Jessica Talbot. The one modeling success of Talbot Talent, which otherwise was a year of chaos and false starts. Nick had quickly assembled a client list, virtually all unknowns, then mismanaged it into bankruptcy, which, if I were to believe the gossip blogs, had mostly gone up his nose and straight to his liver. But before the crash and burn, they’d been living the life. Architecture Today featured the Talbot home in a slick, worshipful spread. Unlike most new-to-the-city moguls, they hadn’t built an estate. Instead they’d renovated one of the older homes, doubling the square footage with two soaring, sprawling additions. Then they’d painted everything stark white, including the barn-like guest house. With dogwoods blooming out front, it had a contrived arctic charm. But there was nothing welcoming about the place.
I couldn’t help making the comparison between the Talbot home and Trey’s dichromatic apartment. The sophisticated black-and-white palette soothed him, but without his presence, it felt lifeless and blank. What would the Trey of the past—the emotionally scorched Trey parked outside Gabriella’s empty bungalow, about to be called to a murder—think of this place? Of me? Of coming face-to-face with Nick Talbot again?
I took a deep breath and added the name Trey Seaver to the search box.
As I expected, the first hits came from newspapers all around the state. As the second responding officer, he’d testified about what he’d found at the scene. I clicked on the first link, an article in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. It described him as “stoic” and his answers as “brief and plainspoken.” I clicked the image search button and held my breath.
And there he was, the Trey I’d never met. He wore his uniform, the long-sleeved navy serge with the APD seal on his bicep, the phoenix rising over the single word Resurgens. He was being sworn in, his right hand raised, fingers stiff and straight. He was huskier, his features less honed. No silver scars on his chin or at his temple—those would come later, artifacts of the accident. His eyes were still as blue as the top of the sky, though, and as serious as a heart attack.
Yes, he’d been the second responding. No, he’d seen nothing suspicious in Macklin’s behavior, not at the scene. Yes, the scene appeared to be consistent with a burglary at first glance, but upon further examination, it was clearly staged. I skimmed the articles, printed them out for deeper reading later. I did the same with the AJC articles about police misconduct. Trey was mentioned at the beginning of the coverage, but then disappeared as Macklin became the epicenter of the scandal. Not once was Keesha Price mentioned. Not even a hint of her involvement.
But Macklin? He was crucified.
They’d used the same photo of him over and over, his official APD ID, probably because he looked like a villain. Light brown hair buzz cut, small mean eyes. An aquiline nose too big for his face. Tanned skin with white patches around his eyes from wearing sunglasses all the time. He was stocky, muscled. He was the kind of cop that civilians dreaded seeing in their rearview mirror.
I pulled his image from the printer, held it up so that I could look him in the eye. I had no problem seeing him shoot Jessica Talbot in cold blood. No problem seeing him shoot himself rather than face disgrace.
I heard the sounds of the first deadbolt flipping, and then the second, and then the keyswitch lock. I heard footsteps next, though not the quiet ones of leather lace-ups or running shoes. Heavy, trying not to be, the thump of boots. And then Trey’s silhouette in the door, duffel bag on shoulder.
I smiled. “Hey, you.”
Trey paused in the door frame. “Hey. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s all right. I’ve been working.” I scooched to one end of the sofa. “Come sit with me.”
He hesitated. “I need a shower.”
“In a second. Talk to me first.”
He had that wary look he got when he was worried he’d done something wrong, but he took off his boots and socks and came over barefoot, perching on the very edge of the sofa. Up close, he smelled like gunpowder and sweat and dirt. He had a fresh bandage across his knuckles and a blood blister in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger that looked like he’d snagged it in the recoil of a semi-auto. It was a beginner’s injury, which meant he’d been caught off guard.
“Late day, huh?”
He nodded. “Price told me that if I could hide where she couldn’t find me, she’d consider giving me the files.”
“She admitted she had them.”
“She did.”
“Did she find you?”
“No.” Satisfaction laced his voice. He dropped his head forward and showed me the back of his neck, covered in a thick layer of calamine. “But I got into some poison oak. And mosquitoes.”
“Ouch.”
He raised his head. He still had black grease shadows under his eyes, like a football player.
“So where are the files?” I said.
“I don’t have them.”
“But you said—”
“Price said she would consider giving them to me. She said she’d let me know as soon as she decided.”
He noticed my printouts on the coffee table. He picked up the image of himself on the witness stand and examined it, his expression guarded. This wasn’t about rules and regulations. This was deeper. There was injustice here, a seeping festering wound of it, and he was prepared to cauterize it. It was what he did. There was a victim, that much he was sure of, which meant there was a guilty party. Which meant there needed to be punishment.
I brushed his hair from his forehead and felt grit. Normally he came home from work
