Blindsighted

  Dedication

  For my daddy,

  who taught me to love the South,

  and for Billie Bennett,

  who encouraged me to write about it

  Table of contents

  Dedication

  Monday

  1 Sara Linton leaned back in her Chair…

  2 Grant Country was named for the good…

  3 Lena Adams frowned, flashing her headlights…

  4 Though the Heartsdale Medical Center anchored the…

  5 Night had come quickly, the temperature dropping…

  6 Lena Banged her fist on the front…

  Tuesday

  7 Sara leaned over the kitchen sink in…

  8 When Sibyl and Lena were in the…

  9 Jeffrey stood at the front of the…

  10 Lena traced her finger along the street…

  Wednesday

  11 Ben Walker, the chief of police before…

  12 Lena sat at the kitchen table in…

  13 Eddie Linton has purchased acreage around the…

  Thursday

  14 Jeffrey blinked his eyes several times…

  15 Sara left the clinic at quarter till…

  16 Lena leaned her head into her hand…

  17 Sara stood in front of the body…

  Friday

  18 Jeffrey slipped on a pair of underwear…

  19 Lena lifted her head slowly…

  20 Jeffrey stood behind the one-way glass…

  21 Nick Shelton’s voice boomed across the telephone…

  22 Jeffrey found 633 Ashton Street easily enough

  23 Lena closed her eyes as the sun

  24 Mary Ann Moon was not a pleasant woman…

  Saturday

  25 Sara woke with a start…

  26 Jeffrey tried to keep his focus on driving…

  27 Lena heard a door open somewhere

  28 Sara pulled back on the throttle…

  29 Lena wanted Jeb

  Sunday

  30 Jeffrey drove back from the hospital

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Karin Slaughter

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Monday

  1

  Sara Linton leaned back in her chair, mumbling a soft “Yes, Mama” into the telephone. She wondered briefly if there would ever come a point in time when she would be too old to be taken over her mother’s knee.

  “Yes, Mama,” Sara repeated, tapping her pen on the desk. She felt heat coming off her cheeks, and an overwhelming sense of embarrassment took hold.

  A soft knock came at the office door, followed by a tentative “Dr. Linton?”

  Sara suppressed her relief. “I need to go,” she said to her mother, who shot off one last admonishment before hanging up the phone.

  Nelly Morgan slid open the door, giving Sara a hard look. As office manager for the Heartsdale Children’s Clinic, Nelly was the closest thing Sara had to a secretary. Nelly had been running the place for as long as Sara could remember, even as far back as when Sara was herself a patient here.

  Nelly said, “Your cheeks are on fire.”

  “I just got yelled at by my mother.”

  Nelly raised an eyebrow. “I assume with good reason.”

  “Well,” Sara said, hoping that would end it.

  “The labs on Jimmy Powell came in,” Nelly said, still eyeing Sara. “And the mail,” she added, dropping a stack of letters on top of the in-basket. The plastic bowed under the added weight.

  Sara sighed as she read over the fax. On a good day, she diagnosed earaches and sore throats. Today, she would have to tell the parents of a twelve-year-old boy that he had acute myeloblastic leukemia.

  “Not good,” Nelly guessed. She had worked at the clinic long enough to know how to read a lab report.

  “No,” Sara agreed, rubbing her eyes. “Not good at all.” She sat back in her chair, asking, “The Powells are at Disney World, right?”

  “For his birthday,” Nelly said. “They should be back tonight.”

  Sara felt a sadness come over her. She had never gotten used to delivering this kind of news.

  Nelly offered, “I can schedule them for first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” Sara answered, tucking the report into Jimmy Powell’s chart. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she did this and let out an audible gasp. “Is that right?” she asked, checking the time against her watch. “I was supposed to meet Tessa at lunch fifteen minutes ago.”

  Nelly checked her own watch. “This late in the day? It’s closer to suppertime.”

  “It was the only time I could make it,” Sara said, gathering charts together. She bumped the in-box and papers fell onto the floor in a heap, cracking the plastic tray.

  “Crap,” Sara hissed.

  Nelly started to help, but Sara stopped her. Aside from the fact that Sara did not like other people cleaning up her messes, if Nelly somehow managed to get down on her knees, it was doubtful she would be able to get back up without considerable assistance.

  “I’ve got it,” Sara told her, scooping up the whole pile and dropping it on her desk. “Was there anything else?”

  Nelly flashed a smile. “Chief Tolliver’s holding on line three.”

  Sara sat back on her heels, a feeling of dread washing over her. She did double duty as the town’s pediatrician and coroner. Jeffrey Tolliver, her ex-husband, was the chief of police. There were only two reasons for him to be calling Sara in the middle of the day, neither of them particularly pleasant.

  Sara stood and picked up the phone, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Somebody better be dead.”

  Jeffrey’s voice was garbled, and she assumed he was using his cellular phone. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, then, “I’ve been on hold for ten minutes. What if this had been an emergency?”

  Sara started shoving papers into her briefcase. It was an unwritten clinic policy to make Jeffrey jump through hoops of fire before he could speak to Sara on the telephone. She was actually surprised that Nelly remembered to tell Sara he was on the phone.

  “Sara?”

  She glanced at the door, mumbling, “I knew I should’ve just left.”

  “What?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly on the cellular.

  “I said you always send someone if it’s an emergency,” she lied. “Where are you?”

  “At the college,” he answered. “I’m waiting for the deputy dogs.”

  He was using their term for the campus security at Grant Tech, the state university at the center of town.

  She asked, “What is it?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Fine,” she snapped, pulling the papers back out of her briefcase, wondering why she had put them there in the first place. She flipped through some charts, shoving them into the side pocket.

  She said, “I’m late for lunch with Tess. What did you need?”

  He seemed taken aback by her curt tone. “You just looked distracted yesterday,” he said. “In church.”

  “I wasn’t distracted,” she mumbled, flipping through the mail. She stopped at the sight of a postcard, her whole body going rigid. The front of the card showed a picture of Emory University in Atlanta, Sara’s alma mater. Neatly typed on the back beside her address at the children’s clinic were the words “Why hast thou forsaken me?”

  “Sara?”

  A cold sweat came over her. “I need to go.”

  “Sara, I—”

  She hung up the phone before Jeffrey could finish his sentence, shoving three more charts into her briefcase along with the postcard. She slipped out the side door without anyone seeing her.

  Sunlight beamed down on Sa
ra as she walked into the street. There was a chill in the air that had not been there this morning, and the dark clouds promised rain later on tonight.

  A red Thunderbird passed, a small arm hanging out the window.

  “Hey, Dr. Linton,” a child called.

  Sara waved, calling “Hey” back as she crossed the street. Sara switched the briefcase from one hand to the other as she cut across the lawn in front of the college. She took a right onto the sidewalk, heading toward Main Street, and was at the diner in less than five minutes.

  Tessa was sitting in a booth on the far wall of the empty diner, eating a hamburger. She did not look pleased.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sara offered, walking toward her sister. She tried a smile, but Tessa did not respond in kind.

  “You said two. It’s nearly two-thirty.”

  “I had paperwork,” Sara explained, tucking her briefcase into the booth. Tessa was a plumber, like their father. While clogged drains were no laughing matter, very seldom did Linton and Daughters get the kind of emergency phone calls that Sara did on a daily basis. Her family could not grasp what a busy day was like for Sara and were constantly irritated by her lateness.

  “I called the morgue at two,” Tessa informed her, nibbling a french fry. “You weren’t there.”

  Sara sat down with a groan, running her fingers through her hair. “I dropped back by the clinic and Mama called and the time got away from me.” She stopped, saying what she always said. “I’m sorry. I should have called.” When Tessa did not respond, Sara continued, “You can keep being mad at me for the rest of lunch or you can drop it and I’ll buy you a slice of chocolate cream pie.”

  “Red velvet,” Tessa countered.

  “Deal,” Sara returned, feeling an inordinate sense of relief. It was bad enough having her mother mad at her.

  “Speaking of calls,” Tessa began, and Sara knew where she was going even before she asked the question. “Hear from Jeffrey?”

  Sara raised up, tucking her hand into her front pocket. She pulled out two five-dollar bills. “He called before I left the clinic.”

  Tessa barked a laugh that filled the restaurant. “What did he say?”

  “I cut him off before he could say anything,” Sara answered, handing her sister the money.

  Tessa tucked the fives into the back pocket of her blue jeans. “So, Mama called? She was pretty pissed at you.”

  “I’m pretty pissed at me, too,” Sara said. After being divorced for two years, she still could not let go of her ex-husband. Sara vacillated between hating Jeffrey Tolliver and hating herself because of this. She wanted just one day to go by without thinking about him, without having him in her life. Yesterday, much like today, had not been that day.

  Easter Sunday was important to her mother. While Sara was not particularly religious, putting on panty hose one Sunday out of the year was a small price to pay for Cathy Linton’s happiness. Sara had not planned on Jeffrey being at church. She had caught him out of the corner of her eye just after the first hymn. He was sitting three rows behind and to the right of her, and they seemed to notice each other at the same time. Sara had forced herself to look away first.

  Sitting there in church, staring at the preacher without hearing a word the man was saying, Sara had felt Jeffrey’s gaze on the back of her neck. There was a heat from the intensity of his stare that caused a warm flush to come over her. Despite the fact that she was sitting in church with her mother on one side of her and Tessa and her father on the other, Sara had felt her body responding to the look Jeffrey had given her. There was something about this time of year that turned her into a completely different person.

  She was actually fidgeting in her seat, thinking about Jeffrey touching her, the way his hands felt on her skin, when Cathy Linton jabbed her elbow into Sara’s ribs. Her mother’s expression said she knew exactly what was going through Sara’s mind at that moment and did not like it one bit. Cathy had crossed her arms angrily, her posture indicating she was resigning herself to the fact that Sara would go to hell for thinking about sex at the Primitive Baptist on Easter Sunday.

  There was a prayer, then another hymn. After what seemed like an appropriate amount of time, Sara glanced over her shoulder to find Jeffrey again, only to see him with his head bent down to his chest as he slept. This was the problem with Jeffrey Tolliver, the idea of him was much better than the reality.

  Tessa tapped her fingers on the table for Sara’s attention. “Sara?”

  Sara put her hand to her chest, conscious that her heart was pounding the same way it had yesterday morning in church. “What?”

  Tessa gave her a knowing look, but thankfully did not pursue it. “What did Jeb say?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you talking to him after the service,” Tessa said. “What did he say?”

  Sara debated whether or not to lie. Finally, she answered, “He asked me out for lunch today, but I told him I was seeing you.”

  “You could’ve cancelled.”

  Sara shrugged. “We’re going out Wednesday night.”

  Tessa did everything but clap her hands together.

  “God,” Sara groaned. “What was I thinking?”

  “Not about Jeffrey for a change,” Tessa answered. “Right?”

  Sara took the menu from behind the napkin holder, though she hardly needed to look at it. She or some member of her family had eaten at the Grant Filling Station at least once a week since Sara was three years old, and the only change to the menu in all that time had been when Pete Wayne, the owner, had added peanut brittle to the dessert menu in honor of then president Jimmy Carter.

  Tessa reached across the table, gently pushing down the menu. “You okay?”

  “It’s that time of year again,” Sara said, rummaging around in her briefcase. She found the postcard and held it up.

  Tessa did not take the card, so Sara read aloud from the back, “ ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’ ” She put the card down on the table between them, waiting for Tessa’s response.

  “From the Bible?” Tessa asked, though surely she knew.

  Sara looked out the window, trying to compose herself. Suddenly, she stood up from the table, saying, “I need to go wash my hands.”

  “Sara?”

  She waved off Tessa’s concern, walking to the back of the diner, trying to hold herself together until she reached the bathroom. The door to the women’s room had stuck in the frame since the beginning of time, so Sara gave the handle a hard yank. Inside, the small black-and-white-tiled bathroom was cool and almost comforting. She leaned back against the wall, hands to her face, trying to wipe out the last few hours of her day. Jimmy Powell’s lab results still haunted her. Twelve years ago, while working her medical internship at Atlanta’s Grady Hospital, Sara had grown familiar with, if not accustomed to, death. Grady had the best ER in the Southeast, and Sara had seen her share of difficult traumas, from a kid who had swallowed a pack of razor blades to a teenage girl who had been given a clothes hanger abortion. These were horrible cases, but not altogether unexpected in such a large city.

  Cases like Jimmy Powell’s coming through the children’s clinic hit Sara with the force of a wrecking ball. This would be one of the rare cases when Sara’s two jobs would converge. Jimmy Powell, who liked to watch college basketball and held one of the largest collections of Hot Wheels Sara had personally ever seen, would more than likely be dead within the next year.

  Sara clipped her hair back into a loose ponytail as she waited for the sink to fill with cold water. She leaned over the sink, pausing at the sickly sweet smell coming from the basin. Pete had probably dumped vinegar down the drain to keep it from smelling sour. It was an old plumber’s trick, but Sara hated the smell of vinegar.

  She held her breath as she leaned back over, splashing her face with water, trying to wake up. A glance back at the mirror showed nothing had improved, but a wet spot from the water was just below the neckline of her shirt.

&nbsp
; “Great,” Sara mumbled.

  She dried her hands on her pants as she walked toward the stalls. After seeing the contents of the toilet, she moved to the next stall, the handicap stall, and opened the door.

  “Oh,” Sara breathed, stepping back quickly, only stopping when the sink basin pressed against the back of her legs. She put her hands behind her, bracing herself on the counter. A metallic taste came to her mouth, and Sara forced herself to take in gulps of air so that she wouldn’t pass out. She dropped her head down, closing her eyes, counting out a full five seconds before she looked up again.

  Sibyl Adams, a professor at the college, sat on the toilet. Her head was tilted back against the tiled wall, her eyes closed. Her pants were pulled down around her ankles, legs splayed wide open. She had been stabbed in the abdomen. Blood filled the toilet between her legs, dripping onto the tiled floor.

  Sara forced herself to move into the stall, crouching in front of the young woman. Sibyl’s shirt was pulled up, and Sara could see a large vertical cut down her abdomen, bisecting her navel and stopping at the pubic bone. Another cut, much deeper, slashed horizontally under her breasts. This was the source of most of the blood, and it still dripped in a steady stream down the body. Sara put her hand to the wound, trying to halt the bleeding, but blood seeped between her fingers as if she were squeezing a sponge.

  Sara wiped her hands on the front of her shirt, then tilted Sibyl’s head forward. A small moan escaped from the woman’s lips, but Sara could not tell if this was a simple release of air from a corpse or the plea of a living woman. “Sibyl?” Sara whispered, barely able to manage the word. Fear sat in the back of her throat like a summer cold.