physical damage to her body. The psychological damage would probably take an eternity. The young woman had tried to hang herself the day Daryl Nesbitt was convicted for possession of child pornography. Amanda had told Sara to reach out to her. Maybe that wasn’t possible. Maybe Tommi Humphrey had finally taken her own life and found peace in her grave.
Faith told Will, “I can’t imagine how Tommi Humphrey could’ve ever moved past what happened to her.”
Will cleared his throat. “Probably by not talking about it.”
“Yeah.”
The car went quiet again. Faith felt weighted down, like her blood had turned to sand.
Will said, “I can—”
“I’ll do it.” Faith dialed the main number for Guthrie, Hodges and Zanger. She talked to a way too snooty-sounding receptionist, giving her full GBI credentials and asking to speak to Callie Zanger.
Will had made the turn onto Crescent and was looking for the entrance to the parking garage by the time Zanger came on the line.
“What’s this about?” Zanger’s voice sounded as sharp as her chin.
Faith said, “I’m Special Agent—”
“I know who you are. What do you want?” Zanger was speaking in a hoarse whisper. She sounded panicked, which was agonizing, but also presented an opening.
Faith went with the easiest possibility first. “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Zanger, but my boss, the deputy director of the GBI, got a call from a reporter this morning. She referred it to our public relations department, but we needed to follow up with you on a few things.”
“What few things?” she demanded. “You say no comment and let it go.”
Faith glanced at Will. He had pulled into a parking space on the street.
Faith said, “Unfortunately, we’re a government agency. We really don’t have the option of a no comment. We are answerable to the people.”
“Bullshit,” she hissed. “I don’t have to—”
“I understand that you are under no obligation to talk to me.” Faith tried another possibility. “I think you want to, though. I think you’re scared that what happened to you will happen again.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
She sounded damn sure of herself. Faith said, “This will be completely off the record.”
“There’s no such thing as off the record.”
“Look,” Faith was out of possibilities. “I’m outside the parking garage to your building. There’s a restaurant across the street. I’ll be at the bar for the next ten minutes, then I’m coming up to your office to talk to you in person.”
“God damn you.”
The phone banged down twice before Zanger got the receiver into the cradle.
Faith felt disgusted with herself. The last thing she had heard was Callie Zanger’s pained cry.
She put her head in her hands. “I hate my job.”
Will said, “She’ll expect you to be alone.”
“I know.”
Faith got out of the car. The sand in her veins continued to weigh her down as she walked toward the trendy-looking restaurant. Loud music was playing on the outdoor patio. She caught her own reflection in the glass door as she opened it. Will was twenty feet behind her, keeping his distance because he didn’t want to spook Callie Zanger if she actually showed up.
Faith prayed the woman would meet her at the bar. The phone call had probably set off a small explosion inside the office. Showing up in person with Will, flashing their IDs, would be a nuclear detonation.
She looked at her watch as she took her place at the empty bar. Nine more minutes. She ordered an iced tea from a bartender wearing a stupid porkpie hat. Seven more minutes. Faith looked around the restaurant. Late afternoon. She was the only person at the bar. Will was one of three single men in suits sitting at three separate tables.
In Callie Zanger’s shoes, Faith would have been furious about the intrusion into her life. But Faith had to think about Pia Danske’s shoes. Joan Feeney’s. Shay Van Dorne’s. Alexandra McAllister’s. Rebecca Caterino’s. Leslie Truong’s. There were so many victims that Faith could not recall all of their names. She took her phone out of her purse. She accessed Miranda’s spreadsheet. Eight years. Nineteen women. Twenty if you added in Tommi Humphrey.
“Detective Mitchell?”
Faith didn’t correct her on the title. She recognized Callie Zanger from her photos. The tax attorney wasn’t wearing as much make-up and her hair was pulled back, but she was still a beautiful woman, even when she slumped down on the barstool beside Faith.
Callie told the bartender, “Double Kettle One with a lime twist.”
Faith heard a practiced cadence in the woman’s order. She would expect a high-priced tax