Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

grasp that told her he was going to be all right.
    He said, “I want a baby with you. I want to make a life together. A family.”
    Just hearing the words made her want all of it, but Lena was too afraid to answer, too terrified to get her hopes up again.
    Which is why she said, “Okay.”
    Jared grinned like a fool. “Really?”
    “Yes.” She said it again just to make sure. “Yes.”
    He kissed her, his mouth lingering longer than usual. His hand cradled her face. Jared looked into her eyes. His thumb traced where his lips had been. “And I want to rip out the kitchen because my dad did it wrong.”
    Lena’s string of profanities was muffled by a trumpet of motorcycles pulling into the parking lot. She could see them lining up through the glass doors. Six Harley-Davidson police-issue bikes gleamed in the sunshine, courtesy of Sid Waller’s stash of money in the basement of the shooting gallery.
    “Hot damn!” Jared sounded like a frat boy at a pool party. He hobbled toward the parking lot, grabbing the back of a chair, the door handle, anything he could use to propel himself toward the bikes.
    Lena shook her head as she took a key out of her pocket. Weapons weren’t allowed in areas where prisoners were kept, so there was a row of lockers by the front door. She slid her key into the correct lock. Lena had never been the type of woman to carry a purse. She had shoved her messenger bag into the tiny locker so many times that the canvas was worn where the metal edges scraped into the material. Out of habit, she did a quick inventory of the bag, making sure her Glock was inside, her wallet, her keys, her pens.
    Almost as an afterthought, she checked the outside pocket for the postcard. There it was—stamped and ready to go. Lena had been carrying the postcard around with her for three days, putting it in her bag, sticking it in her pocket, tossing it onto the dresser. Now, she pulled out the card and looked at the photograph of downtown Macon. “Thank you for visiting the Heart of Georgia” was written across the top in a curly yellow script.
    Lena flipped the card over. The address was the same one she’d written years ago on an envelope she’d mailed to Atlanta.
    The letter.
    Lena knew that she’d always placed too much value on Sara Linton’s opinion. For years, Lena had let the blame for Jeffrey’s death shadow her every move. She was so low at one point that she had to reach up to touch bottom. Lena had written the letter to beg for Sara’s forgiveness, to seek absolution. She’d structured her case the same way she would present an investigation in court. She’d testified to her own good character. She’d laid out the evidence. She’d highlighted the inconsistencies. She’d expertly spun the divergent facts in her favor. Lena hadn’t been writing an apology. She had been begging for the return of her very soul.
    The postcard was different. Two words, not three pages. Giving something, not asking for it.
    The truth was that Lena had recovered her soul on her own. When she looked at her life now, all she could see was good. She was good at her job. She was good to her friends. She had married a good man, even if he talked too much. They would eventually have a child together. Maybe more than one child. They would raise their family. They would suffer through Nell’s visits. They would have birthday parties, Christmases, and Thanksgivings, and no matter what Sara Linton thought about Lena’s choices, she would always know that she had done the right thing.
    Virtue was its own absolution.
    There was a mail slot by the lockers, a brass plaque with the words U.S. MAIL engraved in bold print across the top. Every day around lunchtime, the woman in the front office collected the outgoing mail and took it to the post office. One of the perks of working at a police station. Especially if you liked long lunches.
    Lena stared down at the postcard. For just a moment, she thought about tearing it up. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Lena was fine. Sara was the one who needed forgiveness. She was the one who couldn’t let go. It cost nothing to release her.
    Lena angled the postcard into the mail slot. She held on for just a second, then let it drop into the basket below.
    Outside, a motorcycle revved. Jared was straddling the bike. Estefan was behind him because he couldn’t hold it up on his own.
    Lena hefted her bag over her shoulder as she headed toward the door.
    Toward Jared.
    Toward