He laughed. "Hell, Faith. You're about the only person in my life I didn't screw over."

"Only because I kicked you to the curb before you could." Faith pulled the string on the trash, tying it tight.

"Bag's gonna tear."

The plastic ripped just as he said the words.

"Shit," she muttered.

"You want me to—"

"I've got it."

Sam leaned against the counter. "I love watching a woman do manual labor."

She shot him a withering look.

He flashed another smile. "I heard you cracked some heads at Rockdale today."

Faith said a silent curse in her head, remembering that Max Galloway had yet to give them the initial crime-scene reports. She had been so furious that she hadn't thought to follow up on it, and she would be damned if she'd take the man's word for it that everything had been fairly routine.

"Faith?"

She fed him the standard line. "The Rockdale police are cooperating fully with our investigation."

"It's the sister you need to worry about. You seen the news? Joelyn Zabel's all over the place saying your partner's the reason her sister died."

That rankled more than she wanted to let on. "Check the autopsy summary."

"I saw it already," he said. Faith guessed Amanda had shared the report with a few key people in order to spread the news as quickly as possible. "Jacquelyn Zabel killed herself."

"Did you tell that to the sister?" Faith asked.

"She's not interested in the truth."

Faith gave him a pointed look. "Not many people are."

He shrugged. "She got what she wanted from me. She's moved on to network television."

"The Atlanta Beacon's not big enough for her, huh?"

"Why are you being so hard on me?"

"I don't like your job."

"I'm not crazy about yours, either." He went to the sink cabinet and took out the box of trash bags. "Slide a new one over the old one."

Faith took a bag, holding the white plastic in her hands, trying not to think about what Pete had found during the autopsy.

Sam was oblivious as he put back the box. "What's that guy's story, anyway? Trent?"

"All inquiries should go through the public relations office."

Sam had never been one to take no for an answer. "Francis tried to feed me something about Trent getting circle-jerked by Galloway today. Made it out like he was some kinda Keystone Cop."

Faith stopped worrying about the trash. "Who's Francis?"

"Fierro."

Faith took childish pleasure in the girlish name. "And you printed every word the asshole said without bothering to run it by someone who could tell you the truth."

Sam leaned against the counter. "Cut me some slack, babe. I'm just doing my job."

"They let you make excuses in AA?"

"I didn't run the Kidney Killer stuff."

"That's only because it was proved wrong before you went to press."

He laughed. "You never let me bullshit you." He watched her wrestle the old bag into a new one. "Jesus, I've missed you."

Faith gave him another sharp glance, but she felt herself react to his words despite her best intentions. Sam had been her life raft a few years ago—just available enough to be there when she really needed him, but not so much that she felt smothered.

He said, "I didn't print anything about your partner."

"Thank you."

"What's going on with Rockdale anyway? They're really out to get you."

"They care more about screwing us over than finding out who abducted those women." Faith didn't give herself time to consider that she was echoing Will's sentiments. "Sam, it's bad. I saw one of them. This killer—whoever he is . . ." She realized almost too late to whom she was talking.

"Off the record," he said.

"Nothing's ever off the record."

"Of course it is."

Faith knew he was right. She had told Sam secrets in the past that had never been repeated. Secrets about cases. Secrets about her mother, a good cop who had been forced off the job because some of her detectives had been caught skimming off drug busts. Sam had never printed anything Faith had told him, and she should trust him now. Only she couldn't. It wasn't just her anymore. Will was involved. She might hate her partner right now for being a pussy, but she would kill herself before she exposed him to any more scrutiny.

Sam asked, "What's going on with you, babe?"

Faith looked down at the torn trash bag, knowing he'd read everything in her face if she looked up. She remembered the day she'd found out her mother was being forced off the job. Evelyn hadn't wanted comfort. She had wanted to be alone. Faith had felt the same way until Sam showed up. He had talked his way into her house the same way he had tonight. Feeling his arms around her had sent Faith over the edge, and she had sobbed like a child as he held her.

"Babe?"

She snapped open the new trash bag. "I'm tired, I'm cranky, and you don't seem to understand that I'm not going to give you a story."

"I don't want a story." His tone had changed. She looked up at him, surprised to see the smile playing on his lips. "You look . . ."

Faith's mind filled with suggestions: puffy, sweaty, morbidly obese.

"Beautiful," he said, which surprised them both. Sam had never been one for compliments, and Faith certainly wasn't used to getting them.

He pushed away from the counter, moving closer. "There's something about you that's different." He touched her arm, and the rough texture of his palm sent heat rushing through her body. "You just look so . . ." He was close now, staring at her lips like he wanted to kiss them.

"Oh," Faith said, then, "No. Sam." She backed away from him. She'd experienced this the first time she was pregnant—men hitting on her, telling her she was beautiful even when her stomach was so huge she couldn't bend over to tie her own shoes. It must be hormones or pheromones or something. At fourteen, it had been skeevy, at thirty-three it was just annoying. "I'm pregnant."

The words hung between them like a lead balloon. Faith realized this was the first time she had said them aloud.

Sam tried to make a joke out of it. "Wow, I didn't even have to take off my pants."

"I'm serious." She said it again. "I'm pregnant."

"Is it . . ." He seemed at a loss for words. "The father?"

She thought about Victor, his dirty socks in her laundry basket. "He doesn't know."

"You should tell him. He has a right."

"Since when are you the arbiter of relationship morality?"

"Since I found out my wife had an abortion without telling me." He leaned closer, put his hands on her arms again. "Gretchen didn't think I could handle it." He shrugged, keeping his hands on Faith's arms. "She was probably right, but still."

Faith bit her tongue. Of course Gretchen was right. She would've been better off asking a dingo to help raise her baby. She asked, "Did this happen when you were seeing me?"