Amanda pulled out of the parking space. She took a left onto the main road. She didn’t speak until they were turning onto the interstate. “Sautee Nacoochee is in White County, approximately fifty miles from here. A twenty-nine-year-old female named Alexandra McAllister was found in the Unicoi State Park at approximately six yesterday morning. She was reported missing by her mother eight days ago. There was a large-scale search that yielded nada. Two hikers were out with their dog. The dog found the body in a heavily wooded area between two trails. The county coroner has officially ruled it as an accidental death. My gut tells me otherwise.”
There’s something else.
“I’ve called in some favors to get us a look-see at the body,” Amanda said. “We’ve got our big toe in, but they can pull us back at any time, so let’s tread softly.”
More victims. Other women. Serial killer.
Sara had seen Daryl Nesbitt in person only once. He was sitting beside his lawyer in the courtroom. Sara was standing with Buddy Conford, the man she had hired to represent her in the civil case against Jeffrey’s estate. She was swaying so badly that Buddy had to hold her up. The loss of Jeffrey had stopped her world from spinning. Sara had always thought of herself as strong. She was smart, driven, capable of pushing herself to the extreme. Jeffrey’s murder had changed her at a molecular level. The woman who’d never let anyone outside of family see her cry couldn’t make it through one aisle of the grocery store without breaking down. She had become vulnerable in a way that she’d never thought was possible.
She had become vulnerable in a way that made it possible for her to be with Will.
Did I do the wrong thing?
Sara let her head fall into her hand. What had she done to Will? She had been stunned into silence, then angered by his non-response, then told him she wanted a salad for dinner. He must be panicking right now. Sara reached into her pocket for her phone. She pulled up the keyboard to text him, but what could she say? There wasn’t an emoji to express what she wanted to do, which was go home, crawl into bed and sleep until all of this was over.
Amanda asked, “Everything okay?”
Sara dialed Will’s number. She listened to the rings.
This time, he answered, “Hello?”
She could hear the rush of road noise. Faith had been in the passenger’s seat of the Mini, which meant that Will was driving, which meant that the call was on speaker.
Sara tried to sound casual. “Hey, babe. I changed my mind about the salad.”
He cleared his throat. She could picture him rubbing his jaw with his fingers, one of his few nervous habits. “Okay.”
Sara could tell that Amanda was hanging on her every word. Faith was probably doing the same with Will, because this was what happened when people kept secrets.
She told Will, “I’ll pick up McDonald’s.”
Will cleared his throat. Sara never offered to pick up McDonald’s because it wasn’t really food. “Okay.”
She said, “I’m—”
Freaked out. Worried. Angry. Hurt. Torn because of Jeffrey but still so deeply, irrevocably in love with you and I’m sorry I don’t know what else to say.
She tried again. “I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.”
He paused a beat. “Okay.”
Sara ended the call. Three okays and she’d probably made things worse. This was exactly why she hated lying or hiding things or whatever bullshit excuse Amanda had given for holding back this information from Sara like she was a child who couldn’t handle the truth about the Easter Bunny.
Nesbitt. Jeffrey. Lena Fucking Adams.
It was Faith’s silence that hurt the most. Sara would just as soon be mad at Amanda for obfuscating as she would be at a snake for hissing. Will had come clean because even an amoeba could be taught to avoid negative stimuli. Faith was her friend. They never talked about Will, but they talked about other things. Serious things, like Faith’s misery as a pregnant fifteen-year-old. Like Sara’s heartbreak when Jeffrey had died. They swapped recipes neither of them would ever try. They gossiped about work. Faith complained about her sex life. Sara babysat Faith’s kid.
Amanda said, “Would you mind rolling down the window? There’s a smell, like—”
“A bloody toilet?” Sara cracked the window just enough to give herself some fresh air. She stared at the blur of trees as they coasted up the highway. Looking at the forest brought her back to that day in the woods. The Viewfinder in her head retrieved the image—Sara on her knees. Jeffrey across from her.
Sara had longed to be held by him, which had felt devastating all over again. The only person she had wanted comfort from was the only person who could not give it. She had ended up calling her sister to meet her at work just to sit with Sara for a few minutes while she’d cried.
Amanda said. “You’re awfully quiet over there.”
“Am I?” The words felt thick in Sara’s mouth.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Amanda couldn’t afford her thoughts. Sara said, “Those ridges on the side of the road. The ones that make a thumping sound when the tires go over them. What are they called?”
“Rumble strips.”
Sara held her breath before letting it go. “They always remind me of running my fingers down Will’s stomach. His abdominal muscles are so—”
“How about some music?” Amanda’s radio was permanently tuned to the Frank Sinatra station. The speakers purred with a familiar samba—
The girl from Ipanema goes walking …
Sara closed her eyes. Her breathing was too shallow. She felt lightheaded. She forced her respiration to calm. She unclenched her hands in her lap. She let her thoughts fall back into Grant County.
Rebecca Caterino had been found exactly one year and a day after Sara had filed divorce papers at the courthouse. To commemorate the anniversary, Sara had driven into Atlanta to meet a man. He wasn’t a particularly memorable man, but she had told herself that she was going to have fun if it killed her. Then she had drunk too much wine. Then she’d drunk too much whiskey. Then she’d ended up with her head in a toilet.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in her childhood bedroom with a jaw-dropping hangover. Her car was parked in the driveway. Tessa and her father had driven into Atlanta to get her. Sara was not the type of person who ever drank too much. Tessa had teased her over the breakfast table. Eddie had asked her if she’d enjoyed her trip to Barf-A-Lona. Cathy had told her to go help Brock. The only clean clothes Sara could find in her old chest of drawers was a tennis outfit straight out of Sweet Valley High.
“Do you know this one?” Amanda turned up the volume. Sinatra had moved on to “My Kind of Town.” She told Sara, “My father used to sing this to me.”
Sara
