Both men were silent. Jeffrey turned his head, looking at the shelves lining the far wall of his office. Shooting trophies were there, awarded for his marksmanship. An old football from when he played for Auburn was on the bottom shelf. Pictures of guys he had worked with on the job in Grant as well as back in Birmingham were alongside a couple of snapshots of Sara he had taken on their honeymoon. He had put these up recently, when they started dating again. Now, he wasn't so sure about wanting the pictures in his office, let alone wanting Sara in his life. Jeffrey still could not get over how distant she had been last night, tensing up when he touched her, telling him what to do. Like he didn't know how to do what he was doing. Like he hadn't done it hundreds of times before with other women who were a hell of a lot more receptive than Sara had been.

Frank turned around in his chair when the half-doors separating the squad room from the reception area clapped open. Sara walked through, her briefcase in one hand. She was dressed in a light blue dress that looked like a long T-shirt. Jeffrey could see she had decided to go with tennis shoes without socks to complete the ensemble. She probably hadn't even shaved her legs.

Both men watched as Sara made her way to the office. Her hair was a mess and Jeffrey wondered if she had even bothered to comb it. Sara had never been the kind of woman who was interested in high fashion and she seldom wore makeup. Sometimes this was sexy, sometimes it made her look sloppy, like she was more interested in being a doctor than being a woman. As she got closer to them, he could see that her glasses were crooked on her face. For some reason, this irritated him more than anything else.

Frank stood when she entered the room, so Jeffrey followed suit.

"Hi," she said, smiling nervously. Jeffrey was glad she was uncomfortable.

"Hey there," Frank said, buttoning his jacket.

Sara smiled at Frank, then said, "I've called Nick Shelton," referring to Grant County 's Georgia Bureau of Investigations field agent. "I asked him to track any cases involving this kind of mutilation. He said he'd have something Wednesday at the latest."

When Jeffrey did not address this, Frank supplied, "Good thinking."

"And," Sara continued, "I called around to the hospitals. Nobody came in last night seeking postlabor treatment. I left the number here at the station in case they get someone in."

Frank pulled at the collar of his shirt. "So, you think there's any way the girl could have done this to herself? This circumcision thing?"

"God, no." Sara seemed to bristle at this. "And, it's not circumcision," she told him. "This is tantamount to castration. Her clitoris and labia minora were completely scraped away, then what was left was sewn together with thread."

"Oh," Frank said, obviously uncomfortable with this information.

Sara pursed her lips. "It's the same as cutting off a man's penis."

Frank looked uncomfortably from Jeffrey to Sara, then back again.

"Anyway." Sara gestured to her briefcase. "I'm ready to start the briefing."

"That's been postponed," Jeffrey said, hearing the hard tone to his voice but unable to do anything about it. When he had called to ask Sara to come in early, he had not mentioned why. He told her, "Dottie Weaver will be here in about fifteen minutes. I want to get her out of here as soon as I can."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "Okay. I guess I can do some paperwork at the clinic. You think a couple of hours will do it?"

He shook his head no. "I want you to sit in on the interview."

Sara gave him a careful look. "I'm not a cop."

" Lena is," he told her. "She'll be leading the interview. I want you there because she knows you."

She tucked her hand into her hip. " Lena or Dottie?"

Frank cleared his throat. "I got some calls to make," he said, giving Sara a polite nod before leaving the room.

After he was gone, Sara turned to Jeffrey, giving him a questioning look.

He asked, "Is that a nightgown?"

"What?"

"What you're wearing," he said, indicating her dress. "It looks like a nightgown."

Sara laughed uncomfortably. "No," she said, as if he was leaving out some part of the joke.

"You could have worn something more professional," he said, thinking about what she had worn last night. Her sweat pants and a ratty old T-shirt didn't exactly help the situation. And her legs had felt hairier than his.

He asked, "Would it kill you to dress up a little bit?"

Sara lowered her voice, the way she did when she got angry. "Is there some reason you're talking to me like you're my mother?"

He felt a flash of anger that was so intense he knew not to open his mouth and say what wanted to come out.

"Jeff," Sara said, "what is going on?"

He walked past her and slammed the door shut. "Would it kill you to do me this one favor?"

"Favor?" She shook her head, as if he had started talking gibberish.

"Sit in on the interview," he reminded her. "With Weaver."

Sara exhaled sharply. "What could I possibly say to her?"

"Never mind," he answered. To give himself something to do, he closed the blinds. "Just forget about it."

"Just tell me what you want me to do," she said, her voice irritatingly reasonable. "Do you want me to go home and change? Do you want me to leave you alone?"

He turned around, saying, "I want you to stop breaking my balls, is what I want you to do."

Sara tucked in her chin. It seemed to be her turn to hold back something she wanted to say.

He raised his eyebrows, prompting her to speak. "What?" he demanded, knowing he was pushing her, wanting a fight to release some of the anger he felt.

Sara took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I don't understand why you're so angry at me."

Jeffrey did not answer.

She smoothed down his tie with the back of her fingers, then put her palm to his chest. "Jeff, please. Just tell me what you want me to do."

Words failed him. He turned away from her and then, because there was nothing else for him to do, he twisted the wand to open the blinds again. He felt Sara's hand on his shoulder.

She said, "It's all right."

"I know that," he snapped, but he didn't. He felt like his brain was on fire, and every time he blinked all he could see was Jenny Weaver's head jerking back as the bullet cut through her neck.

Sara put her arms around him, then pressed her lips against the back of his neck. "It's okay," she whispered against his neck, and he felt the coolness of her breath calming him. She kissed his neck again, holding her lips there for what seemed like a long time. His body started to relax, and Jeffrey wondered why she hadn't done this last night. Then he remembered that she had.

She told him again, "It's all right."

He felt calm for the first time that morning, like he could breathe again. It felt so good that for just a second he thought he might do something really stupid, like cry or, worse, tell Sara that he loved her.

He asked, "You gonna sit in on the interview or not?"

She let her hands drop, and he could tell this was not the reaction she had been hoping for. He looked at her, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

Finally, she nodded once, telling him, "I'll do whatever you want me to do."

Jeffrey stood in the observation room, watching through the one-way mirror as Sara comforted Dottie Weaver. He had never been able to stay mad at Sara for long, mostly because Sara would not allow it.

Dottie Weaver was a largeish woman with dark brown hair and olive colored skin. Her hair looked long, but she kept it in a neat bun on top of her head. The style was a bit dated, but it seemed to suit her. She had what Jeffrey thought of as an older face, the kind where the person looks the same at ten as she does at forty. Her cheeks were more jowls, and she carried about twenty pounds more on her than she should have. There were deep creases in her forehead above her nose, which gave her a stern look, even when she was crying.