Unseen (47 page)

“Cayla felt differently. She told DeShawn Franklin, who said it was probably nothing, and then she told Lonnie Gray, who put out a hit on you and your husband.”

None of this made sense. “How did she—”

“Cayla was dating Chuck Gray before he died of leukemia. She was close to Lonnie. Or, as close as two people like that can be.” Will put his hands in his pockets. “You want my personal theory, I think she was just one of those women who likes stirring things up.”

Lena felt her head shaking even as her brain tried to process the information. She remembered the doctor’s visit. She remembered Jared talking shit. And she remembered taking him seriously for just a brief moment before dismissing his theory like she dismissed every jackass theory that came out of his mouth.

All she could manage was, “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?” Will asked. “It’s the truth.” There was no smile on his face, no indication that he was about to reveal the punch line. “It wasn’t your fault. I wouldn’t say it was Jared’s fault, either. It’s just something that happened.”

Lena pressed her back against the wall. She’d been racking her brain trying to figure out where she’d gone wrong, what she’d done, and in the end, she was completely blameless. “I just assumed …” Lena shook her head again. She was turning into a bobblehead doll. “I thought it was something to do with work.”

“That’s a reasonable assumption,” Will agreed. “We all thought it was work-related. But it wasn’t.”

“We were …” She let her voice trail off. Lena couldn’t say the most startling part of all: On the street, you expected bad things to happen. They had been in her doctor’s office. Lena had thought they were safe.

She told Will, “I don’t even remember meeting her. I’ve seen her face all over the news and it never even crossed my mind.” She felt a jolt from a distant memory. “I think she even called me on the phone.”

Will said, “If it helps any, you’ve really annoyed my partner. She’s spent her professional career saying there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

Lena kept shaking her head. She’d never believed in coincidences, either.

“So,” Will said. “Any questions?”

Lena could only think of one. “Does Sara know it wasn’t my fault?”

He hesitated, but told her, “Yes.”

Lena didn’t even try to fight the smile on her lips. “And she knows that you’re down here telling me?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t try to stop you?”

“I should head back to Atlanta.” Will pushed away from the wall, obviously uneasy with the subject. “I’m glad everything worked out for you and Jared.”

She couldn’t let him leave. “Why didn’t you just call me? Or email me?”

He gave her a knowing look. “You always come out better when we’re off the record.”

Lena didn’t have to ask for clarification. Her memory flashed up that night in the house when she’d held the hammer over her head. Jared was bleeding out on the floor. One man was already dead. Even now, the bruise on Lena’s knee was still tender where she’d dropped her full weight onto Fred Zachary’s spine. If she thought about it hard enough, she could hear the crack of bone echoing in her ears.

Georgia’s Castle Doctrine law provided that any man or woman could use deadly force against an intruder so long as they believed their life was in danger.

Will Trent knew just as well as Lena that Fred Zachary had no longer been a threat.

He gave a slight bow, his only acknowledgment of the truth between them. “Until next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time.”

“Lena.” He sounded almost wistful. “I really hope you’re right.”

Will kept his hands in his pockets as he walked away. Lena remembered the first time she’d met him. With his three-piece suits and mild manner, he was more like an undertaker than a cop. In Lena’s quest to learn from her mistakes, Will Trent was up there with the big life lessons. That undertaker had almost sent her to prison.

And not without good reason.

Lena gave Will enough time to leave the building before she approached the interrogation room door. She listened carefully, but couldn’t hear anything. Denise had a quiet voice and Brock Patterson had the dulcet tones of an ancient nun. Lena pressed her palm to the door as an act of silent solidarity. So many times, Lena had been on the other side of that door. So many times, she’d known in her heart that no one was waiting on the other side.

“Hey.”

She spun around, surprised to find Jared behind her. The shock wore off quickly. “You dumbass. What are you doing up here? How did you—”

He kissed her in a sloppy way that was meant to shut her up.

Lena scowled as she pulled away. He was wearing blue sweatpants and a bright orange Auburn sweatshirt. His bandages were off. His hair stuck up like a duck’s ass in the back. The scalp had Frankenstein stitches that had already been documented on several Facebook pages.

She asked, “How did you get here? You’re not supposed to be driving.”

“Estefan picked me up to come see the new Harleys.”

“Estefan,” she muttered. The two had half a brain between them. “You need to go home.”

“So, take me home.” He wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Jared.”

“Take me home.” He grabbed her ass to get her going. Lena slapped away his hand. Cameras covered almost every angle of the building. She imagined the front desk sergeant was pressing
record
at this very moment.

She said, “You should be at home asleep right now. You were in the hospital. You almost died.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Bullshit. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I wish you couldn’t keep your mouth open.”

She gave him a sharp look, but she took the hint. Lena had spent enough time with Nell to know the kind of wife she didn’t want to be. She was all for putting a man in his place, but Jared’s father was so neutered he probably sat down on the toilet to pee.

Jared leaned on her as they made their way toward the front exit. “These bikes are gonna ride awesome, babe. There’s push buttons on the bags, they’ve all got the 103 power pack …”

Lena tuned him out. She let Will’s revelation roll through her mind. Cayla Martin. Dr. Benedict’s office. No matter how hard Lena tried, she still couldn’t recall meeting the woman. She was just one of those faceless people who blended into the scenery.

Jared didn’t remember her, either. At least he hadn’t commented the one time he’d watched the news with Lena. Cayla Martin’s face had come on-screen and he’d turned off the TV before the story could run.

Unlike Lena, Jared didn’t seem interested in finding out why they’d been targeted. He was too focused on being happy that the shooters hadn’t succeeded. More likely, he thought it was Lena’s fault but didn’t want her to feel bad about it.

Lena had no problem letting him live in blissful ignorance. Since Fred Zachary had made a plea deal, there would be no trial. There would be no testimony explaining why two men had been sent to kill Lena and Jared. There was no reason for Jared to ever find out that he’d been at the root of all this evil. As forgiving as he was of others, he did not easily forgive himself. Lena was much more accustomed to living with guilt.

Not that she’d ever felt guilty for lying to her husband.

They finally reached the front lobby. Jared stopped walking. He put his hand to the wall to help keep his balance. They both knew they were in a camera blind spot. Every cop in the building knew how to stay off film.

Instead of doing something lewd, he told Lena, “You smell a little sweaty.”

“Thanks a lot.” She punched him in the shoulder.

He smiled sweetly. “Have your eyes always been brown?”

“Have you always been an idiot?”

He stopped smiling. The creases at the corners of his eyes didn’t completely go away. “I want to try again.”

Lena felt her face flush. He didn’t have to tell her what he wanted to try again. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Hell no.” He laughed. “That didn’t stop us the first time.”

Lena couldn’t respond. She wasn’t sure how she felt, whether or not she was ready. Last time had been an accident. To do it on purpose seemed like tempting fate.

“Lee.” Jared took her hand. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Lena kept waiting to feel annoyed, but mostly, she found herself appreciating the solid feel of his hand, the tight grasp that told her he was going to be all right.

He said, “I want a baby with you. I want to make a life together. A family.”

Just hearing the words made her want all of it, but Lena was too afraid to answer, too terrified to get her hopes up again.

Which is why she said, “Okay.”

Jared grinned like a fool. “Really?”

“Yes.” She said it again just to make sure. “Yes.”

He kissed her, his mouth lingering longer than usual. His hand cradled her face. Jared looked into her eyes. His thumb traced where his lips had been. “And I want to rip out the kitchen because my dad did it wrong.”

Lena’s string of profanities was muffled by a trumpet of motorcycles pulling into the parking lot. She could see them lining up through the glass doors. Six Harley-Davidson police-issue bikes gleamed in the sunshine, courtesy of Sid Waller’s stash of money in the basement of the shooting gallery.

“Hot damn!” Jared sounded like a frat boy at a pool party. He hobbled toward the parking lot, grabbing the back of a chair, the door handle, anything he could use to propel himself toward the bikes.

Lena shook her head as she took a key out of her pocket. Weapons weren’t allowed in areas where prisoners were kept, so there was a row of lockers by the front door. She slid her key into the correct lock. Lena had never been the type of woman to carry a purse. She had shoved her messenger bag into the tiny locker so many times that the canvas was worn where the metal edges scraped into the material. Out of habit, she did a quick inventory of the bag, making sure her Glock was inside, her wallet, her keys, her pens.

Almost as an afterthought, she checked the outside pocket for the postcard. There it was—stamped and ready to go. Lena had been carrying the postcard around with her for three days, putting it in her bag, sticking it in her pocket, tossing it onto the dresser. Now, she pulled out the card and looked at the photograph of downtown Macon. “Thank you for visiting the Heart of Georgia” was written across the top in a curly yellow script.

Lena flipped the card over. The address was the same one she’d written years ago on an envelope she’d mailed to Atlanta.

The letter.

Lena knew that she’d always placed too much value on Sara Linton’s opinion. For years, Lena had let the blame for Jeffrey’s death shadow her every move. She was so low at one point that she had to reach up to touch bottom. Lena had written the letter to beg for Sara’s forgiveness, to seek absolution. She’d structured her case the same way she would present an investigation in court. She’d testified to her own good character. She’d laid out the evidence. She’d highlighted the inconsistencies. She’d expertly spun the divergent facts in her favor. Lena hadn’t been writing an apology. She had been begging for the return of her very soul.

The postcard was different. Two words, not three pages. Giving something, not asking for it.

The truth was that Lena had recovered her soul on her own. When she looked at her life now, all she could see was good. She was good at her job. She was good to her friends. She had married a good man, even if he talked too much. They would eventually have a child together. Maybe more than one child. They would raise their family. They would suffer through Nell’s visits. They would have birthday parties, Christmases, and Thanksgivings, and no matter what Sara Linton thought about Lena’s choices, she would always know that she had done the right thing.

Virtue was its own absolution.

There was a mail slot by the lockers, a brass plaque with the words U.S. MAIL engraved in bold print across the top. Every day around lunchtime, the woman in the front office collected the outgoing mail and took it to the post office. One of the perks of working at a police station. Especially if you liked long lunches.

Lena stared down at the postcard. For just a moment, she thought about tearing it up. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Lena was fine. Sara was the one who needed forgiveness. She was the one who couldn’t let go. It cost nothing to release her.

Lena angled the postcard into the mail slot. She held on for just a second, then let it drop into the basket below.

Outside, a motorcycle revved. Jared was straddling the bike. Estefan was behind him because he couldn’t hold it up on his own.

Lena hefted her bag over her shoulder as she headed toward the door.

Toward Jared.

Toward her life.

She smiled at the thought of Sara reading the postcard. The message was simple. Lena could’ve just as easily written it to herself—

You win
.

I
feel very lucky to have some really great folks on my team, among them Angela Cheng Caplan, Diane Dickensheid, and Victoria Sanders. Thank y’all so much for being the glue that helps hold this thing together.

As always, much praise goes to my editors, Kate Elton and Jennifer Hershey, for their insight and generosity.

Yet again, Dr. David Harper was very helpful with the medical details. He’s kept Sara from killing lots of people over the years, and I appreciate his continued guidance. I owe eternal gratitude to the fine agents at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation for answering what I am sure seem like crazy questions. I promise I am only asking how to commit crimes in service to story. Chip Pendleton, MD, is a great doctor and even more generous adviser on all things Grady. I thank you, sir, for your ribald sense of humor and—more important—your time.

To Beth Tindall at Cincinnati Media, aka Webmaster Beth, aka my good friend: thanks for sticking with me all these years, and for not letting me use too much flash.

To all my publishers around the world and the good people who work on my books: I so appreciate your support. To my readers: I continue to be grateful for your kindness and all the cat photos you post on Facebook.