‘She did,’ Amanda said. Will watched her mouth move. Her lipstick was smudged. ‘Twenty-seven years ago, Angie disappeared from her foster placement. Three months later, she showed up at the hospital. She was in labor. She delivered a girl. She left before social services could arrive.’

The news should’ve hit him like a lightning strike, but nothing about Angie could surprise him anymore.

Sara asked, ‘How old was she?’

‘Sixteen.’

1989.

Will was stuck at the children’s home. No one wanted a teenage boy around, especially one who was taller than all of his teachers. Angie was living with a couple who took in kids for a living. They had anywhere from eight to fifteen kids at a time, stacked into bunk beds four to a room.

Will asked Amanda, ‘How did you find out about this?’

‘The same way I find out about everything.’ Amanda’s voice was hard. They never talked about the fact that she had followed Will from infancy, that throughout his life she had been the invisible hand that had redirected him whenever he got off course. Had she corrected Angie, too, steering her away from Will?

He asked, ‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything.’ Amanda dropped the pill case back into her pocket. ‘Angie disappeared. She abandoned her child. None of this should surprise you.’

Sara asked, ‘Did the baby survive?’

‘Yes. I never found out what happened to her. She was lost in the system.’

Their marriage application.

Angie had filled out the form. They were sitting outside the probate office. The sunflower ring was already on her finger. Angie had read the questions aloud. Over the age of sixteen? Sure. Ever been married before? Not that you know of. Father’s name? Who the fuck knows. Mother’s name? Doesn’t matter. Related to the intended spouse—uh-oh. Her pen scratched the paper as she scribbled in the answers. Children? Not me, baby. She had laughed her deep, husky laugh. Not that I know of, anyway . . .

Amanda said, ‘The daughter was born in January. She would be twenty-seven now. Delilah Palmer is twenty-two.’

Sara cleared her throat. ‘Do you know who the father is?’

Amanda said, ‘It’s not Will.’

Will wondered if that was true. That time in the basement. They hadn’t used a condom. Angie wasn’t on the pill. Then again, Will wasn’t the only boy she took into the basement.

Sara’s fingers were on his wrist again. ‘Your pulse is still thready.’

Will pulled away his hand. He stood up. He looked at the closed double doors. He did not need to see the body again to know the truth.

The sunflower ring. The car. The blood.

Her ring. Her car. Her blood.

Her baby.

Angie would abandon a baby. For some inexplicable reason, Will accepted this as proof above everything else. Angie did not have the capacity or the desire to care for something every single day for the rest of her life. Self-survival, not empathy, had always been her guiding principle. Will had seen it last Saturday and he could easily see it happening twenty-seven years ago. Angie went to the hospital. She’d had the baby. She’d left as soon as possible.

And now she was dead.

Will asked Sara, ‘Can we go home?’

‘Yes.’ She put her keys in his hand. ‘Go wait for me in the car. I’ll be right there.’

Amanda worked her BlackBerry. ‘I’ll tell Faith to wait with him.’

Will understood that a conversation was going to take place between Sara and Amanda, and that he would be the subject, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to fight it. His chest was still caught in a vise. There was a rock inside his stomach.

He climbed the stairs. He shoved his hand in his pocket to wipe it clean. What was left of the pill had melted into chalk. Some of the Xanax had gotten into his system. He was dizzy by the time he reached the end of the hall. His mouth tasted gritty. He tried three doors before he found the chapel. The lights were off, but between the large windows and the downtown glow, the rows of pews were easy to see.

He looked up at the arched ceiling. Huge chandeliers hung down like jewelry. Gray carpet lined the aisle between the pews. The stage was flat, a lectern to the side. He guessed it was as non-denominational as a chapel could be. Will had been to church twice with Sara, once at Easter and once on Christmas Eve. She wasn’t religious, but she loved the pageantry. Will could still recall his surprise when she sang along with the congregation. She knew all the words by heart.

Angie despised religion. She was one of those arrogant assholes who thought all believers were mentally deranged. She had been driven here in the trunk of her car. She had been carried down to the freezer. Her wedding ring was still on her finger. Had she been alive when the ring was put on? Had she asked the person with her to make sure that she wore it even in death?

Will felt a burning sensation in his chest. He was rubbing his skin raw. What were the symptoms of a panic attack? He didn’t want to ask Sara because she would probably shove another pill in his mouth.

Why had she done that? She knew he hated anything stronger than aspirin. He hated it even more that she had seen him upset. He’d acted like a pathetic kid. She would probably never want to have sex with him again.

Will sat down on the steps to the stage. He fished his phone out of his back pocket. Instead of Googling ‘panic attacks’, he lay back on the carpet. He looked up at the crystals sparkling in the chandelier. The weight started to lift off his chest. His lungs filled with air. He was floating. This was the Xanax. Will didn’t like it. Nothing good ever came out of losing control.

Delilah Palmer. She could’ve been at Rippy’s club when Harding died. She could’ve tried to save Angie. She could’ve driven Angie’s body here. She could’ve called in the false alarm to get Belcamino to leave, then watched him work the security panel at the elevator. One trip down to the basement. Another trip back up. She leaves Angie’s car here. She walks to her rental car and never looks back.

Will’s eyes would not stay open. He realized his head was where the casket would go during a funeral service. He would have to plan Angie’s funeral. It would be easier to have it here. She would want to be cremated. Belcamino could take care of that—put it on his form, process her for the crematorium.

Who would come to the funeral? Amanda and Faith, because they would feel obligated. Sara? He couldn’t ask her, but she would probably volunteer. What about her mother and father? They were good country people. Cathy would probably bake a casserole. Or would she? Will knew that Sara’s mother didn’t trust him. She wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t told Sara about Saturday. He hadn’t told her about a lot of things.

Cops would come to the funeral. That’s what you did when another cop died, no matter whether or not that cop was a good cop or a bad cop or retired. Lovers would attend—plenty of those. Old friends—not so much. Enemies, maybe. The father of her child. Maybe her child. Twenty-seven years old. Angry. Abandoned. Wanting answers that Will could not give.

He felt his eyelids relax. His face. His shoulders. An eerie silence settled in.

He was in a quiet chapel. It was the middle of the night. Angie was dead. This is when he should feel it: the overwhelming loss, the hollowness that Sara had described. She had been so angry at him for not being more devastated. Maybe something had broken inside of him. Maybe that was Angie’s last piece of vengeance: she had turned off the thing inside of Will that was capable of feeling.