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She was relieved by the revelation, if only slightly disappointed. It had been nice thinking that a man had found her attractive. Not that she would do anything about it. Sara would never be able to give her heart away to another human being the way she had with Jeffrey. It wasn't that she was incapable of love; she was simply incapable of repeating that kind of abandon.
"Hey there." Krakauer was walking out of the lounge as she went in. "You off ?"
"Yes," Sara told him, but the doctor was already down the hall, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the patients who were calling to him.
She went to her locker and spun the dial. She took out her purse and dropped it on the bench behind her. The zipper gaped open. She saw the edge of the letter tucked in between her wallet and her keys.
The Letter. The explanation. The excuse. The plea for absolution. The shifting of blame.
What could the woman who had single-handedly brought about Jeffrey's death possibly have to say?
Sara took out the envelope. She rubbed it between her fingers. There was no one else in the lounge. She was alone with her thoughts. Alone with the diatribe. The ramblings. The juvenile justifications.
What could be said? Lena Adams had worked for Jeffrey. She was one of his detectives on the Grant County police force. He had covered for Lena, bailed her out of trouble, and fixed her mistakes, for over ten years. In return, she had put his life in jeopardy, gotten him mixed up with the kind of men who killed for sport. Lena had not planted that bomb or even known about it. There was no court of law that would condemn her for her actions, but Sara knew—knew to the core of her being—that Lena was responsible for Jeffrey's death. It was Lena who had gotten him involved with those bloodless mercenaries. It was Lena who had put Jeffrey in the way of the men who murdered him. As usual, Jeffrey had been protecting Lena, and it had gotten him killed.
And for that, Lena was as guilty as the man who had planted the bomb. Even guiltier, as far as Sara was concerned, because Sara knew that Lena's conscience was eased by now. She knew that there were no charges that could be brought, no punishment to bring down on her head. Lena would not be fingerprinted or humiliated as they photographed and strip-searched her. She would not be put into solitary confinement because the inmates wanted to kill the cop who'd just been sentenced to prison. She would not feel the needle in her arm. She would not look out into the viewing area of the death chamber at the state penitentiary and see Sara sitting there, waiting for Lena Adams to finally die for her crimes.
She had gotten away with cold blooded murder, and she would never be punished for it.
Sara tore off the corner of the envelope and slipped her thumb along the edge, breaking the seal. The letter was on yellow legal paper, one-sided, each of the three pages numbered. The ink was blue, probably from a ballpoint pen.
Jeffrey had favored yellow legal pads. Most cops do. They keep stacks of them on hand, and they always produce a fresh one when a suspect is ready to write a confession. They slide the tablet across the table, uncap a fresh new pen and watch the words flow from pen to paper, the confessor turn from suspect to criminal.
Juries like confessions written on yellow legal paper. It's something familiar to them, less formal than a typed statement, though there was always a typed statement to back it up. Sara wondered if somewhere there was a transcription of the printed capital letters that crossed the pages she now held in her hands. Because, as sure as Sara was standing in the doctor's lounge at Grady Hospital, this was a confession.
Would it make a difference, though? Would Lena's words change anything? Would they bring back Jeffrey? Would they give Sara back her old life—the life where she belonged?
After the last three and a half years, Sara knew better. Nothing would bring that back, not pleading or pills or punishments. No list would ever capture a moment. No memory would ever recreate that state of bliss. There would only be the emptiness, the gaping hole in Sara's life that had once been filled by the only man in the world she could ever possibly love.
In short, no matter what Lena had to say, it would never bring Sara any peace. Maybe knowing this made it easier.
Sara sat down on the bench behind her and read the letter anyway.
