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Amanda said, “Give me time to do this right, Will. It has to be done right.”
Will shook his head. He didn’t care about the means, just the end. “We need to work his case from the beginning.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” she asked. “I’ve had two teams on this since I found out. We’re dealing with a thirty-plus-year time gap in a city that tears itself down every five years. His old stomping ground is currently a twelve-story office complex.”
“I’ll check it. Faith can go with me.”
“It’s already been checked top to bottom.”
“Not by me.”
She wasn’t looking at him. Like Will, she was staring over the interstate. “Motive, means, and opportunity.” It was Amanda’s mantra.
Will said, “You know he’s got all three.”
She gave a tight nod of her head. If Will hadn’t been watching, he would’ve missed it. He studied her profile. She seemed to be as tired as he was. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her makeup was caked into the creases around her eyes and mouth.
She said, “I have to say, I love what you did with the basement.”
Will’s hands clenched. The cuts opened up along his fingers.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
His jaw popped when he opened his mouth to speak. “Why were you there?”
“That’s a very interesting question.”
“How long have you known about my father?”
“You work for me, Will. It’s my job to know everything about you.”
“Why did that reporter call you?”
“It makes for a good story, I suppose—your chosen path of law and order. Your rise from the ashes. Atlanta’s symbol is the phoenix. What a fitting dovetail.”
He turned and headed toward North Avenue, the bridge over the interstate. Amanda’s stride was half as long as Will’s. She had to work to match his pace.
She asked, “Where are you going?”
“To talk to my father.”
“To what end?”
“You’ve read his file. You know he has a pattern. He kills one, he keeps one. He’s probably already picked her out.”
“Shall I put out an APB on a missing prostitute?”
She was mocking him. “You know he’s looking for another girl.”
“I told you we’ve got eyes on him. He hasn’t left his room.”
“Except for yesterday afternoon.”
She stopped trying to keep up. “You will not talk to him.”
Will turned around. Amanda never raised her voice. She didn’t scream. She didn’t stamp her foot. She never cursed. She managed to scare everyone by reputation. For the first time in fifteen years, he saw through her. She was nothing, really. An old woman with her arm in a sling and secrets she would carry to her grave.
She said, “I’ve issued a standing order to have you arrested the minute you step one foot in that hotel. Understood?”
He stared his hate into her. “I should’ve left you to rot in that basement.”
“Oh, Will.” Her voice was filled with regret. “I have a feeling that by the end of this, we’re both going to wish you had.”
thirteen
Present Day
SUZANNA FORD
She missed Dancing with the Stars. She missed Bobo, her little dog who’d died when she was ten. She missed her grandmother, who’d died when Suzanna was eleven, and her grandfather, who’d died a few months later. She missed Adam, the goldfish who’d died the night they brought him home from the store. Suzanna had found him in the tank just floating on his side. His eye was blank. She could see her reflection in it.
Suzanna called the store to complain.
“Just flush ’em down the toilet,” the manager said. “Come by tomorrow and we’ll give you a new one.”
Suzanna had felt uneasy at the prospect. It felt wrong. Did Adam mean nothing? Was he that replaceable? Just plop another fish in the tank and forget he even existed? Call that one Adam, too. Feed him Adam’s food. Let him swim through Adam’s secret treasure box and pink coral castle?
In the end, there was nothing else to do. Suzanna flushed him down the toilet. As the water circled around the bowl, she saw his fin flip up. The glass orb of his eyeball turned to her, and she had seen something like panic.
In her dreams, Suzanna was the fish. She was Adam One, because of course the temptation was too great—they had gone back the next day and gotten a free Adam Two.
That was the entirety of the dream:
Suzanna One, helpless, staring up at the ceiling as she spun, spun, spun quickly down the drain.
fourteen
July 14, 1975
MONDAY
Amanda leaned against her Plymouth as she waited for Evelyn in the parking garage of the Sears building. The air did not move in the underground facility. The coolness afforded from the poured concrete walls was no match for the scorching heat. Even at seven in the morning, Amanda could feel sweat dripping down her neck and into her collar.
Neither she nor Evelyn had been up for the barbecue after leaving the morgue on Saturday evening. Hank Bennett. The misidentified girl. The red fingernails. The broken hyoid bone. It was a lot to process, and neither of them seemed up to having a coherent conversation. They’d both talked in monosyllables, Amanda because of the things she’d seen with Pete Hanson, and Evelyn—most probably—because she’d been unsettled about seeing Rick Landry again. No matter their reasons, Evelyn had gone home to her husband and Amanda had gone home to her empty apartment.
If Sunday brought anything, it was a welcome sense of normalcy. Amanda had cooked breakfast for her father. They’d gone to church. She’d cooked Sunday dinner. All the while, Duke had been notably more cheerful. He’d made a few jokes about the preacher. He was feeling bullish on his case. He’d spoken with his lawyer again. Lars Oglethorpe’s reinstatement was definitely good news for the men Reginald Eaves had fired.
Amanda doubted it was good news for her.
Evelyn’s station wagon made a tight turn, the tires squealing against the concrete. She backed into the space beside the Plymouth, calling through the open window, “Did Kenny call you yesterday?”
Amanda felt a shock of panic. “Why would Kenny call me?”
“I gave him your number.”
For a few seconds, Amanda was too flustered to do anything but stare. “Why would you give him my phone number?”
“Because he asked for it, silly. Why do you sound so surprised? And why are you just standing there?”
Amanda shook her head as she got into the car. Men like Kenny Mitchell didn’t ask for her phone number. “That’s very nice of you to put him up to this, but let’s not waste time on something that’s not going to happen.”
“You can—” Evelyn stopped, but only for a moment before she blurted out, “You can wear Tampax, right?”
Amanda pressed her fingers into her eyelids, not caring whether or not she smudged her makeup. “If I say yes, can we please change the subject?”
Evelyn wouldn’t be daunted. “You know, Pete’s a real doctor. He can write you a prescription, no questions asked, and if you slip the guy at the Plaza Pharmacy a few extra bucks, he won’t be a jerk about it.”
