She continued, "I've also been thinking about the baby."

He didn't look at her, but said, "Yeah?"

"Grace's baby was a girl. Maybe Jenny thought she was protecting the baby. Maybe that's why she helped Grace get rid of the baby."

He thought it over, thinking that Jenny was so afraid of Grace she would've done anything to avoid her wrath. Jeffrey finally said, "It's possible."

"I really think that's why she did it," Sara said with conviction. "I think Grace made her help kill the baby and Jenny was so upset all she could think to do was kill Mark, the father." She sounded so sure of herself that Jeffrey looked up at her. He could see how this was eating her up inside as much as it was him.

Jeffrey stood and stretched his arms up to the sky. He did not want to think about this anymore. He did not want to know that there were other kids like Jenny and Mark out there, being abused by their parents. He did not want to think about Dottie Weaver holding on to Lacey Patterson so she could exploit the child. Something had to give. Jeffrey did not think he could go on knowing that Dottie Weaver was out there doing whatever she wanted to children. He did not want to think about her preying on another small town somewhere.

He said, "It's almost cool out here."

"Isn't the breeze nice? I'd forgotten what it was like."

"It doesn't bother you to be out here in the dark?"

"Why would it?" she asked.

He looked at her. "Sometimes I think you're the strongest person I know."

She smiled, indicating that he should sit beside her.

He sat in the chair with a groan. Jeffrey had not realized until that moment just how tired he was. He leaned his head back, looking up at the night sky. Clouds obscured the stars, and it looked like August was releasing its stranglehold on the thermometer. Fall would come soon, and the leaves would drop from the trees and the air would turn colder and Jenny Weaver would still be dead.

Jeffrey asked, "Did you release the body?"

"Yes," she answered.

"What about the baby?"

"I talked to Brock. He's donating the service. There's a plot in the Roanoke Cemetery."

"I'll pay for it."

"I already took care of it," she said. "Will you go to the service with me?"

"Yeah," he answered, feeling it was the least he could do.

"Paul Jennings said to tell you to remember what he said."

Jeffrey was silent.

"What did he say?"

"That I shouldn't blame myself for what happened," he told her. "That I shouldn't make myself live with that guilt."

She reached over and squeezed his arm. "He's right."

"He said I should blame Dottie."

"Maybe you should."

"Dave Fine blames Dottie, too."

"It's not the same thing," she told him, sitting up in her chair. "Jeffrey, look at me…" She waited until he did. "You did what you had to do."

"I stopped Jenny from killing Mark so that he could turn around and hang himself," Jeffrey told her. "He still hasn't regained consciousness. He might never."

"And that's your fault?" she asked him. "I never knew you were so powerful, Jeffrey." She listed things out: "You made Jenny Weaver point a gun at Mark, you made Mark hang himself. Did you bring Dottie here, too? Did you make her abduct Lacey? Did you make Dottie work with Grace Patterson at that hospital? Did you make her do those things she did to children?"

"I'm not saying that."

"But, you are," she insisted. "If you want to blame somebody, blame me."

He shook his head, saying, "No."

"I saw all of them," Sara pointed out. "I saw Mark and Lacey practically from the time they were born. Jenny was a patient of mine. Is it my fault?"

"Of course it's not."

"Then how is it yours?"

Jeffery leaned his head on his hand, not wanting Sara to see how upset he was. "You didn't pull the trigger," he said. "You didn't kill her."

Sara got out of her chair and knelt in front of him. She took his hands in hers and said, "You know how I told you I worry about you when I don't know where you are and the phone rings?"

He nodded.

"I worry because I know you," she said, squeezing his hands for emphasis. "I know what kind of cop you are, and what kind of man you are."

"What kind of man am I?" he asked,

Her voice took on a softer tone. "The kind of man who wouldn't hesitate to be the one to kick in that door instead of Lena. The kind of man who risks his life every day to make sure that other people are safe. I love that about you," she insisted. "I love that you're strong, and that you think things through, and that you don't just react." Sara put her hand to his cheek. "I love that you're gentle, and that you worry about Lena, and that you feel responsible for everything that happens in town."

He started to speak, but she pressed her finger to his lips so that he would not interrupt her. "I love you because you know how to comfort me and how to drive me crazy, and how to make my dad want to beat you to a pulp." She low-ered her voice. "I love how you touch me, and how safe I feel when I'm with you." She kissed his hands. "You're a good man, Jeffrey," she told him. "Listen to Paul Jennings. Listen to me. You did the right thing." She held his hands to her lips and kissed his fingers.

She said, "It's okay to question yourself, Jeffrey. You did that, and now you have to move on."

He looked out at the rocks jutting from the lake, and wondered if there would ever be a day in his life when he did not think of Jenny Weaver, and the role he had played in her death.

Sara told him, "You're a good man, Jeffrey."

He did not believe her. Maybe if he still didn't feel pain in his knee from jumping Dave Fine, or remember how good it felt to kick Arthur Prynne in the gut, it would be easier. Maybe if he didn't still see that set of frightened eyes from the back of the closet in Macon.

"Jeffrey," Sara repeated. "You're a good man."

"I know," he lied.

"Know it in here," she told him, pressing her fingers to his chest.

Jeffrey brushed Sara's hair back behind her ear, and all he could think to say was, "You're so beautiful."

Sara rolled her eyes at the compliment. "Is that all you've got to say?"

He offered, "Why don't we go inside, and I'll answer you in greater detail?"

Sara leaned back on her hands, a smile playing at her lips. "Why do we have to go inside?"

Friday

Chapter Twenty-One

Lena gritted her teeth, pounding her feet into the pavement. She could hear Hank's heavy footsteps behind her, his cheap Wal-Mart sneakers popping against the ground like a stick on an oil drum.

"That all you got?" he asked, pulling ahead of her. She let him take the lead for a while, watching him from behind. The sun did not agree with him, and rather than tanning, his pasty skin had taken on a reddish tone. The track mark s on his forearms stood in a burgundy relief against this, and the back of his neck was as red as fire.

His breathing was more like a wheeze, but he held his own against her as she sped up to run beside him. His yellowish-gray hair was pasted to his head with sweat, and the turkey giblet hanging down from his neck bounced with each step he took. Still, Lena couldn't help but think he wasn't in bad shape for an old man. She had certainly seen worse.

"This way," he said.

Lena followed him as he took a sharp turn off the road, and jogged along a path through the woods. The soft ground underfoot brought some relief to her aching knees, and her thighs started to feel like they might not ignite from the heat in her muscles as her second wind kicked in. Before, this was what she had lived for: the intense pain, then overcoming it. Pushing herself past the physical through sheer force of will, making herself finish the course. Her body felt strong and powerful, invincible, like she could do anything she wanted. Like she was the old Lena again.