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Will could only look at her.
“What you’ve been through. What you’ve endured. The man you’ve become.” She placed his hand over her heart. “You chose to be a good person. You chose to help other people. It would’ve been so easy to go down the wrong path, but at every step, you chose to do the right thing.”
“Not always.”
“Often enough,” she said. “Often enough so that when I look at you, all I can think about is how good you are. How much I want you—need you—in my life.”
Her eyes were a clear green in the glow of the television. Will couldn’t believe that she was still there beside him. Still wanted to be with him. Angie had been so wrong. There was no guile inside of Sara. No meanness. No spite.
If he were truly a good man, he would’ve told Sara about Angie. He would’ve confessed and gotten it over with. Instead, Will kissed her. He kissed her eyelids and her nose and her mouth. Their tongues touched. Will moved on top of her. Sara’s leg wrapped around his. She deepened the kiss. Will felt the guilt slip away easily—too easily. All that he could think about was his desire, his need to be inside of her. He felt almost frantic as he started to undress her.
Sara helped him with her clothes. He ended up tearing the dress. She was wearing a lacy black bra that easily unclasped. Will kissed her breasts, used his tongue and teeth until she let out a deep moan. He traced his tongue down, biting and kissing the smooth skin. Sara gasped when he pulled down her underwear and pushed apart her legs. She tasted like honey and copper pennies. Her thigh rubbed against his face. Her fingernails dug into his scalp. She pulled him back up and started kissing him again. Sucking his tongue. Doing things with her mouth that made him start to shake. Will pushed himself inside of her. She moaned again. She gripped his back. Will forced himself to go slow. Sara took him in deeper with each thrust.
Her lips brushed his ear. “My love,” she breathed. “My love.”
twenty-one
July 15, 1975
LUCY BENNETT
The contractions started with the sunrise. He’d cut open her eyes, but not her mouth. Lucy could feel the thread tugging her lips as she groaned from the pain.
Her arms and legs were spread open, her body aligned straight down the center of the mattress. She had already ripped away her right shoulder. Just a few inches, but it was enough. The shock of being able to move had at first dulled the pain. Now, the flesh throbbed. Blood trickled down her arm and chest, pooled beneath her shoulder blade.
Another contraction started to build. Slow, slow, slow and then it erupted and Lucy felt her lips start to tear apart as she screamed in agony.
“Shut up,” someone hissed.
The girl in the room next door.
She had spoken.
The floor creaked beneath her feet as she walked to the closed door.
“Shut up,” she repeated.
The other girl had learned. She was compliant. She was welcoming. She talked to the man. Prayed with him. Screamed and thrashed and grunted with him. In a child’s voice, she suggested he do things that Lucy had not even considered.
And for that, he let her off her leash sometimes.
Like now.
She was talking. Walking. Moving around.
She could leave at any time. Run to get help. Run to the police or her family or anywhere but here.
But she didn’t. The other girl was a regular Patty Hearst.
Lucy’s replacement.
twenty-two
July 15, 1975
Amanda sat in a back booth at the Majestic Diner on Ponce de Leon. She stifled a yawn. After leaving Techwood last night, she was too wired to asleep. Even Mary Wollstonecraft couldn’t send her off. She’d tossed and turned, images of the construction paper puzzle seemingly burned into her retinas. She’d added the new details in her mind: Hank Bennett—liar. Trey Callahan—liar.
And Ophelia. What to make of Ophelia?
The waitress refilled Amanda’s cup. She looked at her watch. Evelyn was fifteen minutes late, which was troubling. Amanda had never known her to be tardy. She’d used the pay phone in the back to call the Model City precinct, but no one had answered the phone. Amanda’s own roll call had ended almost half an hour ago. She was assigned to Vanessa today, which suited them both. The other woman had decided to treat herself to a day of shopping. That new credit card was burning a hole in her pocketbook.
The door opened and Evelyn rushed in. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I had the strangest call from Hodge.”
“My Hodge?”
Evelyn waved away the waitress who came to take her order. “He had dispatch send me to Zone One.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No, the station was empty. It was just me and Hodge and his open door.” She sat back against the booth. She was obviously flustered. “He wanted me to tell him everything we’ve been doing.”
Amanda felt panic start to build.
“It’s okay. He wasn’t mad. At least, I don’t think he was mad. Who knows with that man? You’re absolutely right about his inscrutability. It’s unnerving.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing. No criticisms. No comments. He just nodded and then told me to go do my job.”
“That’s the same thing he told me yesterday. To do my job.” Amanda asked, “Do you think he was comparing our stories?”
“Could be.”
“You didn’t hold anything back?”
“Well, I kept Deena’s name out of it. And Miss Lula’s. I didn’t want either of them getting into trouble.”
“You told him about Ophelia?”
“No,” she admitted. “I told him we were going to circle back on Trey Callahan, but I didn’t tell him why. Luther Hodge doesn’t strike me as a devotee of William Shakespeare.”
“I don’t know about that myself, Evelyn. Maybe we’re leaping to conclusions. Trey Callahan quotes a line from Hamlet and then you and I see the victim last night and fill in the blanks. It smacks of too much coincidence.”
“Is there really such a thing as coincidence in police work?”
Amanda couldn’t answer her. “Do you think Hodge will make trouble for us?”
“Who the hell knows?” She threw her hands into the air. “We should get to the mission. Going over it with Hodge again made me think of some things.”
Amanda slid out of the booth. She left two quarters on the table for the coffee and a generous tip. “Like what?”
“Like, everything.” Evelyn waited until they were outside to speak. “This Hank Bennett situation. I think you’re right. I think he’s a snake in the grass, and he used the information he had about Kitty Treadwell to get a job with her father.”
They got into Amanda’s car. She asked, “How would Bennett know there was a relation?”
“Her name was on the apartment door,” Evelyn reminded her. “Even without that, Kitty had a big mouth about her father. Miss Lula knew she was politically connected. Juice knew, too—he even mentioned another sister who was the golden child. It was an open secret on the street.”
“But not higher up the social ladder,” Amanda assumed. “Andrew Treadwell’s a Georgia graduate. I remember reading that in the newspaper.”
