Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

wait for an answer. She left the room. All the air seemed to go with her.
    Faith let out a long sigh. “That was awful.”
    Sara said nothing.
    Faith studied her carefully. “Sara?”
    Sara shook her head as she took in the nursery, the way the light from the windows fell across the floor. The yellow walls were cheery and warm. She could imagine sheers hanging in thewindows, a summer breeze rustling the edges. Balloons would be painted around the walls to match the closet door. The jacket would hang on a tiny plastic hanger—something colorful to match the décor. The hoodie wasn’t sized for a newborn, but at three to six months, Lena’s baby would be big enough to wear it.
    Faith said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
    Sara could only keep shaking her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
    One of the last things that Sara and Jeffrey had planned together was adopting a baby. Sara couldn’t have children of her own. It had taken years for her and Jeffrey to be in the same place about adoption, to decide that they were ready to raise a child together.
    Then Jeffrey had died, and Sara had come completely undone. The adoption agency returned their application. At the time, Sara barely registered the rejection. She’d been incapable of taking care of herself, let alone a baby.
    “Sara?” Faith asked. “Will you please say something?”
    Acid filled Sara’s mouth.
    It wasn’t fair.
    That’s what Sara wanted to say. To scream at the top of her lungs.
    It just wasn’t fair.
    Lena wasn’t strong. She would bend, not break. She would recover from this tragedy the same easy way she recovered from every other tragedy before.
    Even if she lost Jared, Lena would always know what it felt like to have his child growing inside of her. She could always hold her baby’s hand and think of holding Jared’s. She could see her child laugh and learn and grow and play sports and do school projects and graduate from college and Lena would always, always remember her husband. She would see Jared in her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. On her deathbed, she would find peacein the knowledge that they had made something beautiful together. That even in death, they would both go on living.
    “Sara,” Faith said. “What’s happening here?”
    Sara wiped her eyes, angry that she was back in the same dark place she’d started at this morning. “Why does everything come so damn easy to her?” She struggled to speak. Her throat clenched around every word that wanted to come out of her mouth. “Everything just opens up, and she always walks through unscathed and—” Sara had to stop for breath. “It’s just so easy for her. She always has it so goddamn easy.”
    Faith indicated the door. “Come on.”
    Sara couldn’t move.
    “Let’s go.” Faith took Sara by the arm and led her out of the room. Sara thought they were leaving the house, but Faith stopped at the kitchen table. She held up the envelope she’d opened before.
    Sara didn’t take it. “I don’t care about her Pap smear.”
    “Look who it’s from.”
    Sara scanned the return address. Macon Medical Center. Driscoll Benedict, OB-GYN. “So?”
    Faith opened the envelope, unfolded the doctor’s invoice. She held it up for Sara to see. The treatment date was ten days ago. The amount was zeroed out with the advisory that the hospital would bill Lena separately for her emergency room visit.
    Across the bottom, someone had written, “God bless you both. You are in our prayers.”
    Sara took the invoice from Faith. Her knees felt weak. She sat down at the table. Even without the note of condolence, she recognized the medical billing code.
    Lena had lost the baby.

9.
    WILL RODE HIS motorcycle down a neglected state highway, his head rotating like a gun turret. While there was the occasional eighteen-wheeler on the back roads, it was the deer he was most worried about. Less than ten minutes ago, Will had seen a buck dart right out in front of him. The creature was magnificent. There was no other word for it. Muscles rippled along his chest and back. His spindly legs were like a ballerina’s. His antlers were branched like a tree. The animal hadn’t even bothered to look Will’s way, which was good because Will would’ve been humiliated if any living creature had seen the look of sheer terror on his face. He did not need a mathematician to calculate the odds of survival when a speeding motorcycle slammed into a speeding deer. The coroner