in a black knit cap roaming around a crime scene.
What kind of knit cap? What did nondescript mean—average height, body type, hair color? Or did she mean his face was absent a beard, mustache, piercing, tattoo?
“Shit.”
Jeffrey needed to talk to Lena again, this time without yelling at her. Her original notebook was somewhere. He needed to see the details from her interview with Leslie Truong.
He turned around, glancing at the back of the houses along the lake. He was about half a mile from downtown. Sara’s house was another quarter mile in the other direction. Jeffrey thought about knocking on her door. He had the pretense of the autopsy. He could pretend he hadn’t seen the fax back in his office. Sara would be getting ready for work, probably exhausted from the long night. Maybe they could take some coffee onto the back porch and he could walk her through the case and she could sprinkle around some of her white magic to clear his mind and he could go back to the station and figure out how to stop a sadistic killer from attacking another student.
Jeffrey rubbed his mouth.
It was a nice fantasy while it lasted.
He walked between two houses and found his way to her street. The wet hem of his pants stuck to the back of his calves. The sun was blinding. He held up his hand to shield his eyes.
Sara was standing fifty yards away. She was dressed in running gear, her hair tied up behind her head, her breath visible in the crisp morning air. She had her hands on her hips.
She did not look happy to see him.
Jeffrey lifted his hand to wave, but she turned her back on him and started to run.
Without knowing what he was doing, Jeffrey found himself running after her. Call it stupidity or desperation or a cop’s training. If someone was running away from you, then you chased after them.
Sara sprinted around a steep curve that followed the lakeshore. Jeffrey picked up his feet, pumped his arms. She had a head start, but he was a stronger runner. He saw her cut through Mrs. Beaman’s front yard. He sidestepped into the Porters’ driveway, then through their backyard. By the time they both reached the lake, he’d cut about twenty yards off her head start.
Sara wasn’t good on the grass. She looked back over her shoulder. Jeffrey gained another five yards. He gulped a mouthful of air and pushed his legs until they were screaming. Another five yards gained, but Sara had reached the back of her property. Her foot slipped as she sprinted up the steep slope toward the house, the same steep slope that her Honda had rolled down.
Jeffrey narrowed the gap even more, jumping over the retaining wall, cutting across the lawn. He was close enough to smell the sweat on her as she darted up the stairs. He hurdled the steps, his foot catching on the top tread. He righted himself, but he couldn’t stop his momentum. He watched the door slam, and then, Wile E. Coyote-like, Jeffrey slammed face-first into the door.
“Fuck!” His hands went to his nose. Blood poured between his fingers. “Fuck!”
He leaned over. Blood dripped onto the deck. He saw stars. His nose had to be broken. He could feel it beating like a second heart.
“Sara?” He banged on the door. “Sar—”
Jeffrey heard an engine start. The Z4. He was familiar with the low grumble. He heard it every fucking time he was in his office and Sara started the $80,000 sportscar across the street.
He shook the blood off his hands. He found his handkerchief in his back pocket. It took every bit of Jeffrey’s self-control not to run around to the side of the house and watch her drive away.
Atlanta
19
Gina Vogel forced her shoulders to slide away from her ears as she pushed her shopping cart up and down the aisles of the local Target. Her period had forced her out into the world. She’d scrounged up two tampons in her purse and one in her gym bag before running out of options. Her overly familiar relationship with her InstaCart delivery boy precluded home delivery. Amazon two-day shipping was two days too late, and she wasn’t so far gone that she was willing to spend $49.65 to overnight a box of tampons that she could get for eight bucks at the store.
Besides, a woman couldn’t just buy tampons. She needed chocolate, Advil, more chocolate and a bag of miniature-sized candy