At first, Will thought that Faith was in shock, but shocked people don’t pace around squawking like lunatics. Their blood pressure drops so quickly they generally can’t stand. They pant like dogs. They stare blankly at the space in front of them. They talk slowly, not so fast you can barely understand them. Something else was at play, but Will didn’t know if it was some kind of mental break or Faith’s diabetes or what.

Making it worse, by that point, there were twenty cops standing around who knew exactly what a person was supposed to look like when an awful thing happened. Faith didn’t fit the profile. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t angry. She was just crazy, totally out of her mind. Nothing she said had a bit of reason. She couldn’t tell them what had happened. She couldn’t walk them through the scene and explain the bloodshed. She was worse than useless, because the answers to all their questions were locked up inside of her head.

And that was when one of the cops had mumbled something about her being under the influence. And then someone else volunteered to get the Breathalyzer out of his car.

Quickly, Amanda had intervened. She dragged Faith across the front lawn, banged on the neighbor’s door—not Mrs. Johnson, who had a dead man in her backyard, but an old woman named Mrs. Levy—and practically ordered her to give Faith a place to collect herself.

By then, the mobile command center had pulled up. Amanda had gone straight into the back of the vehicle and started demanding this case be turned over to the GBI immediately. She knew that she wouldn’t win the territorial fight with the zone commanders. By law, the GBI could not simply waltz in and take over a case. The local medical examiner, district attorney, or police chief generally asked the state for assistance, and usually that only happened when they’d failed to make a case on their own or didn’t want to spend the money or manpower tracking down leads. The only person who could yank this case from Atlanta was the governor, and any politician in the state could tell you that crossing the capital city was a very bad idea. Amanda’s screaming tactics were for show. She didn’t yell when she was angry. Her voice got low, more like a rumble, and you had to strain your ears to hear the insults flying out of her mouth. She was trying to buy them time. Trying to buy Faith time.

In the eyes of the Atlanta PD brass, Faith wasn’t a cop anymore. She was a witness. She was a suspect. She was a person of interest, and they wanted to talk to her about the men she had killed and why her mother had been kidnapped. The Atlanta police weren’t a bunch of yokels. They were one of the best forces in the country. But for Amanda yelling at them, they would’ve had Faith at the station by now, drilling her like they were working a terrorist at Gitmo.

Will couldn’t blame them. Sherwood Forest was not the kind of neighborhood where you’d expect to find a shootout in the middle of a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Ansley Park was a stone’s throw away. Cast the net a bit farther and you’d encompass about eighty percent of the city’s real estate tax revenue—multimillion-dollar homes with tennis courts and au pair suites. Rich people weren’t the type of folks who let bad things happen without assigning blame. Someone would have to pay for this. If Amanda couldn’t find a way to prevent it, that person would probably end up being Faith. And Will was at a loss as to what to do.

Detective Leo Donnelly walked up, his feet shuffling along the asphalt. He had a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Smoke twined into his eye. He winked to keep it out. “I’d hate to hear that bitch in bed.”

He meant Amanda. She was still screaming, though her words were hard to make out through the closed doors.

Leo continued, “I dunno. Might be worth it. The old ones are tigers when you get ’em in the sack.”

Will suppressed a shudder, not because Amanda was in her mid-sixties, but because Leo was clearly considering the possibilities.

“She knows she’s not going to win this, right?”

Will leaned against one of the police cruisers. Leo had been Faith’s partner for six years, but she had done most of the heavy lifting. At forty-eight, Leo wasn’t an old man by any stretch, but he had aged in cop years. His skin was yellow from an overburdened liver. He’d beaten prostate cancer but the treatment had taken its toll. He was an okay guy but he was lazy, which was perfectly fine if you were a used-car salesman but incredibly dangerous if you were a cop. Faith counted herself lucky that she’d gotten away from the man.

Leo said, “Haven’t seen a clusterfuck like this since the last time I worked a case with you.”

Will took in the scene: the hum of the command center’s generator mixing with the metallic whir coming from the television vans. The cops standing around with their hands resting on their belts. The firemen shooting the breeze with each other. The complete and total lack of activity. He decided he should talk to Leo. “That so?”

“What’s your CSU guy’s name—Charlie?” Leo nodded to himself. “He managed to talk his way into the house.”

Special Agent Charlie Reed was head of the GBI’s crime scene unit and would do anything to get onto a crime scene. “He’s good at his job.”

“Lots of us are.” Leo leaned against the cruiser a couple of feet down from Will. He made a puffing noise with his mouth. “Never known Faith to be a drinker.”

“She’s not.”

“Pills?”

Will gave him the nastiest look he could muster.

“You know I gotta talk to her.”

Will couldn’t keep the derision out of his tone. “You’re in charge of this case?”

“Try not to sound so confident.”

Will didn’t waste his breath. Leo’s time in the sun would be shortlived. As soon as the Atlanta chief of police came onto the scene, he’d kick Leo to the curb and put together his own team. Leo would be lucky if they let him fetch coffee.

“Seriously,” Leo said. “Faith doin’ all right?”

“She’s fine.”

He took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the ground. “Neighbor’s freaked out. Almost watched her granddaughters get shot down.”

Will tried to keep his expression blank. He knew a little bit about what had happened here, but not much. The guys from the tactical team had gotten bored after standing around for five minutes with nothing to break. The details of the crime scene had leaked like a rusty pipe. Two bodies in the house. One in the neighbor’s backyard. Two guns on Faith—her Glock and a Smith and Wesson. Her shotgun on the floor of the bedroom. Will had stopped listening when he’d overheard a cop who’d just arrived on scene saying that he’d seen Faith with his own two eyes and she was as high as a kite.

For his part, Will only knew two things to be true: he had no idea what had happened in that house, and Faith had done the right thing.

Leo cleared his throat and spit a chunk of phlegm onto the asphalt. “So, Granny Johnson said she heard some screaming in the backyard. She looks out the kitchen window and sees the shooter—Mexican guy—aiming down on her grandkids. He squeezes off a shot, takes out some bricks on the house. Faith runs up to the fence and shoots him dead. Saves the little girls.”

Will felt some of the weight lift off his chest. “Lucky for them Faith was there.”