Stars.
And then it all started to go black.
Suddenly he let her go. Wren fell to her hands and knees, sucking in air. She hated that she was at this man’s feet, like a dog he could kick to the curb. “My dad is never gonna let you out of here alive,” she gasped.
“Well, too bad your dad isn’t with us.”
“Oh yeah?” Wren said. “Who do you think that is on the phone?”
For just a moment, everything stopped, like it does at the apex of the roller coaster when you are caught between heaven and earth.
But then, you plummet down.
The shooter smiled. A terrible, reptile smile. Wren realized she did not have the upper hand after all.
“Well,” the shooter said. “It’s my lucky day.”
—
HUGH LET THE PHONE RINGfive more times and then slammed it down. He was electric with frustration. The hostages had not come out. George was not answering. Hugh’s decision an hour ago to cut the Wi-Fi and block all phone signals except the landline had cost him the ability to text Wren to see if she was all right—or if she had been the one who was shot.
It seemed like yesterday that he had driven Wren to kindergarten in his truck. As they turned in to the half-moon driveway of the school, he would tell her to put on her jet pack, and Wren would wriggle into her oversize knapsack. He’d slow to a stop.Launching Wren,he would announce, and she would leap out of the car, as if she were setting foot on a new and unexplored planet.
After Annabelle had left them, for several months, Wren had asked when she was coming home.She’s not,Hugh had told her.It’s just you and me now.
Then one night, Hugh had gotten called to a domestic that was spiraling out of control. Bex had come to stay with Wren, who was inconsolable. When he got home at 3:30A.M., his daughter was still awake and sobbing:I thought you were gone.
Hugh had pulled her into his arms.I will never leave you,he promised.Never.
Who would have guessed it might be the other way around?
He felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the SWAT team commander standing shoulder to shoulder with the chief of police. “You should have told me about your daughter,” Chief Monroe said.
Hugh nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You know I can’t keep you in charge, son.”
Hugh felt heat spread beneath his collar and he rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. His cellphone—the one he had been using to communicate with George Goddard—started to buzz on the card table he was using as a desk. He glanced at the incoming number. “It’s him.”
Quandt looked at the chief and then cursed underneath his breath. Chief Monroe picked up the phone and handed it to Hugh.
—
IN 2006, IN THE STATEof Mississippi, sixteen-year-old Rennie Gibbs was charged with “depraved heart” murder when she delivered a stillborn at thirty-six weeks. Although the umbilical cord had been wrapped around the baby’s neck, the prosecutor claimed the stillbirth was caused by Gibbs’s cocaine use, due to trace elements of illegal drugs in the baby’s bloodstream.
The prosecutor was Willie Cork, the same showboat who had been in Beth’s hospital room, charging her with murder.
Beth glanced up from the article she was reading over her public defender’s shoulder. “Is it true?” she asked. “The prosecutor did this before to someone else?”
“Don’t read this,” Mandy said, closing her laptop.
“Why not?”
“Because looking up prior cases when you’re in legal trouble is like going to WebMD when you have a cold. You’ll wind up convinced it’s cancer.” She sighed. “Willie has major aspirations for the next election. He wants to paint himself as someone who’s tough on crime—even for the pre-born.”
Beth swallowed. “Did she go to jail? Rennie Gibbs, I mean?”
“No. She was indicted by a grand jury, but the evidence was questionable. In 2014 the case was dismissed.”
