Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

Thank God she hadn’t told him that she was in love with him. She could only imagine how embarrassing it would’ve been to have her pronouncement met with complete silence. Will was obviously pulling away. Sara had either done something or said something wrong. He was probably relieved she hadn’t asked him to make the drive down. Or up. Or over. Sara still had no idea where he was.
    She was just glad that he wasn’t here.
    And she fervently wished that she wasn’t, either.
    Sara couldn’t sit anymore. She stood up and stretched her back. The vertebrae felt fused together. Polite smiles greeted her around the room. She walked into the hall for some privacy.
    The lights were dimmed in deference to the late hour. Possum was exactly where she’d seen him thirty minutes ago. His back was to Sara. He stood at the closed doors to the ICU, looking through the window. He couldn’t see into Jared’s room from that angle. The cop was in his line of sight. Sara could tell the vigilance was grating on the young man. He kept glancing at Possum, then looking back at the nurses’ station as if the poor woman could help him.
    Possum could barely speak to Sara—not out of rudeness, butbecause every time he saw her, his eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know whether he was crying over the loss of Jeffrey, the threat to Jared, or the unbearable combination of both.
    Sara just knew she was sick of being here.
    She went to the elevator, then decided the stairs would at least give her some exercise. She needed some air, to be in a room that wasn’t stale with fear and tragedy. And she should probably have a conversation with herself about Will. Maybe she’d been blind to the deeper truth behind his silences. Sara had never told Will that she loved him, but then Will had never told Sara the words, either.
    In her experience, the simplest explanation was usually the crappiest one.
    Sara went down two flights before she saw a pink and blue sign. The maternity ward. She gladly took the detour. Whenever she was having a particularly horrendous day at Grady, she would go look at the babies. There was something so reassuring about watching brand-new eyes blink open, toothless mouths pucker into a smile. Newborns were proof that life could not only continue, but thrive.
    Sara guessed not many people would be there at this time of the morning, and she was right. Visiting hours were well over. There was no nurse to send stragglers away. No one had bothered to lower the shade over the large windows so the babies could sleep in peace.
    The dimmed hallway lights cast a warm glow on the rows of bassinets. The newborns were all wearing pink or blue knit hats. They were swaddled tightly in matching blankets. Their little faces were like raisins, some of them so new that their heads moved gently side to side, as if they were still floating in the womb.
    Sara pressed her forehead to the window. The glass was cold. One of the babies was awake. His squinty eyes scanned the ceiling. Colorful cartoons were painted overhead—rainbows and fluffy clouds and plump rabbits. This was more for the parents than the babies. Newborns were extremely nearsighted. The basiceye structures were there, but months would pass before they learned how to use them. For now, the ceiling art was a pleasant blob.
    The door behind Sara opened. She turned, expecting to find a nurse coming out of the bathroom.
    Instead, it was Lena Adams.
    She had a tissue in her hand. Sara could see the dismay when their eyes met, then something like resignation.
    Lena headed toward the elevator.
    “Wait,” Sara said.
    Lena stopped, but didn’t turn around.
    Sara instantly regretted the word. She didn’t know what to say. Was she sorry? Certainly, she felt bad that Lena had lost the baby. But that didn’t change what had come before.
    All Sara could manage was, “You don’t have to leave.”
    Slowly, Lena turned. She didn’t acknowledge Sara. Instead, she walked over to the viewing window. Her fingers rested on the edge of the sill. She leaned her forehead against the glass, the same as Sara had. She seemed to wall off everything else around her. There was something so tragic about the way she looked at the newborns. Her longing seemed to pierce the glass.
    The familiar sense of trespass took hold. Sara opened her mouth to take her leave, but Lena didn’t give her a chance to speak.
    “Is he the same?”
    “Jared?” Sara asked. “Yes.”
    Lena just nodded, her eyes still