therapist who could help her understand that all of this change wasn’t going to change a damn thing.
As the old saying went, wherever you go, there you are.
“Sissy, you should know this,” Tessa said. “Georgia has one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the country. It’s even worse for black women. They’re six times more likely to die from giving birth than white women.”
Sara did not point out that she did know this, because as one of the state’s medical examiners, she was in charge of compiling all of the depressing statistics her sister was tossing back at her. “You’re making an argument for more doctors, not more midwives.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. It’s a proven fact that home births are just as safe as hospital births.”
“Tess.” Shut up, Sara. Just shut up. “The study you’re taking that from was done in the UK. Pregnant women in rural areas have to drive more than an hour for—”
“In South Africa—”
Wah-wah-wah-wah, wah-wah-wah-wah.
Sara could not bear to hear another heart-warming story about how being a missionary in South Africa had Made Tessa a Better Human Being. As if everyone was supposed to forget about the six years Tessa had spent partying her way to a four-year degree in modern English poetry, then the next five years she’d spent working in their father’s plumbing business while managing to fuck every good-looking man in the tri-county area.
Not that Sara was against fucking good-looking men—she had fucked one several times over the weekend—but there was an actual point to her intransigence that she could never, ever say out loud.
Sara did not think that midwives were an inherently bad idea. She thought Tessa, her sister, working as a midwife was a recipe for disaster. She loved her baby sister, but Tessa had once thrown her shoe through a window when the lace broke. She couldn’t solve a Rubik’s Cube if you put the math in front of her face. Tessa’s idea of a balanced diet was using a piece of celery to scoop out macaroni and cheese. This was the woman who was supposed to remain calm and composed, to keep her training at the forefront during a tense, potentially risky, delivery?
Tessa said, “If you’re not going to listen to me, I’m going to go.”
“I am lis—”
Tessa hung up.
Sara gripped the phone the way she wanted to grip her sister’s neck.
She checked the time. Charlie was probably wondering if she’d fallen down the toilet. She re-clipped her hair. She straightened her long-sleeved T-shirt. Will’s shirt, actually. The material gapped around her shoulders. The sleeves were too long. Sara ran her fingers along the material. She had changed into a fresh pair of scrub pants, but the stench of the cafeteria lingered like the worst perfume ever.
Charlie was patiently sitting at one of the visitor’s tables when she opened the door. He grabbed her duffle bag without being asked. The smile underneath his handlebar mustache was genuine. Charlie was a sweetheart, but he could’ve made things difficult for Sara when she’d first joined the team. He had nursed a crush on Will for years. Will had been clueless, just as he’d been when Sara was nursing a crush on him. The man couldn’t take a hint if it sat on his face.
Charlie asked, “Everything good?”
“Yes, thanks. I just needed a minute.”
He smiled the smile of a man who had heard everything through the thin wooden door.
“Sorry,” Sara apologized. Charlie’s job description didn’t usually include waiting outside women’s restrooms. He was being more vigilant than usual because they were working in a men’s prison. “Is Gary finished logging the evidence?”
“If he’s not, he will be soon.” Charlie held open the door. The sunlight instantly dried the water on Sara’s skin. They were outside the prison walls, walking through the parking lot, but the building still bore down ominously. She could hear screaming because there was always screaming when people were locked in cages.
“So.” Charlie slid on a pair of sunglasses. “Did you see the new guy in latent prints?”
“The one who looks like outdoorsy Rob Lowe?”
“He invited me for a drink. I almost packed a suitcase.” Charlie shook his head. “I’m such a Charlotte.”
“Charlotte always knew what she wanted.” Sara tried to maintain their casual tone. “Have you talked to Will lately?”
Charlie took off his sunglasses. “About what?”
The question had given away too much. And it was pointless anyway. Will was not one to volunteer his feelings. Normally, Sara found a way to pull him out of his shell, but she had hit her limit on shell-pulling. She loved Will with every fiber of her being. She wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with him. She wasn’t expecting fireworks or a parade, but she wanted him to at least ask the damn question. I want your mother to be happy was a life goal, not a marriage proposal. The fact that forty-three days had passed without Will bringing it up again was maddening. Sara did not want a silent husband. She sure as hell was not going to be a silent wife.
“Sara?” Charlie asked. “What’s up?”
Fortunately, her phone started to buzz. She had a text from Will, an icon of a telephone receiver with a question mark. Most of their written communications were pictorial. Will was dyslexic. He could read, but not quickly. Sara knew that the rest of the world texted with emojis, but she liked to think that she and Will had developed their own special language.
She told Charlie, “I need to make a call.”
“I’ll help Gary finish up.” He walked ahead. “We should be ready to roll in five.”
“I’ll be there in two.” Sara was certain Will was calling to discuss what to order for dinner. He was terrified he would starve to death if he went more than an hour without food.
Besides, it wasn’t like Will had avoided talking about something else that was very important for the last forty-three days.
He answered on the first ring. Instead of a hello, he asked, “Can you talk?”
Something was wrong. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He sounded unsure. “We have to talk. I don’t want you to be mad. I was wrong to let it go on for this long. I’m sorry.”
Sara put her hand to her eyes. Forty-three motherfucking days. He could not be calling to have that conversation right now. “Babe, I’m standing in a parking lot outside of a prison.”
He seemed taken aback, which was the point of her tone. “Sara, I—”
“Will.” She was already primed to be annoyed by Tessa, but this was enough to send her over the edge. “You’ve had six damn weeks to—”
“Daryl Nesbitt.”
The name was gibberish.
Until
