Triptych (Will Trent, #1)

by Karin Slaughter

the prostitutes were still out making a living, trying to give the churchgoers something to confess next week.

Collier had made a circling motion with his meaty hand, even though the kid had probably never been in a car with crank windows.

“Police,” he said, holding up his badge. “Don’t be afraid.” The door opened wider. She was wearing a floral apron over a stained white T-shirt and jeans. “I ain’t afraid’a you, bitch.”

“Thanks for helping keep your community safe.” She snapped, “That’s your job, cocksucker.”

He took out one of his business cards, handing it to Nora as he told her, “Something to wipe your ass on.” She grunted in disgust, holding the card between her thumb and forefinger. “My ass is bigger than that.” He gave her a suggestive wink, made his voice a growl. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed, darlin’.”

the usual bullshit bravado that made it possible for them to do the job.

Michael stopped short, thinking he’d never seen Bill flustered before. This was the man who’d gone out for chicken wings an hour after finding six severed fingers in the Dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant.

fingers reaching toward the handrail as if her last thoughts had been to pull herself up.

The bruises on her thighs could have come from her killer or a john who liked it rough. If it was the latter, then she had probably willingly endured it, knowing she’d be able to get more money for the pain, knowing more money meant more pleasure later on when the needle plunged in and that warm feeling spread through her veins.

Leo was an asshole, always playing the tough cop, joking about everything, laughing too loud and long,

but Michael had seen him at the bar one too many times, his hand a constant blur as he slammed back one scotch after another, trying to get the taste of death out of his mouth.

She wasn’t just the glass-is-half-empty type; she thought the glass was half empty and they were all going to hell for it.

all Michael could think about was the fact that Tim would hit puberty in a few years. His body would start growing, changing him into a man, but his mind would never catch up. He would never know what it was like to make love to a woman, to use what God gave him to bring pleasure to another human being. He would never have children of his own. Tim would never know the joy and heartache of being a father.

Barbara would be here soon, and Michael was sure his mother-in-law would find something to complain about, whether it was her aching back, her paltry social security check, or the fact that he’d given her a retarded grandson.

The state guy didn’t look like a cop. Despite his height, he didn’t fill the room. He stood with a hand in his pocket, his left knee bent, almost casual. His shoulders would be pretty broad if he stood up straight, but he didn’t seem inclined to take advantage of his size. He lacked the presence of somebody who was on the job, the “fuck you” attitude that came from arresting every type of scum the earth had to offer.

Maybe Will Trent was Michael’s karma playing out. He was being tested. Be nice to this freak and maybe Tim would get the same kind of pass.

Being in the dark made you vulnerable.

“What are you rebelling against?” Richard would demand. “You have everything you could possibly want!” “Why?” his mother would ask her boy, tears streaming down her face. “Where did I go wrong?”

A shrug from John. A sarcastic comment from his father. “Are you retarded now? Autistic? Is that what’s wrong with you?”

By seventeen, he was a convicted murderer.

That escalated rather quickly

Choosing to become. Like he had a choice. He hadn’t chosen his hard-ass father, his ditzy mother who practically invented rose-colored glasses. He hadn’t chosen Joyce, the perfect sister, the bitch who set the bar so high all John could ever hope to do was bounce on his toes, trying to touch the edge of the bar but never getting high enough to go over.

to press her face to the back of his neck and inhale that odd scent of cookie dough and wet clay he got when he played in the backyard with his friends.

Parents are weird

listen to the sort of complaints that only women could have. Bad haircuts. Rude store clerks. Chipped nails. Men wanted to talk about things: cars, guns, snatch. They didn’t discuss their feelings unless it was anger, and even that didn’t last for long because generally they started doing something about it.

All he could do was watch her go, wonder what he had said wrong that made her run. Fifty bucks. He could buy a lot with fifty bucks. Food. Rent. Clothes. Laughter. The way her eyes sparkled when she really smiled. That wasn’t something you could buy. Yeah, she had taken the money, but that laugh—that had been a real moment between them. She had talked to him, really talked to him, because she wanted to, not because of the fifty bucks.

John stood in the forest, rooted to the spot, eyes closed as he summoned up the memory of her voice, her laugh.

Joyce was the only living person in the entire world who remembered John the way he used to be. She was like a precious box where all his childhood memories were stored, only she had thrown away the key the minute the police had dragged him out the front door.

She kept her eyes on his as she took a healthy swallow of the dark liquid.

She took another swig from the cup and gave him a sloppy smile. God, she was so pretty. He had been hating her so long that he’d forgotten she was gorgeous.

John felt his erection return with a vengeance.

being in a library was like sitting down at a table laid with all his favorite foods but not being able to eat any of them. And he hated himself for it.

sure, he loved her, but being in love and loving someone were two different things.

Angie had finished the song, her smart-ass on autopilot. “Hey-la, hey-la.”

He always took lateness as being rude. It said to the other person that their time was more valuable than yours.

Seconds later, she sat on the couch beside him, kicked off the shoes, and took a healthy swig from the glass. Will couldn’t help it. His spine straightened like a Catholic schoolgirl’s. “Are you going to drink that in front of me?” She pushed her bare foot against his leg, saying, “Just until you start to look pretty.” “Don’t do that.” “Don’t do what?” she teased, nudging him again. He turned to look at her, which was exactly what she had been waiting for. Angie was lying back on the couch, her foot still pressed against his leg. She had put on a short black robe and nothing else. The belt was tied loosely around her waist and he could see a tuft of hair between the folds. Will felt his throat tighten. His mouth was so full of saliva that he pressed his lips together to keep from drooling. She said, “I guess you found out my guy’s a pedophile.”

He looked up at the painting, wishing it was a mirror that would show him what was inside of her. Maybe it was. Two abstract images, neither one of them making a bit of sense.

told her, “If I could snap my fingers and make it like I’d never even met you, I’d do it.” She put down the envelope. “I wish you could, too.”

He started to walk away, then stopped. “When this is over,” he said, spreading his hands out like there was a tangible thing between them. “When what’s going on is over,” he said, still being obtuse, “maybe we can go out to dinner or something? See a movie?” “John,” she began. “Do you think that’s really gonna happen?” He shook his head, but he still told her, “I’m going to hope it does, Robin. That’s what’s going to keep me going. I’m going to think about seeing a movie with you, buying you some popcorn, maybe holding your hand during the scary parts.” “It’d be cheaper if you just gave me the money to hold your scary parts.” He took her hand in his. She stood dumbstruck as he brought his lips to the back of her hand and gently kissed it. “Think about a movie you want to see,” he told her. “Something really scary.” Then he was gone. Angie leaned against the wall. She let out a stream of breath. Here was another perfectly sweet man she was ruining. Okay, he was a perfectly sweet pedophile and murderer, but glass houses and all that.

“Look at my face,” the woman said. “Do you think a restraining order is going to stop him?” She had a point. Angie remembered her days in uniform, recalled vividly how she had once peeled a bloody restraining order from the hand of a woman who had been beaten to death by her husband. He had used a hammer. Their kids were watching.

Tank held both Gina’s hands in his as he talked to her. Angie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could guess. Suddenly, Gina started crying, and the man wrapped his arms around her. Angie watched them for a moment, feeling like an intruder but unable to look away.

A therapist had once told Angie that she looked for men who would abuse her because that was all she had ever known. This same therapist had also suggested that the reason Angie kept hurting Will was because she wanted to make him angry, to bring him to the point where he finally hauled off and hit her; then, Angie could finally open herself up to him. Then, she could really love him.

Angie hated reading aloud and her tone showed it. Will thought if he could read as well as she could he would read out loud all of the time.

When Will was a kid, he had assumed that black kids were more loved than whites for the simple reason that of the hundred or so kids at the Atlanta Children’s Home, there were only ever two African-Americans. Funny how stereotypes got stuck in your head when you were little.

That was the American way, though. Spend a million dollars rescuing some kid who’s fallen down a well, but God forbid you spend a hundred bucks up front to cap the well so the kid never falls down it in the first place.

If she could stay like this, if she could just let him hold her, then maybe things would get better. Maybe they could make each other whole.

He wrapped his hand around her leg. “Why do you do this?” She stepped out of his reach, finding her purse on the table by the front door. “Why do you let me?”

His mother had always had the most beautiful smile. John had gotten through so many nights thinking about that smile, the easy way she bestowed it, the genuine kindness behind it. Tears fell from his eyes at the sight of her, and he felt a physical ache knowing he would never see her again.

Michael might as well have killed Emily after he finished with Mary Alice. He should have reached into Joyce’s chest and squeezed the life out of her heart. Oh, God, John wanted to kill him. He wanted to beat him senseless, then wrap his hands around Michael’s neck and watch the other man’s eyes as he realized he was going to die. John would loosen his hands, taking him to the edge then bringing him back just to watch the fear, the absolute fucking terror, as Michael realized he was completely helpless. Then, John would just leave him. He’d leave him alone in the middle of nowhere and let him die all by himself.

“Because when you know somebody that long, when you grow up with somebody like that, you’re just too …” She searched for a word. “Raw,” she decided. “Too vulnerable. I know everything about him and he knows everything about me. You can’t really love somebody like that. I mean, sure, you can love them—he’s like a part of me, part of my heart. But you can never be with them the way you want to. Not love them like a lover.” She shrugged. “If I really cared about him, I’d leave him so that he could get on with his life.”

What’s the first thing you do when you’re trying to pin down a perp to the scene? Check their credit card receipts: gas bills, hotel bills, all that shit. Place the perp close to the scene, right day, right time, bingo, you’ve caught ’em.”

“Amanda,” Will said, trying to control his voice. “You are a nasty, horrible person, but you have always had my back every time I worked a case. Don’t do this to me now.” “Well, Will,” she countered. “You are a high-functioning dyslexic who reads on a second-grade level, but let’s not throw stones.”