Faith put her hand to her stomach. The gesture had become second nature over the last few days. All along, she had been thinking that the child inside of her was a boy; another Jeremy who would draw pictures and sing to her. Another toddler who would puff out his chest when he told his friends that his mom was a cop. Another young man who was respectful of women. Another adult who knew from his single mother how hard it was to be the fairer sex.

Now, Faith prayed that she would have a daughter. Every woman they had met on this case had found a way to hate herself long before Tom Coldfield had gotten hold of them. They were used to depriving their bodies of everything from nourishment to warmth to something as vital as love. Faith wanted so show her own child a different path. She wanted a girl she could raise who might have a chance of loving herself. She wanted to see that girl grow into a strong woman who knew her value in the world. And she never wanted either of her children to meet someone as bitter and damaged as Pauline McGhee.

Will told Pauline, "Judith's in the hospital. The bullet just missed her heart."

The woman's nostrils flared. Tears came into her eyes, and Faith wondered if there was still a part of her, no matter how small, that wanted some kind of bond with her mother.

Faith offered, "I can take you to see Judith if you want."

She snorted a laugh, angrily wiping away her tears. "Bitch, don't even. She was never there for me. I'm sure as shit not going to be there for her." She shifted her son on her shoulder. "I need to get him home."

Will tried, "If you could just—"

"Just what?"

He didn't have an answer for her. Pauline stood up and walked to the door, trying to hold Felix as she reached for the knob.

Faith told her, "The FBI will probably be getting in touch with you."

"The FBI can kiss my ass." She managed to get the door open. "And so can you."

Faith watched her walk down the hallway, shifting Felix as she turned toward the elevators. "God," she said softly. "It's hard to feel sorry for her."

"You did the right thing," Will told her.

Faith saw herself in the Tom Coldfield's hallway again, her gun pointed at Pauline's head, Tom bucking on the floor. They weren't trained to wing suspects. They were trained to fire a rapid bullet spread straight over the center of the chest.

Unless you were Amanda Wagner. Then, you squeezed off a single shot that did enough damage to take them down but not take their life.

Will asked, "If you had to do it again, would you let Pauline kill Tom?"

"I don't know," Faith confessed. "I was operating on auto-pilot. I just did what I was trained to do."

"Considering what Pauline's been through . . ." Will began, then stopped himself. "She's not very nice."

"She's a cold-blooded bitch."

"I'm surprised I haven't fallen in love with her."

Faith laughed. She had seen Angie at the hospital when they brought Will out of surgery. "How is Mrs. Trent doing?"

"She's making sure my life insurance policies are paid up." He took out his phone. "I told her I'd be back by three."

Faith didn't make a comment about the new phone, or the wary look on his face. She supposed Angie Polaski was back in Will's life now. Faith would just have to get used to her, the same way you tolerated an annoying sister-in-law or the boss's whorishly obnoxious daughter.

Will pushed back his chair. "I guess I should go."

"You want me to drive you home?"

"I'll walk."

He only lived a few blocks over, but he'd been in surgery less than seventy-two hours ago. Faith opened her mouth to protest, but Will stopped her.

"You're a good cop, Faith, and I'm glad you're my partner."

There were few things he could have said that would have stunned her more. "Really?"

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. Before she could respond, he told her, "If you ever see Angie on top of me like that, don't give her a warning, all right? Just pull the trigger."

EPILOGUE

SARA STOOD BACK AS THEY ROLLED HER PATIENT OUT OF THE trauma room. The man had been in a head-on collision with a motorcyclist who thought red lights were only for cars. The cyclist was dead, but the man had a good chance thanks to the fact that he was wearing his seatbelt. Sara was constantly amazed at the number of people she saw in the Grady ER who believed seatbelts were unnecessary. She had seen almost as many in the morgue during her years as coroner for Grant County.

Mary came into the room to clean up the mess for the next patient. "Good save," she said.

Sara felt herself smiling. Grady saw only the worst of the worst. She didn't hear that often enough.

"How's that hysterical pregnant cop doing? Mitchell?"

"Faith," Sara supplied. "Good, I guess." She hadn't talked to Faith since the woman had been airlifted to the emergency room two weeks ago. Every time Sara thought to pick up the phone to check on her, something stopped her from making the call. For her part, Faith hadn't called, either. She was probably embarrassed that Sara had seen her at such a low moment. For a woman who hadn't been sure whether or not she was going to keep her baby, Faith Mitchell had sobbed like a child when she thought she'd lost it.

Mary asked, "Isn't your shift over?"

Sara glanced at the clock. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago. "You need help?" She indicated various detritus she'd thrown on the floor minutes earlier as she'd worked to save her patient's life.

"Go on," Mary told her. "You've been here all night."

"So have you," Sara reminded her, but she didn't have to be told twice to leave.

Sara walked down the hall toward the doctor's lounge, stepping aside as gurneys whizzed by. Patients were stacked up like sardines again, and she ducked under the counter at the nurses' station to take a short cut away from them. CNN was on the television over the desk; she saw that the Tom Coldfield case was still in the news.

As big as the story was, Sara found it remarkable that more people had not come forward to tell their version of events. She hadn't expected Anna Lindsey to exploit herself for money, but the fact that the two surviving women were equally as tight-lipped was surprising in this age of instant movie deals and television exclusives. Sara had gleaned from the news reports that there was more to the story than GBI was letting on, but she was hard-pressed to find anyone who was willing to share the truth.

She certainly could not be faulted for trying. Faith had been incapable of communicating anything when she'd been brought into the ER, but Will Trent had been kept overnight for observation. The kitchen knife had missed all the major arteries, but his tendons were another story. He was looking at months in physical therapy before he got back his full range of motion. Despite this, Sara had gone into his room the next morning with the blatant intent of pumping him for information. He'd been different with her, and kept pulling up the bedsheet, finally tucking it under his chin in an oddly chaste manner, as if Sara had never seen a man's chest before.

Will's wife had shown up a few minutes later, and Sara had realized instantly that the awkward moment she'd had with Will Trent on her couch was purely a figment of her imagination. Angie Trent was striking and sexy in that dangerous-looking way that drives men to extremes. Standing beside her, Sara had felt slightly less interesting than the hospital wallpaper. She had made her excuses and left as quickly as politeness would allow. Men who liked women like Angie Trent did not like women like Sara.