at her. She was so beautiful that it was almost painful. Instead, he stared at the coffee table. His mother’s file. Her books.
He said, “I guess Amanda told you everything.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Will wasn’t surprised. Amanda loved torturing him. He pointed to his mother’s things. “If you want to—” Will stopped, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “It’s all there. Just go ahead and read it.”
Sara glanced down at the file, but said, “I don’t want to read it.”
Will shook his head. He didn’t understand.
“You tell me about her when you’re ready.”
“It would be easier if—”
She reached out to touch his face. Her fingers stroked his cheek. She moved closer. He felt the heat of her body as she pressed against him. Will put his hand on her leg, felt the firm muscle of her thigh. The tightness came back. He kissed her. Sara’s hands went to his face as she kissed him back. She straddled him. Her hair draped across his face. He could feel her breath on his neck.
Unfortunately, that was the extent of his feelings.
She asked, “Do you want me to—”
“No.” He pulled her back up. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
She put her fingers to his lips. “You know what I really want to do?” She climbed off him, but stayed close. “I want to watch a movie where robots hit each other. Or things blow up. Preferably from robots hitting each other.” She picked up the remote and turned on the set. She tuned in the Speed channel. “Oh, look. This is even better.”
Will could not think of a time in his life when he’d felt more miserable. If Faith had not taken his Glock, he would’ve shot himself in the head. “Sara, it’s not—”
“Shh.” Sara took his arm and wrapped it around her shoulder. She rested her head on his chest, her hand on his leg. Betty came back. She jumped into Will’s lap and settled in.
He stared at the television. The Ferrari Enzo was being profiled. An Italian man was using a lathe to hollow out a piece of aluminum. Nothing the announcer said would stay in Will’s head. He felt his eyelids getting heavy. He let out a slow breath.
Finally, his eyes stayed closed.
This time, when Will woke up, he wasn’t alone. Sara was lying on the couch in front of him. Her back curved into his body. Her hair tickled his face. The room was dark except for the glow of the television set. The sound was muted. Speed was showing a monster-truck rally. The TiVo read twelve past midnight.
Another day passed. Another night come. Another page turned in the calendar of his father’s life.
Will couldn’t stop the thoughts that came into his head. He wondered if Faith still had his Glock. He wondered whether the patrol car was still blocking his driveway or the asshole was still in his gazebo.
He had a Sig Sauer in the gun safe that was bolted inside his closet. His Colt AR-15 rifle was disassembled beside it. Ammunition for both was stacked in a plastic box. Will worked the rifle in his mind—magazine, bolt catch, trigger guard. Winchester 55-grain full metal jacket.
No. The Sig would be better. Closer. Muzzle to the head. Finger on the trigger. Will would see the terror in his father’s eyes, then the glassy, vacant stare of a dead man.
Sara stirred. Her hand snaked back and stroked the side of his face. Her fingernails lightly scratched the skin. She breathed a contented sigh.
Just like that, Will felt the anger start to drain away. Again, it was similar to what had happened at the morgue, but instead of feeling empty, he felt full. A calmness took over. The clamp around his chest started to loosen.
Sara leaned back into him. Her hand pulled him closer. Will’s body was much more responsive this time. He pressed his mouth to her neck. The fine hairs stood at attention. He could feel her flesh prickle under his tongue.
Sara turned her head to look at him. She gave a sleepy smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I was hoping that was you.”
He kissed her mouth. She turned to face him. She was still smiling. Will could feel the curve of her lips against his mouth. Her hair was tangled underneath her. He shifted and felt a sharp pain in his leg. It wasn’t a pulled muscle. It was Angie’s ring. He still had it in his pocket.
Sara mistook his reaction for a recurrence of his earlier problem. She said, “Let’s play a game.”
Will didn’t need a game. He needed to get Angie out of his head, but that wasn’t exactly news he could share.
She held out her hand. “I’m Sara.”
“I know.”
“No.” She still had her hand out. “I’m Sara Linton.”
And apparently, Will was a moron. He shook her hand. “Will Trent.”
“What do you do for a living, Will Trent?”
“I’m a …” He glanced around for an idea. “I’m a monster-truck driver.”
She looked at the TV and laughed. “That’s creative.”
“What are you?”
“A stripper.” She laughed again, as if she’d shocked herself. “I’m only doing it to pay my way through college.”
If Will’s stupid wedding ring wasn’t in his front pocket, he could’ve invited Sara to slip her hand inside to get some money for a lap dance. Instead, he had to settle on telling her, “That’s commendable.” He shifted onto his side, freeing up his hand. “What are you studying?”
“Umm …” She grinned. “Monster-truck repair.”
He trailed his finger between her breasts. The dress was low-cut, designed in such a way that it opened with little effort. Will realized she had worn it for him. Just like she’d let her hair down. Just like she’d squeezed her feet into a pair of high-heel shoes that could probably break her toes.
Just like she’d been at the autopsy. Just like she was here now.
He said, “I’m actually not a monster-truck driver.”
“No?” Her breath caught as he tickled his fingers down her bare stomach. “What are you?”
“I’m an ex-con.”
“Oh, I like that,” she said. “Jewel thief or bank robber?”
“Petty theft. Destruction of private property. Four-year suspended sentence.”
Her laughter stopped. She could tell he wasn’t playing anymore.
Will took in a deep breath and slowly let it go. He was doing this now. There was no going back. “I was arrested for stealing food.” He had to clear his throat so the words could get out. “It happened when I was eighteen.”
She put her hand over his.
“I aged out of the system.” Mrs. Flannigan had died the summer Will’s eighteenth birthday rolled around. The new guy who ran the home had given Will a hundred dollars and a map to the homeless shelter. “I ended up at the downtown mission. Some of the guys there were all right. Most of them were older and—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Sara could easily guess why a teenager didn’t feel safe there. “I lived on the streets …” Again, he let his voice trail off. “I hung out at the hardware store on Highland. Contractors used to go there in the mornings to pick up day workers.”
She used her thumb to stroke the back of his hand. “Is that where you learned how to fix things?”
“Yeah.” He’d never really thought about it, but it was true. “I made good money, but I didn’t know how to spend it. I should’ve saved up for an apartment. Or a car. Or something. But I spent it on candy and a Walkman and tapes.” Will had never had money in his pocket before. There was no such thing as an allowance when he was growing up. “I was sleeping on Peachtree where the library used to be. This group of older guys rolled me. They beat me down. Broke my nose, some of my fingers. Took everything I had. I guess I’m lucky that’s all they did.”
