[Georgia 03] Fallen

counter. Sara picked at her food. Faith ate half her eggs and a slice of toast. Will cleaned his plate, then finished Faith’s toast as well as Sara’s, before scraping the rest into the trash and stacking the plates in the sink. He rinsed the bowl that had held the eggs, ran some water in the frying pan, then washed his hands.
    Finally, he said, “Faith, I have to tell you something.”
    She shook her head. She must’ve known what was coming.
    He stood with his back against the counter. He didn’t lean over and take her hands. He didn’t come around and sit beside her. He just told her the news straight out. “Last night, I was at Coastal State Prison. I talked to a man who’s pretty high up in the drug trade. Roger Ling.” He kept his eyes focused on hers. “There’s no other way to say this. He told me that your mother was killed. Shot in the head.”
    She didn’t respond at first. She sat there with her elbows on the counter, hands hanging down, mouth open. Eventually, she said, “No, she’s not.”
    “Faith—”
    “Did you find the body?”
    “No, but—”
    “When was this? When did he tell you?”
    “Late, around nine o’clock.”
    “It’s not true.”
    “Faith, it’s true. This guy knows what he’s talking about. Amanda says—”
    “I don’t care what Amanda says.” She dug around in her pockets again. “Mandy doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Whoever this guy is who you talked to was lying.”
    Will glanced at Sara.
    “Look,” Faith said. She had an iPhone in her hands. “Do you see this? It’s Jeremy’s Facebook page. They’ve been sending messages.”
    Will pushed away from the counter. “What?”
    “I met one of them last night. At the grocery store. He did this.” She indicated the bruises on her face. “I told him I had to have proof of life. He emailed me through Jeremy’s Facebook account this morning.”
    “What?” Will repeated. The color had drained from his face. “You met him alone? Why didn’t you call me? He could’ve—”
    “Look at this.” She showed him the phone. Sara couldn’t see the image, but she heard the sound.
    A woman’s voice said, “It’s Monday morning. Five thirty-eight.” She paused. There was background noise. “Faith, listen to me. Don’t do anything they say. Don’t trust them. Just walk away from this. You and your brother and the kids are my family. My only family …” Suddenly, the voice grew stronger. “Faith, this is important. I need you to remember our time together before Jeremy—”
    Faith said, “It stops right there.”
    Will asked, “What’s she talking about? The time before Jeremy?”
    “When I was pregnant.” Her cheeks colored, though almost twenty years had passed. “Mom stayed with me. She was …” Faith shook her head. “I wouldn’t have made it through without her. She just kept telling me to be strong, that it would be over eventually and then everything would be all right.”
    Sara put her hand on Faith’s shoulder. She could not imagine the pain that the other woman was going through.
    Will stared at the iPhone. “What’s on the television set behind her?”
    “ Good Day Atlanta . I checked with the station. This is the weather segment they aired half an hour ago. You can see the time over the station logo. I got the file two minutes later.”
    He handed Sara the phone, but still would not look her in the eye.
    Curiosity had always been her weakness. Sara’s reading glasses were on the counter. She slipped them on so she could see the small details. The screen showed Evelyn Mitchell sitting beside a large plasma-screen TV. The sound was off, but Sara saw the weather woman pointing to the five-day forecast. Evelyn was looking off-camera, probably at the man filming her. Her face was a bloody mess. She moved stiffly, as if in a great deal of pain. Her words slurred as she began, “It’s Monday morning.”
    Sara let the video play out, then put the phone down.
    Faith was watching Sara closely. “How does she look?”
    Sara took off her glasses. She could hardly render a medical opinion based on a grainy video, but it was obvious to anyone that Evelyn Mitchell had been very badly beaten. Still, she said, “She looks like she’s holding up.”
    “That’s what I thought.” Faith turned to Will. “I told them I’d meet them at noon, but the email says twelve-thirty. Mom’s house.”
    “Your mother’s house?” he repeated. “It’s still an active crime