Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,158

the floor in front of him like a river flowing out of his body. Pink translucent bubbles sputtered on his lips as his lungs filled. His breath whistled through the holes Angie had made in his chest.

He knew what was happening to him.

He was terrified.

Will pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re all right,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

Michael’s eyelids fluttered. A gurgling noise filled the room as he began to choke on his own blood. His mouth gaped open, a thin line of blood tracing a path down his cheek.

Angie pursed her lips and blew him a kiss good-bye.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

FEBRUARY 13, 2006

You” was all Lydia Ormewood said when she’d opened her front door to find John and Joyce standing there.

Michael’s mother had aged well, or more likely she’d spent enough money to make sure she looked like it. Though John knew the woman was in her late sixties, the skin on her face was smooth and healthy-looking. Even her neck and hands, the usual giveaway, were as smooth and young as Joyce’s.

Life had obviously been very good to her. She lived in Vinings, one of Atlanta’s more expensive suburbs, in a brand-new, three-story house. White walls loomed over everything, white carpets scattered around the bleached oak floors. A gleaming white grand piano was in the living room, and two black leather couches faced each other by a marbled fireplace. Cream silk curtains hung in the windows. Abstract art with bold primary colors hung on the walls, all of it probably original work. Lydia herself was monochromatic. She wore black. John did not know if this was her regular attire or if she was in mourning for her son.

Joyce had been at the DeKalb County courthouse when John was arrested, going page by page through old records, looking for Lydia. Since then, she had taken days off work, digging through all the public records she could find. Lydia had married and divorced twice since her husband Barry had died. Her surname had changed each time, but Joyce had finally managed to trace Michael’s mother through a contact who worked at the social security office. Uncle Barry had been fully vested in the system when he died. Lydia had started to collect his social security checks four years ago.

Joyce had the woman’s address in her hand three days later.

They sat in front of the fireplace, Joyce and John on one uncomfortable couch, Lydia on the other. Their aunt sat with her spine straight, knees together, legs tilted to the side, like a photograph out of Miss Manners. She looked at John with open distaste.

He knew he looked like hell. Ms. Lam had knocked on his door at five o’clock that morning. She’d handed him the specimen cup, then started searching his room for contraband. He’d come back from the toilet to find her holding the picture of his mother in her hands. John had stood there holding his own piss, feeling a slow shame burning inside him. This was just one more degradation he had forced on Emily. When would it end? When would his mother be able to rest in peace?

Joyce said, “We’re here about Michael.”

“He was my son,” Lydia told them, as if it was that simple.

Joyce stiffened beside him, but John shook his head, willed her to be patient. He loved his sister, but she lived in a world of black and white. She didn’t know how to deal with the grays.

John told Lydia, “The little girl he kidnapped is going to be okay.”

“Well,” she said, dismissing this with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. John waited, but she didn’t ask about Angie Polaski, didn’t seem interested in the health of her son’s last victim. As a matter of fact, she didn’t seem interested in anything.

John cleared his throat. “If you could just—”

“He hated you, you know.”

John had already figured that out, but he needed to know. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, smoothing her skirt with her hand. She had a large diamond ring on her finger, the gold band at least half an inch wide. “He seemed quite obsessed with you. He kept a scrapbook.” She stood suddenly. “I’ll get it.”

She left the room, her slippers gliding across the white carpet.

Joyce hissed out air between her teeth.

“Calm down,” John told her. “She doesn’t have to do this.”

“She’s holding your life in her hands.”

“I know,” John said, but he was used to having other people control his life, whether it was his father or Michael or the guards at