Mac said, “Go on. Hit the note at the bottom.”

  Will tapped the note.

  The sudden, ear-shattering blast of music made him flinch. The real-time reaction inside the house was more pronounced. Britt jumped back from the sink. Her mouth gaped open as she screamed at the sudden screech of death metal. The sound fried out of the phone’s small speaker as it reverberated through the kitchen. Britt’s hands covered her ears. She continued to scream as she fell to the floor, crouching against the cabinets, mouth open in terror.

  Will could feel Mac watching him, gauging his reaction. Will forced his mouth to contort into a smile, an approximation of Mac’s smugness, his smarminess, his disgusting delight at the abuse of his wife.

  On the screen, Britt’s head was between her knees. Her shoulders were lurching up and down. She was trying not to hyperventilate.

  Richie started to take the phone away. Will clamped his hand around the man’s wrist. He tapped the music note, and the death metal stopped. He stared at the phone, making his eyes blur so that he couldn’t see Britt’s lingering terror. There was nothing to block out the sound. Britt was crying so hard that she was making a whooping sound as she tried to catch her breath.

  Will licked his lips. He glanced up at Mac. Then he looked down at the phone again. “How long will she stay like that?”

  “Not long,” Mac said. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

  Will had been panicked like that before, but not since he was a boy. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Even one minute felt like you were going to die. How many times had Mac done this to Britt? How many men had laughed at her suffering?

  Britt had started gulping for air, trying to make herself calm. Will looked at the other icons at the bottom of the screen. A thermometer. A hasp lock. An automobile.

  He asked, “You control the locks?”

  “I control everything,” Mac said. “Including her car.”

  “Fucker cut off her engine on 285. She was going eighty,” Richie said. “She literally shit herself.”

  “She wouldn’t get back into the car because of the smell.” Chaz chuckled as he folded the skin of the baked potato and shoved it into his mouth. “Bitch went to the car dealership the next day and paid cash for a new one.”

  “Mac’s cash,” Richie said.

  Will forced his grin to stay in place, asking Mac, “She can’t figure out how to stop you from messing with her?”

  “You know women.” Mac said. “She doesn’t have a mind for technology.”

  “She doesn’t want him to stop,” Richie said. “She likes it.”

  Will looked at Britt on the screen again. She was clinging to the counter, still trying to calm herself. If she liked it, she was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

  “She’ll get him back on the Amex,” Chaz said. “What did that purse cost the last time, Mac? A hundred grand?”

  “One-ten,” Mac said.

  “Worth it.”

  Will slid the phone back toward Richie, trying to pretend like he didn’t want to turn over the table and beat the shit out of every single asshole in this room. “I feel your pain, man. The wife maxed out all of her cards after Texas.”

  “Her cards?” Richie asked.

  Will laughed like a man who did not make half the salary of his soon-to-be-wife. “Good point.”

  “How’d you manage to keep her on side with your—” Richie waved his hand.

  Will waited for him to finish the sentence.

  Richie looked uncomfortable. “You said you experienced a MeToo issue.”

  Chaz asked, “What was that about?”

  Will turned hostile again. “It was about my dick. You want to see it?”

  “No, no, no.” Chaz held up his hands. “Just making sure it was taken care of. You got the NDA, buttoned it all up?”

  “Do I look like I’m in prison, you stupid motherfucker?”

  Richie laughed uncomfortably, but asked, “It was that bad?”

  Will drank some tea, not answering.

  Mac asked, “What about your wife?”

  Will shrugged. “Spousal privilege. She couldn’t testify.”

  “Texas is a community property state. She would’ve gotten half if she’d left.”

  “Not with the prenup,” Will said. “That’s one good thing Eliza taught me. Never let a bitch control your money.”

  “You’ll inherit?” Mac asked. “Is that why you’re back in town?”

  “I fucking better.” Will didn’t know where the questioning was going, but he was close to pushing back. “Unless she wants to die in the shittiest nursing home I can find.”

  “I parked my mother-in-law in one of those places,” Chaz said. “Reeked of urine. The one time I walked into the place, I actually gagged.”

  Mac smirked. “Some women deserve to stew in their own piss.”

  Another sudden burst of laughter shook the air.

  Of all the things they had laughed at, this one did the most damage to Will. They were talking about Sara. His skin was suddenly hot. His muscles tensed. He felt a sharp pain as his hand reflexively curled into a fist. He couldn’t beat these men to death—not without ruining his cover. But he could get them to keep talking, because every word out of their mouths could lead them toward a prison cell.

  “Speaking of piss,” Will said. “I would’ve paid to see the look on Linton’s face when she heard about Tommy’s settlement.”

  “Shit,” Mac said. “I would’ve thrown in an extra mil to watch her get the news.”

  “Count me in,” Chaz said. “Let’s hope this is the end of it.”

  “It had fucking better be,” Richie said. “Unless Saint Sara wants to find herself chained up in a toilet stall again.”

  There was another round of boisterous laughter. Again, Will forced himself to join them, but his hand had clenched so tight that he could feel blood seeping out between the sutures.

  Chaz asked Will, “Why did you come back to Atlanta? Surely you had other options.”

  Will tasted blood in his mouth. He had bitten the inside of his cheek. “Eddie was already at Tech. The wife wanted to be close to him. I had to give her something.”

  “You should take her in hand,” Mac advised. “You know she’s not going to leave you. Why not have a little fun?”

  Will made himself nod. “Maybe you can hook me up with your security company.”

  Mac raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t risk that kind of exposure. It was a father–son project.”

  Will shouldn’t have been surprised by the information. He had seen the autopsy report on Dani Cooper. Tommy was the proverbial apple who hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

  Will asked Chaz, “You got a kid?”

  “Chuck, he’s a little younger than Tommy, but they’ve always gotten along.” Chaz asked Richie, “What about Megan, has she come round?”

  “Only for my money,” Richie said. “You have no idea how lucky you are to have sons. I’m all for women’s rights, but they’ve taken it way too far.”

  “Tell me about it.” Chaz kept looking at Will. “You said you can still hold a syringe. You’re not doing surgery?”

  Will drank some tea to wash the taste of blood out of his mouth. He made himself lock into John Trethewey again, launching into the prep that Sara had given him. “I was doing PRP, stem cells, some cortisone, tramadol. No insurance. Cash up front. Extra if I bring in the mobile anesthesiologist, which all of them want. It’s a good business.”

  “We do a lot of that in metro Atlanta,” Chaz said. “Mostly through the private practices, but more hospitals are getting into it. Very lucrative, as you say.”

  Will held onto his glass. “You guys thinking of slumming it in ortho?”

  “We’re investors,” Mac said. “We look for practices that need a quick turnaround, locate new income streams, monetize existing services with a concierge model.”

  “Concierge ortho?” This was the real reason they had invited John Trethewey to lunch. It was why they were asking such pointed questions. They wanted to make sure his MeToo case in Texas was a closed book because they saw the opportunity to make more money.

  He said, “Not much of a profit in boots and splints.”

  “That’s where the membership fee comes in,” Richie said. “Chaz?”

  Chaz took over, spouting off about high-net-worth clients, the never-ending supply of Baby Boomers searching for magical cures to make them feel younger. Will feigned interest, trying to ignore the pulse of blood rushing through his ears. He had worked undercover more times than he could count. He’d had the shit beaten out of him, a gun forced into his mouth, been given a strip search to check for wires and once almost had his hand chopped off, but he had never, ever felt the desire to break cover the way he did now. If he thought he could get away with it, he would’ve shot every single one of these psychotic fuckers in the face.

  Chaz said, “We realize it’s a lot. Take your time.”

  Mac said, “But not too much time.”

  Richie added, “We know you’ll need to think about it.”

  “What am I thinking about?” Will asked. “You’re all wind-up and no pitch.”

  “The pitch,” Mac said, “is we put you at one of these practices. You’d be our guy on the inside. Get to know the organization. Let us know where we need to cut the fat.”

  Will forced his hands to unclench. One of the sutures had ripped out. He’d dripped blood on the Italian jeans. “Like a spy?”

  “Not like a spy, an actual spy,” Richie said. “We’re looking to maximize our returns. You go in, tell us where to trim, where to beef up. Don’t think long-term, think immediate—what can we do right now to make this place look good on paper?”

  “We don’t care if it goes to shit after the sale,” Chaz said. “Not our problem.”

  “What do I get?” Will asked. “You’re asking me to do two jobs, basically.”

  “You’ll be compensated,” Mac said. “Say, two percent of the sale?”

  Will laughed. “Two percent is a joke. And where do I go once you sell?”

  “Go to the next one,” Chaz said. “Get another two percent. You wouldn’t be the first. We’ve found the model to be very successful for all parties.”

  Will shook his head. “Two percent is a non-starter. I need to see some hard numbers. And don’t forget who my aunt is. Her lawyers will gut you if you cross me.”

  Mac looked impressed. “We’re all here to make money. We take care of our people.”

  “I’m not your people,” Will said. “I’d want meaningful participation. I think I’ve earned that. And not just because of Cam. Sixteen years ago, I was content to be on the outside looking in. Not anymore.”

  There was another prolonged silence. He had touched a nerve.

  Mac said, “Come through the fire after your ordeal in Texas, have you?”

  Will sat back in his chair. “I have. It made me stronger. Smarter.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Were you able to find anything about me or my case online?” Will asked. “I’m a ghost because I know what I’m doing.”

  Chaz said, “He’s not wrong about that. Our people couldn’t find anything.”

  Will guessed that gave him the room to go harder. “I’ve been a good boy long enough. I deserve to have some fun.”

  Mac huffed a laugh. “That’s quite an ask.”

  “I don’t ask for things,” Will said. “I take them.”

  Chaz and Richie were poised, practically on the edge of their seats.

  Will kept his eyes on Mac, because Mac McAllister was the person in charge.

  “This should be an ongoing conversation,” Mac said. “Why don’t you meet up with us at the Friday mixer? Bring Eddie. He can meet Tommy. Chaz is bringing Chuck.”

  Will asked Richie, “What’s your girl’s name? Maggie?”

  “Megan will not be there.” Richie had never spoken so clearly before now. He was a shit father, but he felt the need to protect his daughter. “She’s not part of this.”

  “Quite right,” Chaz said, as if this had been agreed to.

  “So,” Mac said. “We’ll see you and Eddie at the Friday mixer?”

  Will studied each of them: Mac with the imperious tilt to his chin, Richie with his rheumy, alcoholic eyes, Chaz with his wet, reptilian mouth. They had opened up to Will, but not enough. He needed to show them that he could be trusted. He was still looking in on their darkness. If he was going to bring a case against them, he needed to see it from the inside.

  “Sure,” Will said.

  Now all he needed was a son.

  15

  “My son.” Faith grabbed Jeremy by the shoulders and turned him away from the kitchen crazy wall. “Hear me when I tell you that this is none of your business.”

  Jeremy tried to look anyway. “It was my business when you needed my help.”

  “No, it was not.” Faith pulled a box of cookies out of the pantry to distract him. “I needed your help with the computer and the phone, and you did a bang-up job.”

  “I did a half-ass job.” He opened the cookies. “I can crack those password-protected files if you give me more time.”

  “The only way you should be spending your time is thinking about what you’re going to wear to the 3M dinner tomorrow night.” She tried to fix his mop of hair. “Maybe I could give you a quick trim?”

  He batted away her hands. “Mom.”

  “I’m just trying to help. These corporate guys have giant sticks up their asses. Your adorable tousled hair with a hoodie and jeans look isn’t going to cut it.”

  “What do you know about corporate guys?”

  “I’ve arrested enough of them.” Faith patted his shoulder. “Come on, bub. I need the room so I can work. Get going.”

  Jeremy still wouldn’t budge. “I’ve got half an hour before I’m supposed to meet up with Trevor and Phoenix. I thought I’d hang out on the couch.”

  Normally, hearing that her son actually wanted to stay under her roof would be a gift, but Faith was wary of him being so close to the kitchen. “Okay, but only until Will and Sara get here. I don’t want you involved in this, all right?”

  “Sure.” Jeremy took the cookies with him as he loped out of the room.

  Faith counted to twenty, then craned her head around the corner. He was on the couch in what she called The Position: spine curved into the couch, Beats headphones covering his ears, socked feet hooked on the edge of the coffee table, Xbox controller in his hands. Technically Faith’s Beats headphones and Faith’s Xbox controller, but that was the thing about being a mother—nothing was ever truly yours.

  She turned back around to the kitchen. She sent a quick text to Aiden telling him that she would have to give him a rain check on tonight. Then she ignored the very real feeling of disappointment, because Faith was not the type of woman who ever cared about being the only person snoring in her bed.

  She looked at the crazy wall, which remained without string, but only because Faith was going to let Will do the honors. They had two connections to make:

  One: Dani Cooper was texted the words, “that’s me.” Those same words had been written on Leighann Park’s left breast.

  Two: Merit Barrowe, Dani Cooper and Leighann Park were all missing left shoes.

  Faith had printed out photos of Merit’s Air Jordan Flight 23 in white/black-zest, Dani’s Stella McCartney black platform slide sandal, and Leighann’s Marc Jacobs midnight blue velvet lace-up with a square heel.

  The one thing Faith knew for sure was that these young women had more money for shoes at that age than Faith had had for food.

  She forced herself to stop looking at the crazy-soon-to-be-string-wall. She mentally cataloged the work she’d done over the last two hours. The stacks of printouts on the table were in good order: Rape Club chat room transcripts, Martin Barrowe’s files that he’d stolen from Cam Carmichael, a copy of Leighann Park’s witness statement, Dani Cooper’s case file, text messages and autopsy report, a thumb drive that contained the audio recording Will had made of Leighann’s interview, copies of the three photos from different angles that Faith had taken of the words that had been written on Leighann’s breast.

  Faith shuddered, burying the photos deeper into the stack in case Jeremy walked back in.

  Cam’s laptop was still on the counter. The password-protected files needed to be opened. Maybe the GBI’s data processors could restore the corrupted video files from the chat website. Maybe they could find some hidden information on Merit Barrowe’s ancient iPhone.

  Maybe.

  The most important item was Faith’s running wish list of subpoenas: GoDaddy’s records to find out who owned the Rape Club website, Grady’s employment records from fifteen years ago, Morehouse’s list of interns from the same time period, Eugene Edgerton’s bank records, bank records from the medical examiner who had botched Merit’s autopsy, phone numbers from Merit’s iPhone.

  Everything was ready to show to Amanda. All they had to figure out now was how to present the case without her gutting them like a feral hog.

  Faith checked on Jeremy again. He was still wearing her headphones as he played Grand Theft Auto. She knew for a fact that he kept the volume up loud enough to break his eardrums, but she wasn’t going to risk her son hearing something that he should not. She turned the sound down low on her laptop as she sat at the table.

  Her spiral notebook and pen were already out. She opened her email. She found the audio recording Will had made of his lunch with Mac, Richie, and Chaz at the country club. He’d prepped her for some of the worst parts, but Faith had a feeling that wasn’t going to help make what she was about to hear any less difficult.

  She pressed play.

  There was the soft clang of silverware hitting plates, a low murmur of conversation. Then some muffled clicks as Will placed his phone on the table. His voice came out of her laptop speaker like a whisper—

  I was in Texas. What a hellhole. One day you don’t have power, the next day they’re telling you to boil your water. The whole country’s going to shit.

  Faith cringed at his tone. Will was alarmingly good at sounding like a guy who belonged in a country club. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the setting, but all she could conjure was the dinner scene in Titanic when Jack got to breathe the rarefied air of first class.