair, fingers laced over his belly. “You took me for the sheriff, huh?”

“Sorry?” Jeffrey asked. His mind had been wandering. “Yeah,” he answered, realizing what the man had said. “My mistake.”

“I’ve been wearing this uniform going on forty years,” Cook proudly stated. “Finally threw my hat into the ring for the sheriff’s job. Lost it to Jake.” Jeffrey knew that the sheriff’s office was an elected position. He said a silent prayer of thanks that he didn’t have to campaign every two years to keep his job. It was a good position if you could get it. The sheriff’s pension and benefits were some of the best in law enforcement.

Cook said, “Jake Valentine,” with a chuckle. “Sounds like some kind of soap opera star. Boy ain’t been off his mama’s tit more than three years.”

Jeffrey wasn’t in the mood to gossip about the sheriff. He wanted to know more about the explosion, whether it was deliberately set, who else was hurt, and what in the hell Lena had to do with any of it. He knew Cook wasn’t about to offer up answers on a silver platter, so he asked, “Do you know Hank Norton?”

“Sure I do. No-good piece of shit is what he is.”

Jeffrey realized that he was relieved to hear the man talking about Lena’s uncle in the present tense. He asked, “Has Hank been in trouble?”

“Caught somebody passing meth at his place three weeks ago. We closed it down, but Norton was so wasted I doubt he even noticed.”

“I thought he was sober now.”

“I thought my wife was a virgin when I married her.” Cook blanched, remembering Sara. “Sorry, ma’am.” He leaned his elbow on the desk, directed his words toward Jeffrey. “Lookit, Norton’s been a junkie from the word go. Must’ve started when he was around sixteen, seventeen. You don’t stay away from that kind of thing for very long.”

“Speed, right?”

“So the story goes.”

The elevator dinged, and Jeffrey heard the metallic whir of the doors sliding open. Two sets of footsteps echoed up the hall. The pair was having an animated conversation in hushed tones. As they drew closer, Jeffrey saw that one of them was a nurse. The other had to be Sheriff Jake Valentine.

The young nurse seemed to be hanging on the sheriff’s every word as he described an elaborate scuffle he’d had with a drunk driver. Cook had been right about Valentine. The man looked about eighteen if he was a day. He was so tall and lanky that the gunbelt around his waist was pulled to the last hole, the end flopping out of the buckle like a tongue. A smattering of facial hair over his upper lip seemed to imply a mustache and the wet spot on the crown of his head suggested a cowlick he’d tried to tame before coming to the hospital. He was at least two inches taller than Jeffrey, but the stoop in his shoulders and the turtle-like bend in his neck blew the advantage. Jeffrey imagined that his mother had spent every day of his young life telling the boy to mind his posture.

“Jake!” the nurse shrieked, punching him on the arm.

Cook made a groaning noise, indicating he’d heard the drunk driver story the sheriff was telling one too many times. He said, “Jake, that chief’s here to see you.”

Valentine seemed surprised to find Jeffrey standing in front of the nurses’ station. Jeffrey wondered at the act. Even if Cook hadn’t made the phone call, the hallway wasn’t that dark.

“Jake Valentine,” the sheriff offered, shooting out his hand.

“Tolliver.” Jeffrey returned the gesture. Despite Valentine’s slight appearance, the young man gave him a firm handshake. “This is my wife, Dr. Sara Linton.”

Sara shook the man’s hand and managed a forced smile.

The nurse went behind the counter and Valentine’s demeanor changed to solemn as if a switch had been flipped. He told Jeffrey and Sara, “Sorry to be meeting y’all under these circumstances.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

Valentine indicated his deputy. “I figured Don here filled you in.”

“Thought I’d leave you the pleasure,” Cook returned, giving Jeffrey a wink.

“Darla,” Valentine said, meaning the nurse, “mind if we step into your office?”

“Suit yourself,” she answered, thumbing through a patient’s chart. “Lemme know if y’all need anything.”

“Actually,” Jeffrey said, “I’d really like to know how my detective is doing. Lena Adams?”

“She’s fine,” the nurse replied. “Just got some smoke in her chest. Give her a few days and she’ll be good as new.”

“Good,” Valentine said, as if he’d been the one to ask the question. “Up this way.” He stepped back, indicating that Jeffrey and Sara should precede him.

Sara offered, “I can stay here if—”

“That’s okay,” Jeffrey interrupted. Considering how quiet Sara was being, he wasn’t crazy about leaving her alone right now.

He let Sara take the lead up the hallway, trying not to be too obvious about checking the names of the patients on each door they passed.

Valentine spoke in a harsh whisper as they walked. “We found her at the high school last night. I live across the street. I could see the flames from my living room.”

Jeffrey slowed his pace, wanting the younger man to catch up instead of nipping at his heels like a puppy.

Valentine continued, “We think it was a Cadillac Escalade. No plates or registration on it, so we’re having trouble tracking it down. Parked right in the middle of the football field. Fire chief says there’s obvious signs of an accelerant, probably gasoline.”

“Wait a minute.” Jeffrey stopped him, trying for clarity. He’d been told that there was an explosion and that Lena had been hurt. Jeffrey had assumed this had taken place in a building. “The Cadillac was torched? That’s what exploded?”

“Right.” Valentine nodded. Still keeping his voice low, he explained, “The car was sitting smack-dab on the fifty-yard line. I’ve never seen anything burn so hot in my life. They’re gonna have a devil of a time getting an ID on the body. Fred Bart, that’s our coroner, says the heat was so intense it shattered the teeth.”

Sara had stopped a few feet away. “There was a body in the Escalade?”

“Yes, ma’am, in the backseat,” the sheriff confirmed.

Sara pressed her lips together, looked at the floor. She didn’t seem surprised or even shocked by the news. Jeffrey knew what she was thinking. It had finally happened. Through stubbornness or blatant disregard, Lena’s actions had finally led to someone’s death.

Valentine misinterpreted her silence for confusion. “I’m not telling this right, am I? I’m sorry, I just assumed Don—”

Jeffrey told him, “Don said he’d let you explain.”

“Right.” Valentine nodded again, but in a way that gave the impression that he didn’t quite believe what Jeffrey was telling him. “Let’s just go in here,” he said, indicating a closed door.

Jeffrey turned around, sure the man was joking. They were standing in front of a linen closet.

“Give us some privacy,” the sheriff offered, though as far as Jeffrey could tell, no one was around.

Sara crossed her arms over her chest. She looked at the closet with obvious trepidation.

Jeffrey asked, “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“This way we won’t have to worry about waking anybody up.” Valentine reached past him and opened the door. “After you.”

Jeffrey was annoyed at the cloak-and-dagger, but he was willing to play along with the sheriff for now. The most important thing right now was figuring out what kind of mess Lena had gotten herself into. He felt around for the switch and turned on the light. Rows of sheets were stacked on the right, towels on the left. The remaining space was about eight feet deep and three feet wide. There were cells at the county jail that were larger than this.

Sara obviously wanted to stay outside, but he indicated she should go in ahead of him. Jeffrey followed and Valentine brought up the rear, closing the door. The closet got even smaller.

“So,” the sheriff began, flashing a smile. He was talking in a normal voice now, and he leaned against one of the shelves, acting as if they were just a group of pals chatting before a football game. “About eleven o’clock last night I was sitting around watching the TV and I see these flames shooting up over by the high school. First thing I do is call the fire department, thinking the building’s on fire again—we’ve had some kids try it before but the sprinklers stopped them in their tracks, which is a good thing because the fire department’s all volunteer and it like to took forever to get them all there. Anyway, I got dressed and walked over to the school to see what was going on. It was faster to walk. Like I told you, I live right across the street.”

The story was so embellished Jeffrey wondered how many times it had been repeated. He tried to get to the important part. “So you saw the car burning on the field?”

“Right,” Valentine confirmed. “Last night was dark as pitch, but the flames were high, and I could see somebody sitting on the bleachers. I walked over, thinking it’d be some stupid kid gone out for a joyride, and I see Miss Adams—your detective. She was sitting on the bottom bleacher, soot and stuff all over her. Had her foot propped up on a gas can.”

“Was she burned?”

“Nah, but she was beat something awful,” the man answered. “Bruised down the side of her face like she’d been punched, blood coming out of her mouth, wheezing something horrible. Me, I’ve never seen anything like that before, but maybe I’ve been watching too many Lifetime movies with the wife, because the first thing that pops into my mind is ‘This woman just torched her husband.’ You know, like he’d hauled off and hit her one too many times and she just snapped”—he snapped his fingers—“and so I sat beside her, tried to get her to talk.”

Jeffrey asked, “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” the man admitted. “I tried every trick I could think of to draw her out, but she wouldn’t speak.”

Jeffrey could imagine what Lena’s reaction would have been to Valentine’s various “tricks.” The man was lucky she hadn’t laughed in his face.

Valentine continued, “Wasn’t until this morning when we did a search of the school parking lot and found her Celica that we got her name. I found her badge in the glove compartment and figured, hey—what’s it hurt to give ’em a call?”

Jeffrey skipped over the fact that the sheriff had waited until daylight to search the parking lot. “She wasn’t carrying any ID on her?”

“No, sir. Didn’t find anything on her except a tube of ChapStick—the license was in the Celica and the badge was in the glove box like I told you. Nothing else in her pockets, nothing hidden in her…” His voice trailed off, and he blushed as he finished, “places.”

“No weapon?” In addition to her Glock, Lena sometimes carried a large folding knife in her back pocket, but Jeffrey wasn’t going to share that with the sheriff right now.

“No, sir. No weapons of any kind.”

“Was anyone else injured or on the scene?”

“Nope. Just the victim in the Caddy and her on the bleachers.”

“Did she have gasoline on her? Any kind of accelerant on her shoes or clothes?”

“Nope. But the gasoline can was empty.”

“Did she have matches or a lighter?”

“Nothing except the ChapStick, and I cranked it all the way up to make sure what it was and it was ChapStick all the way through.”

“Were her fingerprints on the gas can?”

“Can’t really tell. It’s an old can—lots of rust. We sent it to the GBI lab in Macon, but I can guess you’re familiar with their time frame.”

Jeffrey nodded. Unless a case had high priority, the lab probably wouldn’t have time to process the gas can for at least six months.

He tried to be polite with his next question. “No offense, but what did you charge her with?”

“Not much,” Valentine admitted. “I’m gonna shoot straight with you, Chief, what with us both being on the job and all. We don’t have a lot on her, but I think you’ll agree the circumstances are pretty suspicious, plus with her not helping us out by answering any questions.”

Jeffrey had to admit that with a noncompliant person found at the scene of a homicide, he probably would have done the same thing. He repeated, “What did you charge her with?”

Valentine had the grace to look embarrassed as he counted off on his fingers, “Obstruction of justice. Impeding an investigation. Failure to produce identification when asked.”

Jeffrey nodded again. He could see Lena doing all of that. Hell, he couldn’t count on his own hands the number of times she’d impeded investigations back in Grant County—and those had been cases she was working on.

He asked, “Has she been arraigned?”

“The judge came over to the hospital this morning.”

Jeffrey did a quick count of the money he had in his checking account. His paycheck wasn’t due for another week. He would have to wait for the bank to open in the morning so that he could move the money from his savings and take out the cash from an ATM machine. He asked, “Where do I post bail?”

“Bail was denied.”

Jeffrey tried to hide his shock, but then he figured out very quickly how this had probably worked. The sheriff was new to the job, but he’d managed to get a judge in his pocket. Still, Jeffrey tried to make the man see logic. “You think she’s a flight risk? She was born here. She has ties to the community. She’s been a distinguished officer on my force for over a decade.”

“I understand that.”

“You can’t put a cop in jail. They’ll tear her to pieces.”

“She’s not in the jail,” Valentine reminded Jeffrey. “She’s in the hospital.”

“All I can tell you is you better have a damn good reason why you’re keeping her in custody.” Jeffrey could play this game, too. He’d been on the job a lot longer than Jake Valentine. Fuck the local yokels. Jeffrey had state judges in his pocket.

Apparently, Valentine wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “I had nothing to do with that, Chief. I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles. Not my fault she wouldn’t plead.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means what I said before. Your detective’s not making a peep.”

Jeffrey finally understood. “She hasn’t said anything since you found her on the field?”

“No, sir. Not one word. Didn’t ask for a drink of water or try to find out how her medical condition was doing or when she was gonna get out of here. She wouldn’t talk to her court-appointed lawyer, wouldn’t answer the judge when he asked if she was guilty or not guilty. She just laid there in the bed staring at the ceiling. Avery was so annoyed—Avery is the judge—that he denied bond and ordered a psych evaluation.”

Jeffrey felt his mind reeling. Lena could certainly be obstinate, but her silence made no sense. Someone had died in that fire. How could she sit there watching the car burn?

Sara finally spoke. “Maybe her throat was damaged during—”

“Doc said there’s no medical reason she can’t talk,” Valentine interrupted. “Problem is, she won’t even make the effort.”

Jeffrey still could not see the logic behind Lena’s silence. “What did the shrink say?”

“She wouldn’t talk to him, either,” the sheriff answered. “Far as I know, she hasn’t said one dang thing this whole time. Just lays there staring at the ceiling. I even tried to get Darla to draw her out. Nothing.”

“Could be post-traumatic stress? Shock?” Jeffrey suggested.

Valentine looked as dubious as Jeffrey felt.

“Did you tell her I was coming?”

“Nope. Thought it’d be best to let her sit and stew for a while.”

Jeffrey tried to put himself in the other man’s shoes, to look at the case from all angles. “Do you have an ID on the corpse?”

“The car was too hot to tow off the field until this afternoon.”

“Has your coroner seen this kind of thing before?” Jeffrey asked. The burned corpse was crucial; the body was the only thing that might offer an explanation of what had happened on that football field. In Georgia, the job of county medical examiner was an elected position usually held by the local funeral director or anyone else who wasn’t afraid to touch a dead body. The fact that Sara, a medical doctor, had taken the job in Grant County was very rare. There was no telling who the local body handler was.

Valentine offered, “Fred Bart’s a good man. He’ll let me know anything he finds. I gotta say he wasn’t too optimistic. Body like that—it’s hard to even say whether it’s a man or a woman, let alone how they died.” He shrugged, gave a goofy smile. “What am I saying? I’m sure you know how this works.”

Valentine hadn’t exactly answered the question. Jeffrey tried to tread lightly as he fished for Bart’s qualifications. “Sara’s the coroner back home. She’s a pediatrician, too.”

“Oh.” Valentine shifted away from the shelves, flashed a smile at Sara. “That’s nice. My wife’s a schoolteacher. All she does is correct my grammar and tell me to sit up straight.”

Jeffrey had more questions, but something told him Valentine wouldn’t answer them. “What made you call me?”

“Common sense,” Valentine answered. He had seemed ready to leave it at that, but then he added, “I’ll be straight with you, Chief. Your detective’s just a little thing. Doesn’t seem like she’d hurt a fly. I can’t see her doing this. There’s gotta be something more to the story. I figured if I couldn’t get it out of her, maybe you could.” He paused. “At the very least, you can save us a lot of time and money if you’d find out who’s in that car.”

Jeffrey doubted he would prove to be any help, but he said, “All right. Let me see her.”

Again, Valentine let Jeffrey and Sara go first. Sadly, Jeffrey guessed this was more because the younger man’s parents had always told him to respect his elders than out of any deference to rank.

As they walked toward Lena’s room, Jeffrey tried to process what the sheriff had just told them. The facts were simple. Lena had been found at a crime scene where a car was torched and a body was burned beyond recognition. Why was she on the football field? What connection did she have to the dead person? Who had caused the explosion? He heard Sara’s earlier question echo in his mind: What has she done now?

Despite Valentine’s newness to the job, Jeffrey could not fault the man on the arrest. Based on the circumstances, Jeffrey would’ve arrested Lena, too. She was an obvious suspect, and her silence wasn’t helping matters. Not that Lena had ever fostered a reputation for being helpful.

He could still remember the first time he’d seen her. She was in the police academy gymnasium, hanging halfway up the climbing rope, determined to make it to the top even though she was sweating so hard that her hands could barely keep their grip. No one else was around—this was something Lena was doing on her own time—and Jeffrey had watched her trying and failing to reach the top of the rope for nearly half an hour before he went to the commandant’s office and asked for her file.

The mayors of the three cities that made up Grant County had brought in Jeffrey as police chief to shake things up, to help force the department into the twenty-first century. Lena was the first non-secretarial woman hire in the town’s history. Jeffrey had pinned everything on her, determined he had made the right choice even when sometimes the facts said otherwise. When Frank Wallace, his most senior detective, had announced a few weeks ago that he was finally going to take retirement at the end of the year, Jeffrey had taken the news in stride, thinking Lena was ready to tackle some added responsibilities. Had he been wrong about her? In the nearly fifteen years that he’d known her, had Lena been living some kind of lie?

There had to be a reason for all this. Every crime had an explanation, a motivation. Jeffrey just had to find it. The sheriff was right about one thing. Lena was not a cold-blooded killer.

“Here we go.” Valentine indicated a closed door, and Jeffrey could plainly see Lena’s name on the sign. She was at the back end of the hall in a corner room. If Jeffrey and Sara hadn’t followed that stupid blue stripe off the elevator, they would’ve found Lena without having to go through Cook.

Jeffrey suggested, “Maybe Sara and I should go in alone.” If Lena was going to talk, it certainly wouldn’t be in front of the man who had arrested her.

“Well…” Valentine began, scratching his chin. He took his time mulling it over. Down the hall, they heard the elevator doors ding. Probably Cook going out for more crackers.

“Let’s just go inside,” Jeffrey insisted, tired of waiting for the sheriff.

Like the hallway, the room was deep in shadow. Lena lay in bed just as Valentine had described: on her back, motionless. Velcro bands attached her wrists to the bed rails. Her hands hung limply, fingers brushing the mattress. Her eyes were closed, but Jeffrey did not know if she was sleeping or biding her time. She was just as battered-looking as the young sheriff had said. Blood crusted her bottom lip. The skin was scraped off down the side of her cheek. The dark bruises on her face must have stopped them from trying to wipe off the blood and soot; she looked filthy, beaten down.

Jeffrey felt speechless. He was glad when Sara stepped forward, asking, “Lena?”

Lena’s head snapped around in surprise, eyes widening as she saw Jeffrey and Sara in the room. She bolted up in bed, jerking against the restraints as if she felt cornered, threatened. The bedsheets tangled around her feet as she pushed against the mattress, backing as far away from them as she could.

“No,” Lena whispered. “You can’t be here. No.”

“Well, now.” The sheriff’s sloppy grin indicated that he was pleased with himself. “I knew you could talk.”

“No,” Lena repeated, ignoring everyone in the room but Sara. Her voice was venomous. “Get out. Get out now.”

Jeffrey tried, “Lena—”

All her hatred seemed to focus on Sara. “Are you stupid? I said get the fuck out of here! Go!”

Sara’s mouth opened in surprise. Jeffrey felt a white-hot fury spark inside him, and he spoke through clenched teeth when he ordered, “Lena, back off.”

“Get out!” she screamed, jerking against the restraints. “Get her out of here!” she begged the sheriff. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just get her out!”

Valentine seemed at a loss. He indicated the door with a nod of his head. “Maybe she should—”

“No,” Sara insisted. She spoke so quietly that Jeffrey wasn’t sure she’d actually said the word until she turned to the two men, asking, “Could you give us a moment alone?” She asked Jeffrey, “Please?”

Sara did not wait for an answer. She slipped Lena’s chart out of the holder at the foot of the bed and studied it as she waited for them to leave. Jeffrey could tell she was forcing herself to do this, that if she could snap her fingers, she would’ve been anywhere but here. He just wasn’t sure why she wanted to stay.

For the first time since he’d entered the room, Lena spoke directly to Jeffrey. “Get your fucking wife out of my face. I don’t want her here.”

He locked eyes with her, willing the young woman to understand that there would be lasting consequences for her words. Jeffrey could put up with a lot of bullshit, but he would be damned if an officer on his force would get away with trashing his wife.

Sara looked up from Lena’s chart. “It’s okay. Just give us a few minutes.”

Despite his better judgment, Jeffrey managed, “We’ll wait in the hall.” He went to the door and held it open for the sheriff. Valentine stared at Lena for a few seconds, undecided. Finally, he shook his head, making it clear he wasn’t happy with his choice, and walked out of the room.

In the hallway, Jeffrey let the door close behind him, then stood in front of it—not exactly blocking the way but close enough.

“So.” Valentine rested his hand on the butt of his gun. He obviously was itching to go back into the room. “That what you expected to happen?”

Of all the scenarios Jeffrey had considered, this had not been one of them. He asked Valentine, “Where’s Lena’s uncle? Hank Norton?”

Valentine was staring at the door as if he wanted to bust through it.

Jeffrey pressed, “He’s Lena’s next of kin. Didn’t you contact him?”

Valentine nodded. “Wasn’t there.”

There were muffled sounds through the door, but no yelling that Jeffrey could hear. He indicated to the sheriff that they should walk up the hallway a bit. “You went by Hank’s house?”

Valentine stayed where he was. “I can’t find him anywhere. I went to his house last night, then again this morning. His bar’s been closed. There was something happened a few weeks ago—”

“Cook told me about that.”

“Yeah,” Valentine said, a suspicious look crossing his face. The man obviously did not trust his deputy. Jeffrey wondered how they got any work done. The force had to be a small one, with probably no more than five deputies in all. Parking Donald Cook at the hospital was one way of keeping his enemy at arm’s length, but Jeffrey was going to take a wild guess and say that the old-timer had a lot more friends in uniform than his young boss.

Jeffrey asked, “Any idea who it might be in the Caddy?”

“There are no missing persons that we know of. No reports on any suspicious characters hanging around. No Escalades reported missing. It’s a puzzle.”

At least he hadn’t been sitting on his hands all night. “What about Hank Norton?”

“He drives a Mercedes that’s probably older than I am.”

“No.” Jeffrey shook his head. “Do you think maybe it’s his body in the car?”

Valentine shrugged. “All’s I know is a DNA test is gonna blow half my wad for the quarter.”

His budgetary concerns were valid, but Jeffrey wondered again why Valentine wasn’t more eager to nail down the victim’s identity. Maybe he already had some idea, but he wasn’t yet willing to share the information.

“I know you said there weren’t any accelerants on her clothes, but did forensics find anything on her shoes?”

Valentine took his time answering. “She was wearing those what-do-you-call-its, with the short heel.”

“Pumps?” Jeffrey asked, thinking it was odd that Lena was wearing anything dressier than tennis shoes on her day off.

“Right, pumps. My wife wears those shoes hippies and lesbians wear. You know, with the cork? I don’t know what they’re called, but she swears by them.”

Jeffrey tried to get him back on subject. “Did they find anything on the shoes?”

“Just soot, dirt, the usual. Didn’t seem like there was any need to send them to the lab.” Valentine tilted up his chin, asked, “You think I should?”

Jeffrey shrugged. Though, if it was up to Jeffrey, he’d spend money on identifying the victim before worrying about Lena’s shoes, but that hadn’t been the sheriff’s question. “Up to you.”

Around the corner, he heard the elevator ding again. Jeffrey tried to think of something to keep them out in the hallway a little longer, wanting to give Sara as much time as he could. “Where’s one?”

“What’s that?”

“The elevator,” he said. “The buttons only go to two and three. Where’s the first floor?”

“Basement,” Valentine told him. “Crazy, ain’t it?”

“How do you get down there?”

“You have to use the stairs or go around the back of the building.”

Jeffrey wondered how many fatalities the county coroner dealt with. “You got many bodies down there?”

“Bodies?” He looked shocked, then gave a chuckle as he explained, “Our morgue’s over near the impound lot. The basement’s for the laundry room, storage, that kind of stuff.”

“That’s strange,” Jeffrey said, grasping at straws. “Why the impound lot?”

Valentine shrugged, glanced at his watch, then the door.

Jeffrey tried, “Is she going to need therapy or anything? Medication?”

“What, for the fire?” Valentine shook his head. “Nah. Doc says she’ll be fine in a few days.”

“What about your usual suspects?”

“What does that mean?”

“Your bad guys,” Jeffrey clarified. “Persons of interest.”

Valentine shook his head. “You got me on that one, Chief.”

“Well,” Jeffrey began, once again trying not to sound too condescending, “when something bad happens in my town, like a car gets stolen or somebody swipes a television, I’ve got a pretty good idea who might be behind it.”

“Oh.” Valentine nodded. “Yeah, I got you. Only, we don’t get many cars being blown up on the football field here.”

Jeffrey chose to ignore his sarcasm. “Any arsonists?”

“That’s a big-city crime.”

“Apparently not.”

Valentine scratched his chin. “I figure whoever did this was trying to send a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“Your detective’s the only one who can answer that. Speaking of which,” he said, nodding toward the door, “I think your wife’s had enough time alone with her.”

Jeffrey could only hope that was the case. He followed Valentine back into the room. Sara was leaning against the wall outside the bathroom. The bed was empty, the soft restraints hanging from the rails. The shower was running.

Sara explained, “I talked her into cleaning up.”

“She talk back?” Valentine wanted to know.

Sara shook her head, and Jeffrey could see that she was telling the truth.

“Not much help, then,” Valentine said, obviously annoyed. He glanced at his watch, then at the bathroom door. “How long she been in there?”

“Not long.”

He tried the doorknob, but it was locked. “Jesus, lady, you didn’t think it’d be smart to go in there with her?”

Sara opened her mouth to answer, but Jeffrey cut her off, telling the man, “Watch your tone.”

Valentine ignored him, knocking hard on the door. “Miss Adams? I need you to open this door now.” He slipped his radio out of his belt. “Cook, you there? Come in.” There was no answer, and the sheriff pressed his shoulder into the door, trying to pop it open.

For the second time that night, Sara’s lips parted, but she did not speak.

“Cook?” Valentine tried the radio again. There was no answer, and he banged his fist on the bathroom door. “Miss Adams, you’ve got to the count of three to open this door.”

The radio crackled. In a slow drawl, Don Cook asked, “What is it, Jake?”

“Find the passkey for the bathroom and get your ass in here!” Valentine barked. He tucked the radio back in its holster and put his shoulder to the door again. “Miss Adams,” he tried again. “Lookit, just come out and everything will be fine.”

Jeffrey asked Sara, “Does she have anything sharp in there?”

Valentine turned around, waiting for her answer.

Sara shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Valentine asked, “Would she try to hurt herself?”

“I have no idea,” Sara returned, her words clipped. “I’m not her doctor.”

“Shit,” Valentine hissed. He banged on the door again. “Miss Adams.”

“Oh, no…” Sara’s voice was so low and the banging was so loud that Valentine obviously didn’t hear her.

“What’s—” Jeffrey looked up, his question caught in his throat. He knew exactly what had happened on the other side of that door.

Cook came into the room, a key in his hand. “What’s going on?”

Valentine snatched the key from him and slid it into the locked door. Steam from the shower filled the room. He strode inside and yanked back the curtain. The tub was empty.

“Motherfuck,” Valentine cursed. Above the toilet, a ceiling tile had been pushed back, exposing a narrow crawl space. “Goddammit!” he screamed, kicking the wall. He told Cook, “Search the hospital top to bottom. Call backup now.” Cook left, and Valentine looked right at Sara, saying, “You bitch.”

Jeffrey grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “You ever talk to my wife like that again and we’re gonna have a real problem. You hear me?” Valentine tried to get away, but Jeffrey tightened his grip. “You hear me?”

Valentine went limp like a kitten who’d been grabbed by the scruff of the neck. “She let my prisoner escape.”

Jeffrey didn’t let himself look at Sara, because he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was. Lena had tricked her. There was no getting around it.

He let the man go.

“Asshole.” Valentine jerked his shirt back into place, scowling. He shoved past Jeffrey as he went into the hallway. Jeffrey followed him around the corner and into the next room. The bed was empty, obviously unused. “She let my prisoner escape,” Valentine snarled. “I can’t fucking believe I stood out in that hall letting you jerk me around while your wife was in there letting her escape.”

“Sara’s not a part of this.”

“Why don’t you do yourself a favor, buddy?” Valentine challenged. “You get that wife of yours, and you get back into your car, and you get the fuck out of my town.”

Jeffrey didn’t need to be asked politely. He turned without a word and went to find Sara.

She was still in Lena’s room, stricken. “How could I have been so stupid? How could I—”

He took her by the elbow, leading her out of the room. “We don’t need to talk about that right now.”

“I shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

Jeffrey led her into the hallway. The rent-a-cops had been called in, all two of them. Both men looked older than Don Cook and just as fit for duty.

Valentine started barking orders in between screaming into his radio for more backup. “I want her found now!”

Jeffrey pressed the button for the elevator. He glanced down the hall, figuring Lena’s escape. Obviously, she had pushed back the tile over the toilet and used the crawl space over the drop ceiling to access the bathroom on the other side. Then she had probably sneaked down the stairs to the basement. The elevator opened onto the emergency room, though even if she’d taken that route, he doubted she would’ve caused much of a stir. The receptionist probably wouldn’t have even looked up from her game of cards on the computer.

The elevator doors slid open. Jeffrey pressed his hand to Sara’s back, urging her to get on. Valentine and one of the hospital cops trotted past the elevator as the doors closed, probably on their way to search the basement.

Jeffrey pressed the button for the second floor, wondering again why the car didn’t go down to the first floor. Maybe there was a freight elevator Valentine had failed to mention. Lena could’ve used that to get downstairs, but then what? The laundry would have sheets and towels. There was probably a staff lounge, maybe lockers for the cleaning staff. She could find clothes, cash. Jeffrey figured she had taken what she needed and gotten out of the hospital as soon as possible.

“How could I be so stupid?” Sara repeated, shaking her head. Tears were in her eyes. He had seen her angry countless times, but there was nothing so savage as the anger she could direct toward herself.

He instructed, “Tell me exactly what she said.”

“Just the same stuff—that we had to leave. She barely even looked at me.” She brushed away a tear with the back of her hand, her face white with fury. “I’m so sorry,” she told him. “This is all my fault.”

“I was standing out in the hallway,” Jeffrey tried. “She used me, too.”

“Not like…” Sara shook her head, unable to finish the sentence. “I unstrapped her, Jeffrey. I’m the one who let her go.”

“Did she ask you to release her?”

“No—yes. Not directly. She said she felt dirty, that she was covered in dirt, and I just walked over and took off the straps. I didn’t think twice about it. I even helped her out of the bed.”

He tried to press gently. “Did she say anything else?”

“She apologized to me.” Sara laughed at her own stupidity. “She was acting so scared. Her hands were shaking, her voice kept catching. I’ve never seen her so upset—not since Sibyl died. I fell for it completely. God, I’m such an idiot.”

Jeffrey wrapped his hand around her shoulder, not knowing how to comfort her. He was so furious at Lena right now that he could barely think.

Sara said, “A drop ceiling. Of all the people who should know you can climb over a drop ceiling…”

He knew what had happened to her all those years ago at Grady Hospital, that her attacker had dropped down from the bathroom ceiling. If Lena had put a knife in his back, Sara had just unwittingly twisted it. He told her, “It’s not your fault, Sara. You’re not a cop.”

“Then why am I here?” she demanded fiercely. “I should have stayed in the damn car. I should’ve just stayed home where I belong.”

The elevator doors slid open. Two more sheriff’s deputies were running through the lobby toward the stairs.

“Let’s just get out of here,” he told her, taking her by the arm. They were at the sliding doors when Valentine called to them.

“Hold on there,” he said, jogging to catch up. He was out of breath, probably from running up and down the stairs. He held out his hand, palm up. “Give me the keys to your car.”

Had Sara not been there, Jeffrey would have told the man to go fuck himself. As it was, he silently tossed him the keys, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

Valentine saw the BMW logo on the keyfob and gave Jeffrey the kind of look you’d give a whore on the street. Cops didn’t drive BMWs, at least not where Jake Valentine came from.

“It’s my wife’s,” Jeffrey told him. Sara had worked her ass off to be able to drive that car. As far as he was concerned, she could drive a Rolls-Royce if she wanted to.

Valentine pressed the button on the keyfob and the locks snicked up. Suddenly, he stopped. “Laundry room,” he said, glaring at Jeffrey. “You asked what was on the bottom floor.”

“I was making small talk.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

Sara said, “I’ll be over here,” walking toward one of the benches in front of the entrance.

Valentine gave him another nasty look before going to the car. Jeffrey knew the man wouldn’t find anything there. Even if Lena had seen the BMW in the parking lot, there was no way to jimmy the door locks or open the trunk without the key. Breaking a window wouldn’t do any good, either. One of the car’s safety features was that if you engaged the central locking system from the outside, nothing could be opened from the inside. Jeffrey had actually been trapped inside the car once when Sara accidentally hit the lock button as she ran into the house to catch the ringing telephone. If the sunroof hadn’t been open so he could crawl out, Jeffrey would’ve been stuck in the car for hours.

The sheriff could clearly see the empty seats and floorboards through the windows, but he still opened the door to make sure, taking off his hat, peering inside like he might catch Lena hiding under the center console. He walked around to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Except for Sara’s first-aid kit and a couple of grocery bags to be recycled at the store, it was empty.

Valentine slammed the trunk closed. He told Jeffrey, “Guess I’d look like an even bigger jackass if I put out an APB on a fugitive wanted for ‘failure to show identification.’”

“That’s a fair assumption.” The sheriff was already on thin ice with the charges he’d trumped up against Lena. He had to tread carefully now. They both knew that any mistakes he made at this point could end up ruining whatever case he might eventually build against her.

“Well.” Valentine glanced around the parking lot. “That’s Darla’s Jeep. The red Chevy belongs to the maintenance crew, the Bronco is George’s, and that’s Bitty’s Ranger over in the corner; she’s been here since Thursday when she drove herself in with a pain in her side and it turned out to be appendicitis.”

He had accounted for all the cars in the lot, but Jeffrey had to ask, “Where’s your cruiser?”

Valentine laughed, but not out of amusement. “Don’s got his best fishing pole in the trunk, so that was his first concern. Both our cars are out back. We’re getting staff downstairs to check their lockers, see if anything is missing. I had somebody go over to Hank’s to see if she shows up there.” He tossed the key back to Jeffrey. “I reckon between your wife wasting my time and you jacking me around in the hallway, she could have up to a twenty-minute head start on me.”

Jeffrey wasn’t going to argue the finer points, such as Valentine pulling some kind of power move by making them all go into the linen closet. “At least.”

“Lemme ask you something. Does it bother you that you just aided an escape?”

His tone had turned nasty in the blink of an eye. Jeffrey pushed away from the car, answering, “Not much.”

“That’s how you old cops work, isn’t it?” Valentine was obviously furious. “Always stick together, no matter what laws you break. Gotta protect the brotherhood, huh?” His voice got louder with each word. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you and ol’ Don hatched this one up together. Pull your dirty tricks to make the new guy look like a fool.”

Jeffrey warned, “You wanna be real careful what you say to me, Jake.”

“I could arrest her,” Valentine said, gesturing to Sara with an angry wave of his hand. “I should arrest her.”

He had Jeffrey’s full attention now. “We both know that’s not gonna happen.”

“Yeah? Well, this is.” Valentine swung his fist—literally. His arm flew out roundhouse style instead of punching straight from his shoulder. This gave Jeffrey plenty of time to block the hit and slam his fist into the other man’s gut. A whoosh of air came from Valentine’s mouth as he doubled over. He would’ve fallen to his knees if Jeffrey hadn’t caught him.

“God,” the sheriff groaned, clutching his stomach. “Jesus…”

Sara stood from the bench. Jeffrey shook his head, telling her to stay put. He told Valentine, “Stand up straight.”

Valentine struggled, his knees not working.

Jeffrey pulled him up by his collar until the other man was looking at him. “Just breathe,” he said, feeling like he was talking to a child. “It’ll pass.”

“Let go of me.” Valentine pushed Jeffrey away, but he still sagged against the car for support. “Goddamn, you’re stronger than you look.”

Jeffrey held out his hand to Sara, letting her know it was okay. “Where’d you learn to swing like that?”

“I grew up with four older sisters,” he managed. Which explained why he hit like a girl. “Dammit. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Jeffrey didn’t point out that the man hadn’t actually managed to hit him. He changed his position to stand between Valentine and Sara, telling the man, “Listen real careful, Jake. I already warned you once. You ever threaten with my wife again and I will beat you into the ground. We clear on that?”

Valentine coughed, then nodded.

“Can you stand up?”

“I think so.”

Jeffrey waited for him to move away from the car.

“I’m sorry,” Valentine told him. “I’ve got a short fuse.”

“No shit.”

The sheriff asked, “You gonna tell me if she contacts you?”

Jeffrey was caught short by the question, which would explain the truthful answer he gave. “I don’t know.”

Valentine stared at him, then nodded again. “Thanks for being honest.”

Jeffrey watched Valentine stumble toward the front doors. The glass slid open and he went inside. Sara was still standing by the bench, and Jeffrey motioned her over.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“I’ll explain later. Let’s get out of here.”

He made to open her door, but she said, “I’ve got it,” and climbed in.

Jeffrey was walking around to the driver’s side when a white sedan sped through the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the empty space next to him. Seconds later, a burly, bald man got out of the car. He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a pair of jeans that looked splattered with oil. A heavy metal chain went from the front of his pants to his back. On his left hip was one of the largest hunting knives Jeffrey had ever seen.

While Jeffrey watched, the man took out the knife and placed it on the car seat, obviously knowing he wasn’t allowed to bring the weapon into the hospital. Not that he looked as if he needed the weapon. If Jeffrey had to guess, he would say the guy weighed well over two hundred fifty pounds and that most of that was muscle.

The sedan shook when he slammed the door. Deep scratches cut across his face as if he’d gotten into a fight with a tiger and lost. He stared at Jeffrey, challenging, “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Jeffrey pushed back his jacket, put his hand on his hip. His gun was tucked under the front seat of Sara’s car, but the con didn’t know that. “Don’t make this a problem.”

“Fuck you with your fucking problem,” the man barked, heading toward the ER.

Through the glass doors, Jeffrey saw Jake Valentine leaning over the desk, talking to the receptionist. They both looked up when the man entered the waiting room. Valentine glanced at Jeffrey, but the sheriff was too far away to read his expression. He said something to the thug, holding out his hand, palm down, as if to calm him. Words were exchanged, then the man turned around and stalked back out. As he passed Jeffrey, he muttered, “Cocksucker,” but Jeffrey wasn’t sure who was being insulted.

Valentine came out of the hospital as the white car backed up, jumped the curb, and sped off.

Jeffrey glanced into the car, checking on Sara. He asked Valentine, “Friend of yours?”

“Local drug dealer who wanted to see one of his boys,” Valentine explained. “I told him to come back during visiting hours.”

Jeffrey gave him a close look, wondering if the man was lying. The exchange had looked a bit more heated than a denied visiting request, but then again the knife-carrying thug didn’t strike Jeffrey as someone who liked to be told no.

“Here,” Jeffrey said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a couple of business cards. He wrote something on the back of the top card, then thumbed to the next one to give to the sheriff. “My cell number is on the bottom. Call me if you find my detective.”

Valentine gave the card a wary glance before taking it.

Jeffrey pocketed the rest of the cards. He got into the BMW and pulled out of the parking lot. Neither he nor Sara had much to say as he followed the route they had taken into town. Valentine was wrong about the twenty-minute lead. Jeffrey figured Lena had fifteen, tops. He asked the questions that the sheriff was probably asking himself right now: Where would Lena go? Who could she turn to?

Him. Lena had always come to Jeffrey when she had a problem, whether she needed something as small as a ride in to work or as big as taking care of her asshole white supremacist boyfriend. This time was different, though. This time she had gone too far. Valentine was right about one thing: on purpose or not, Sara had aided Lena’s escape. Lena was a cop; she knew the law better than most lawyers. She’d known exactly what she was dropping Sara into and she hadn’t cared.

In the quiet of the car, Sara asked, “What now?”

“We go back home.” He could feel her looking at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “I mean it, Sara. This is it.”

“You’re just going to leave Lena down here to rot?”

“After what she said to you? What she did to you?” He shook his head, his mind made up. “It’s over. I don’t care what happens to her.”

“Did you see her reaction when we walked into that room?”

“I heard what she said.” He felt his anger spark back up at the memory. “There’s no choice here, Sara. She used you. I’m not going to help her.”

“I’ve never seen her so afraid. She’s usually completely in control of herself.”

He snorted at the idea. “Maybe with you.”

“You’re right. She never shows me her weak side. It’s always this act, this posturing about how tough and invincible she is.” Sara insisted, “That wasn’t an act back there, Jeffrey. Maybe later, but when she saw us in her room, she was absolutely terrified.”

“Then why not talk to me? Or at least to you? She had you alone. She knew you weren’t going to run off and tell the sheriff anything. Why didn’t she confide in you?”

“Because she’s scared.”

“Then she should’ve just shut up and left you out of it.”

Sara spoke carefully. “I appreciate that you’re taking up for me, but just think about it for a minute: Lena knew that if she hurt me, you would do exactly what you’re doing right now. She didn’t want me to leave town, Jeffrey. She wanted you to.”

Jeffrey gripped the steering wheel, not wanting to admit that Sara could be right. “Since when did you start taking up for Lena Adams?”

“Since…” Sara’s voice trailed off. “Since I saw her scared enough to risk everything in order to get you away from this town.”

He saw the scene again, the way Lena had reacted. Sara was right: Lena wasn’t faking her fear. She hadn’t looked Jeffrey in the eye because she knew that he was probably the only person in the world who knew when she was lying.

Sara said, “I’ve seen her in a lot of bad situations, but I’ve never seen her terrified like that.”

Jeffrey let her words hang between them as over and over, he replayed Lena’s response in his mind, trying to figure out what it had to do with the dead body in the torched Cadillac.

Sara told him, “She said that I should be afraid.”

“Did she say why?”

“She went into this pity thing about how everything she touches turns to crap. I thought she was feeling sorry for herself, but now I think she realized what she was doing wasn’t working, so she decided to try something else.” Sara shook her head. “She’s terrified, Jeffrey—so terrified that she’s willing to cut you out of her life if she has to. You’re the only constant she’s ever had. What’s so horrible that she’s willing to lose you?”

“Did you ever think maybe she’s right?” he responded, not wanting to answer her question. “Maybe it’s a good idea that I don’t get involved.”

She gave something like a laugh. “You’re not going to leave this alone.”

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“Seven-eight-zero, A-B-N.” She paused, as if she expected an answer. “Isn’t that what you wrote on the back of the card—the license plate number from the white car?”

Jeffrey took out the card, checked the number on the back. 780 ABN. As usual, Sara had perfect recall. He glanced at his wife. She was staring out the window, keeping her thoughts to herself. He knew that she was no longer regretting the fact that she’d come to the hospital with him. She was regretting that he was there, that Lena had yet again managed to pull Jeffrey into something dangerous.

Sara was a cop’s wife, and she had absorbed a cop’s mistrust of coincidence. The thug in the white sedan had shown up less than thirty minutes after Lena’s escape. Even from where she sat in the BMW, the tattoo on the man’s arm must have stood out to Sara like a neon sign.

It’s hard not to notice a bloodred, four-inch swastika.