All Will could do now was wait.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BEFORE SHE LEFT THE HOUSE, FAITH USED JEREMY’S IPHONE to make a video for her children. She told them that she loved them, that they were everything to her, and that no matter what happened today, they should always know that she cherished every hair on their precious heads. She told Jeremy that keeping him was the best decision she had made in her life. That he was her life. She told Emma the same, and added that Victor Martinez was a good man, and that she was glad that her daughter would get to know her father.
Dramatic, Zeke would’ve called it. She had made a video for him, too. Her words to her brother had surprised her, mostly because the phrase “you asshole” hadn’t come up once. She told him that she loved him. She told him that she was sorry for what she’d put him through.
And then she’d tried to leave a video for her mother. Faith had stopped and started the recording at least a dozen times. There was so much to say. That she was sorry. That she hoped Evelyn wasn’t disappointed with the choices that Faith had made. That every small bit of good inside of Faith had come from her parents. That her only goal in life ever had been to be as good a cop, as good a mother, as good a woman, as her own mother.
In the end, she had given up, because the likelihood that Evelyn Mitchell would ever see the recording was very slim.
Faith was not completely delusional. She knew that she was walking into a trap. Earlier, in Sara’s kitchen, Amanda hadn’t been listening to Will but Faith had. She saw the logic in what he was saying, that there was more to this than just a money grab. Amanda was infused with the thrill of the chase, the opportunity to tell these upstart bastards who’d had the gall to take her best friend that they weren’t going to get away with it. Will, as usual, was more clearheaded about the situation. He knew how to ask the right questions, but, just as importantly, he knew how to listen to the answers.
He was a logical man, not given to emotion—at least Faith didn’t think he was. There was no telling what went on in that head of his. God help Sara Linton and the Herculean task in front of her. The handshake this morning wouldn’t be the worst of it. Even if Sara managed to get Angie Trent out of the picture, which Faith doubted was possible, there was still Will’s immutable stubbornness. The last time Faith had seen a man shut down so quickly was when she’d told Jeremy’s father that she was pregnant.
Or maybe Faith was wrong about Will. She was about as good at reading her partner as he was at reading a book. The only thing Faith could swear by was Will’s uncanny ability to understand emotional behavior in others. Faith supposed this came from being raised in care, having to quickly discern whether the person in front of him was friend or foe. He was a maestro at massaging facts out of the subtle clues that normal people tended to ignore. She knew it was just a matter of time before Will figured out what had happened with Evelyn all those years ago. Faith had only figured it out herself this morning when, for what might be the last time, she went through Jeremy’s things.
Of course, she couldn’t completely leave it to Will’s investigative telepathy. Faith, ever the control freak, had written a letter outlining everything that had happened and why. She’d mailed it to Will’s house from the last bank she visited. The Atlanta police would look at the videos on Jeremy’s iPhone, but Will would never tell them what Faith had written in the letter.
This much she trusted to her core: Will Trent knew how to keep a secret.
Faith blocked the letter from her mind as she walked out her front door. She stopped thinking about her mother, Jeremy, Emma, Zeke—anyone who might cloud her mind. She was armed to the teeth. There was a kitchen knife inside the duffel bag, hidden below the cash. Zeke’s Walther was stuck down the front of her pants. She was wearing an ankle holster with one of Amanda’s backup S&Ws pressed firmly against her skin. The metal chafed. It felt obvious and bulky in a way that made her have to concentrate so she didn’t limp.
Faith walked past the Mini. She refused to drive her car to her mother’s house. It was too much like every other normal day when she loaded up Emma and her things and drove the block and a half to her mother’s home. Faith had been stubborn her entire life and she wasn’t going to stop that now. She wanted to at least do one thing today on her own terms.
She took a left at the bottom of her driveway, then a right toward her mother’s house. She scanned the long stretch of street. Cars were pulled into carports and garages. No one was out on their front porch, though that was hardly unusual. This was a back porch neighborhood. For the most part, people minded their own business.
At least they did now.
There was a parked mail delivery truck on her right. The carrier got out as Faith passed. Faith didn’t recognize the woman—an older, hippie-looking type with a salt-and-pepper Crystal Gayle ponytail down her back. The hair swung as she walked to Mr. Cable’s mailbox and shoved in a bunch of lingerie catalogues.
Faith shifted the duffel to her other hand as she took a left onto her mother’s street. The canvas bag and the cash inside it were heavy, almost fifteen pounds all together. The money was in six bricks, each approximately four inches high. They had settled on $580,000, all in hundred-dollar bills, mostly because that was the amount of cash Amanda could sign out of evidence. It seemed like a credible amount of money if Evelyn had been mixed up in the corruption that had taken down her squad.
But she hadn’t been involved in the corruption. Faith had never doubted her mother’s innocence, so the confirmation from Amanda had not brought her much peace. Part of Faith must have sensed there was more to the story. There were other things her mother had been mixed up in that were equally as damning, yet Faith, ever the spoiled child, had squeezed her eyes shut for so long that part of her couldn’t believe the truth anymore.
Evelyn had called this kind of denial “voluntary blindness.” Normally, she was describing a particular type of idiot—a mother who insisted her son deserved another chance even though he’d been twice convicted of rape. A man who kept insisting that prostitution was a victimless crime. Cops who thought it was their right to take dirty money. Daughters who were so wrapped up in their own problems that they didn’t bother to look around and see that other people were suffering, too.
Faith felt a breeze in her hair as she reached her mother’s driveway. There was a black van on the street, directly in front of the mailbox. The cab was empty, at least as far as she could tell. There were no windows in the back. Bullet holes pierced the metal on one side. The tag was nondescript. There was a faded Obama/Biden sticker on the chrome bumper.
She lifted up the yellow crime scene tape blocking off the driveway. Evelyn’s Impala was still parked under the carport. Faith had played hopscotch in this driveway. She had taught Jeremy how to throw a basketball at the rusty old hoop Bill Mitchell had bolted to the eaves. She had dropped off Emma here almost every day for the last few months, giving her mother and daughter a kiss on the cheek before driving off to work.
Faith tightened her grip around the duffel as she walked into the carport. She was sweating, and the cool breeze in the covered area brought a chill. She looked around. The shed door was still open. It was hard to believe that only two days had passed since Faith had first seen Emma locked in the small building.