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“Mark my words, son, we will hold our heads up high in this town again. We will show our faces at church the very first Sunday you are out of this . . . this dungeon, and we will march right up the center aisle and onto the front row. You’ll see.”
    â€œMom, if you hate this town so much, why don’t we just move once this is over?”
    The look she gave him should have killed him, but it didn’t. In fact, it seemed to have no impact at all.
    Looking deftly over her shoulder, she plowed forward a little more loudly and a lot more cheerfully. “I’ll bring the pictures of Julie over in the morning. The wedding photo, in particular, will look perfect right over your bed. On second thought, maybe we should go with, I mean, you’d probably want the sonogram.”
    He looked up at his mother blankly. “The what?”
    â€œThe sonogram . . . of the baby . . . from the doctor’s office, you dolt.” The words came out in another hiss that caused the guards to look toward them.
    Tish Adams straightened her spine, smoothed down the pale yellow skirt of her matching Talbots sweater and skirt set, and pulled up the corners of a smile. She methodically gathered together her purse, papers, and a gorgeous set of faux tortoiseshell Chanel sunglasses. She stood up to leave. Brushing past the guards, she smiled brightly. “Hello, gentlemen! How nice to see you this morning! Have a blessed and wonderful day, you two.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    H ailey lowered the window to let the breeze blow onto her face and rush through her hair. It was the exact opposite of the canned, recirculated air on the plane. Leaving the airport exit, grass on either side of the I-95 waved gently in the breeze. A lonely seagull flew just ahead of the Crown Vic, floating on a current against a blue sky.
    The hot afternoon was interrupted when squawks on Fincher’s police radio ripped into a steady stream, the brief jumble of numbers repeatedly followed by an address or a truncated sentence.
    Police spoke in a language of numbers, each one signaling a different police call: car accident, burglary, stolen car, and so on. The numeric talk was so pervasive on the job it became second nature, and they often used it in regular speech.
    â€œTurn it up, Fincher.”
    â€œNo, little girl, this is none of our business. This isn’t Atlanta.”
    â€œCome on. Turn it up. I can’t help it. I have to know!”
    â€œOK. But curiosity killed the cat . . .”
    â€œAnd satisfaction brought it back!” She had a comeback ready. Fincher reached his right hand across and turned up the volume on his police radio.
    â€œRepeat . . . 48-4 . . . 50-48. 48-4 . . . 50-48.” The voice from dispatch sounded urgent.
    â€œHailey, that’s a—”
    â€œI know what it is. Person dead.”
    Dispatch interrupted again. “. . . 3443 Randolph Drive . . . corner Randolph and Armory.”
    â€œAll units in the vicinity, signal 63. Repeat . . . signal 63. Code 3. Repeat signal 63.”
    Hailey felt a shock go down her body and turned quickly to Fincher. “It’s a 63, Fincher.” A sick feeling burned in the pit of her stomach. 63 meant officer down.
    Suddenly, Fincher jerked the wheel to the right, steering the car at the last second across two lanes of speeding cars and up an exit ramp off the interstate.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Finch?”
    â€œI know that street. I know that address. I’ve been there. My army buddy’s off Randolph. We were in Iraq together.”
    â€œAnd?” Hailey didn’t need to finish the sentence.
    â€œAnd we’re going over there.”
    â€œFincher, you just got back from Iraq. Vickie will kill you if she finds out you headed to an active homicide scene you didn’t have to go to. Forget you, she’ll kill me for letting you go!”
    â€œWe have to go. I’m not standing by. It’s a cop down. But I’ll let you