“Is that legal?”
“Anything’s legal if you can get away with it.” She grinned. “They asked mom if she was joining the force so she could have sex with policemen. She told them it depended on what the policeman looked like.”
Sara asked, “What about Amanda?” The fall in the basement had her recalling her early days on the force. Maybe there was a reason. “Was she always a cop?”
“Far as I know.”
“She never worked for children’s services?”
Faith narrowed her eyes. Sara could practically see her detective’s brain click on. “What are you getting at?”
Sara kept her attention on Emma. “I was just curious. Will hasn’t told me much about her.”
“He wouldn’t,” Faith said, as if she needed reminding. “I grew up with Amanda. She dated my uncle for years, but the idiot never asked her to marry him.”
“She never got married? Had kids?”
“She can’t have children. I know she tried, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
Sara kept her gaze on Emma. There was one thing she shared with Amanda Wagner. It wasn’t the kind of club you bragged about belonging to.
Faith said, “Can you imagine her as a mother? You’d be better off with Casey Anthony.”
Emma hiccupped. Sara rubbed her tummy. She smiled at Faith, wishing—longing—to talk to her, but knowing she could not. Sara had not felt this cut off in a long while.
Of course, she could always call her mother, but Sara wasn’t up for a lecture about right and wrong, especially because Sara could clearly see the difference, which made her less the subject of a torrid love affair and more like a woman who had resigned herself to being a doormat. Because that was exactly what Cathy Linton would say: why are you giving a man everything when he won’t or can’t give you anything in return?
Faith asked, “Was that you or Emma?”
Sara realized she’d grunted. “Me. I just figured out my mother was right about something.”
“God, I hate when that happens.” Faith sat up straight. “Speaking of …”
Evelyn Mitchell was standing by the nurses’ station. The woman was cut from the same cloth as her friends: matching pantsuit, trim figure, perfect posture even though she couldn’t stand without crutches. She was obviously looking for her daughter.
Faith reluctantly stood. “Duty calls.” Her feet dragged the floor as she headed toward the nurses’ station.
Sara held up Emma and touched her nose to the baby’s. Emma showed both rows of gums, squealing in delight. If there was any question about how good a mother Faith Mitchell was, one need only look at her happy baby. Sara kissed Emma’s cheeks. The little girl giggled. A few more kisses and she started snorting. Her feet kicked in the air. Sara kissed her again.
“His what?” Faith shouted.
Her voice echoed through the ER. Both mother and daughter stared openly at Sara. From this distance, they could’ve been twins. Both around the same weight and height. Both with blonde hair and a familiar set to their shoulders. Faith’s expression was troubled, and Evelyn’s was as inscrutable as usual. The older woman said something, and Faith nodded before heading toward Sara.
“Sorry.” Faith held out her hands for Emma. “I need to go.”
Sara passed her the baby. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it Ashleigh Snyder?”
“No. Yes.” Faith’s mouth opened again, then closed. Obviously, there was something wrong. Faith didn’t shock easily, and Evelyn Mitchell wasn’t one to casually dole out information.
Sara said, “Faith, you’re scaring me. Is Will all right?”
“I don’t—” She stopped herself. “I can’t—” Again, she stopped. Her lips pressed together in a thin white line. Finally, she said, “You were right, Sara. Some things we have to keep separate.”
For the second time that night, a person keeping a secret turned their back on Sara and walked away.
seven
July 11, 1975
FRIDAY
Amanda scanned through her women’s studies textbook, marking the paragraphs she needed to know for her evening class. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat of Kyle Peterson’s Plymouth Fury. The police radio was turned down low, but her ear had been trained long ago to tune out anything but the pertinent calls. She turned the page and started to read the next section.
To understand the far-reaching effects of the sex/gender system, one must first deconstruct the phallic hypothesis in relation to the unconscious.
“Brother.” Amanda sighed. Whatever the hell that meant.
The car shook as Peterson turned over in the back seat. Amanda studied his reflection in the visor mirror, willing him not to wake. She’d already wasted nearly an hour this morning slapping away his hands, then another half hour had been consumed with apologies so that he would stop sulking. Thank God the flask in his pocket had been full enough to knock him out or Amanda would’ve never found time to read her assignment.
Not that she understood a word of it. Some of the passages were downright obscene. If these women were so eager to find out how their vaginas worked, they should start shaving their legs and find themselves husbands.
The radio clicked. Amanda heard the in-and-out of a man’s voice. There were pockets all over the city where the radios had little or no reception, but that wasn’t the problem. A black officer was calling for backup, which meant the white officers were blocking the transmission by clicking the buttons on their mics. In the next hour, a white officer would call for help and the blacks would do the same.
And then someone with the Atlanta Journal or Constitution would write an article wondering why there had been a recent spike in crime.
Amanda checked on Peterson again. He’d started snoring. His mouth gaped open beneath his shaggy, untrimmed mustache.
She read the next paragraph, then promptly forgot everything it said. Her eyes blurred from exhaustion. Or maybe it was irritation. If she never read the words “gynecocratic” and “patriarchy” again, it would be too soon. Send Gloria Steinem into Techwood Homes and see if she still thought women could run the world.
Techwood.
Amanda felt the panic rising up like bile. The pimp’s hand around her throat. The feel of his erection pressing against her. The scrape of his fingernails as he tried to pull down her hose.
She gritted her teeth, willing her heart to settle. Deep breaths. In and out. Slow. “One … two … three …” She whispered off the seconds. Minutes passed before she was able to unclench her jaw and breathe normally again.
Amanda had not seen Evelyn Mitchell in the four days since the awful ordeal. The other woman hadn’t shown up for roll call. Her name wasn’t on the roster. Even Vanessa couldn’t find her. Amanda found herself hoping that Evelyn had come to her senses and gone back home to take care of her family. It was hard enough for Amanda to force herself out of bed every morning. She couldn’t imagine the dread she’d feel leaving her family, knowing the sort of world into which she was thrusting herself.
But then, Evelyn wasn’t the only officer who’d disappeared. The new sergeant, Luther Hodge, had been summarily transferred. His replacement was a white man named Hoyt Woody. He was from North Georgia, and his thick hill accent was made all the more unintelligible by the toothpick he kept in his mouth at all times. The tensions around the squad were still there, but they were the usual kind. Everyone was more comfortable with a known entity.