Will Maddox
"Oh my goodness, is this beautiful woman my daughter?" Jules Maddox, Will's father, looked good since she last visited his sleeping form the Christmas prior. He had shaved the thick beard the nurses had maintained since she had been a teenager.
He's been in a coma for twenty five years now, she surmised, the shock always fresh when she took the time to reflect. She held out the cigar box and bottle of bourbon he used to drink, back when she wasn't old enough to drive. After all this time, she still remembered these details, for some reason. Her hands remained steady. She was thankful for that.
"How you feeling, Dad?"
"Still stiff. Only just got my right toes wiggling. I feel like I could get up and do a flip - but my body just isn't cooperating."
"Take it easy, Dad," Bram looked overwhelmed with joy, his smile pulled cheek-to-cheek.
"So," Jules' eyes sparkled, "Tell me about your life, Willmee."
She bristled at the long dead nickname. A tear broke through, for she never thought she'd hear him call her that again. The memories wanted to break out but she held it back by biting the inside of her cheek.
"Well, I'm a cop. Been, for most of my life now." She didn't feel so strong, despite expecting to, saying it. Only shame. She had nothing to show for it. Despite all this time, they had never caught the bastard who caused all this.
Jules' cheer softened. "Sounds dangerous."
"It is," Bram blurted and sulked when Will glared him down.
"I've taken good care of myself."
"That you have," Jules held a hand out to her and she took it. His hands were soft and paper-like. "Are you happy, honey?"
She blinked. "Yeah, Dad. I'm happy."
He nodded. "That's all that matters, then. I'm so thankful you and Bram grew up to be so-," he paused, looking away, his voice breaking.
"Dad," she sniffled and knelt over his bed to give him a hug.
He was bony and touching him brought her back to that night.
The screams of her mother. Bram's infant wails in the next room. Her father, shouting. Gun shots. Silence. And her, cowering in the closet, pressing her palm to her mouth, praying whoever it was didn't find her.
"Honey, you've got a grip," Jules laughed. "Careful now, I'm still delicate. Can't be throwing you over my head anytime soon."
"Sorry Dad," she pulled back, letting him see her cry. "I'm just so happy to talk to you again." Happy. Nervous. Embarrassed.
She swallowed and kept a smile pushed up her cheeks.
Bram was watching her - likely, judging to himself in his own way. Will had put off facing the guilt of what she had done all these years and now, she had to face it with Bram's reproachful gaze. But he wouldn't understand. She left Dad, comatose, for Bram to handle on his own when she and Frank had left California.
She had run away.
And now, after everything leading to that moment, she was full of remorse.
I should have stayed. For Bram. For Dad.
"So, not to put you on the spot, but you got a husband? Children? Am I a grandfather? You used to say you wanted three daughters," he laughed good-humored, while Will bit her lip.
"Well, no," she didn't want to elaborate on her terrible romantic history - especially not with him. "I'm not seeing anyone these days."
Bram raised an eyebrow. For all he knew, she was still dating Hoffman.
"I was married when I was in my twenties - but let's just say it ended and not bring the mood down on the details." She swallowed and forced a grin. "Say, how about I get some cards and we play some rummy. Like old times."
"That's a swell idea," Jules sounded enthusiastic. "Feels like only yesterday I was schooling you two."
"Get ready, dad, your winning streak is about to come to an end," she laughed, pretending with all her heart that everything was fine. Because it was.
And when she left the hospital room and found herself alone in the elevators as it descended down to the gift shop, she realized she was bawling into her palm, anguish overwhelming her. Her father was awake. He was alive.
And he was exactly the way she remembered him. Acting like everything is just normal. But only it wasn't.
Mom was still dead. He had lost almost three decades of his life, lying in a hospital bed. And the one thing she had promised him when she had first joined the Police Academy, the one thing she swore she would get done in her life, she had failed to do.
And instead of still trying, she had given up.
Like everything else in her life, she had simply abandoned it all.
She wiped at her cheeks, hating herself for everything.
John Kramer
John waited patiently as his tea brewed, looking at the newspaper.
'JIGSAW' KILLER TERRIFIES CITY.
How distasteful. He didn't approve of the way the media portrayed him. Jigsaw Killer. He was no killer. All of his test subjects had died by their own hand. The puzzle pieces he had removed from each victim, symbolic in intent, had been distorted into a cheap calling card by the tabloid rags.
Perhaps he would have his message spread more clearly. He needed to refine his methods. Learn from his past errors. Cecil had just been the first. He had focused on the most common troublemakers that had frequented the Homeward Bound Clinic, finding a rich vein of despicable people to mine.
But his vision was growing grander with each test. Games, he thought. And what grand games they were. It had rejuvenated him despite his sickness and gave him purpose.
Despite his passion, he had to take more breaks lately, the headaches only supplicated with the medication he was prescribed. He avoided the heavier substances, choosing to allow the pain to transform him. Mold him with its raw agony. He needed to stay sharp. A dull blade was useless.
His latest trap, a glass coffin, was something he would have to shelve for the time being. The glittering shards he had placed inside the bulletproof container called to him. But he was too weak to move it. Too old. Too sick. He could not, single handedly, transport the coffin to the next location.
He wished he could test multiple people, simultaneously. But to accomplish such an ambitious project, he required assistance. He wondered if it would be possible to find someone worthy of this.
Not a single test subject had yet to survive the games.
So for now, he bided his time. He would focus on the simpler tests. The lighter instruments and easy to transport tools would have to do for now.
He was also limited to the persons he could grab. Though he had plenty of narcotics to drug people, it was still extremely taxing on the body to drag and carry fully grown adults. To fully test the fabric of humanity's survival, he would need at least one person who was younger and stronger.
Gordon had given him two years, ideally. He didn't have much time.
But who?
He rubbed his temple, sighing. When the tea kettle whistled, he retrieved it, poured himself a cup, and returned to his drawing board.
Before him, his latest creation smiled up with its maw of steel and careful measurements. He had taken the high torque of the bear trap, reversing the spring mechanisms so that it would burst outward instead of inward. He imagined what it would do to the jaw of a person who found their teeth pressed between the contact points.
He wondered who would be the person he would have wear it. As he sipped the hot liquid, savoring the bitterness, he thought of one particular drug addict whom Jill had always complained about during her off hours.
"This poor girl, I see her at the clinic so often. She promises she'll get clean but comes back right after. Her arms are covered with infected needle marks. I tell her she will die if she keeps this up. She just agrees with whatever I say because she wants the withdrawal to stop. I've never seen someone so defeated by life."
He took his pencil, carefully outlining the headset that would support the four pounds of steel.
"Poor Amanda. She's a lost cause, I'm afraid."
Mark Hoffman
He let out a roar of triumph when the mechanism lowered with a metallic click. His voice echoed off the concrete, deep laughs that he almost didn't recognize as his own. The only sounds that had kept him company in Rosello's old warehouse were the clang of construction and the occasional swear word growled in frustration.
Finally!
He had spent days trying to figure out what the problem had been. Whenever the pendulum blade would complete its full sweep - back and forth, back and forth - the chassis supporting the entire fucking thing was supposed to lower by two inches.
For reasons unknown - until now - he had been struggling to find why it would not lower. The motor was not receiving a signal from the sensor by the fourth swing. It had been off by a hair. So he had to have the sensor shifted down an inch and suddenly it all worked, perfectly.
As the pendulum clicked and lowered another interval, the woosh of the blade slicing across the slab where Seth Baxter would soon lay, Hoffman knew it would happen tonight.
Like the scene from Frankenstein, a flash of lightning followed by the boom of thunder filled the warehouse.
It's alive. And soon, Baxter will die.
After he observed the pendulum complete all its operations, reaching the end of its possible reach and finishing with its return to the original position, he zipped up his rain jacket and went to his car.
The rain cascaded down his windshield as he dialed Matthew's number.
"Yeah?"
"Eric, I need an alibi."
"Oh yeah?" Amusement and the puff of a cigarette. "Need help burying the body too?"
Mark paused, the irony not lost to him. "I have a date tonight. Don't want it getting back to Will."
"Huh. Yeah, I get it." The hesitation made Mark's stomach roll. "Never knew you were such a player. Especially after how things ended with her. Figured it was temporary." Though Matthews was never one to judge a man from getting his rocks off, it was clear he didn't approve.
"It's nothing serious. Just a distraction. I have needs."
"I hear ya, brother. I've got your back. Allison won't hear a peep from me. We were out drinking tonight, after all. Just the two of us. I had a lot to bitch about."
"I owe you one." Relief sighed through his veins.
"Don't you forget it. Have fun." The phone clicked and silence followed.
Mark snapped his cellphone shut and started the engine.
Despite his urgency, it was not fueled with rage. Far from it. True, he wanted Baxter to suffer as soon as possible. But he would savor every moment of it and needed every step he took to be perfect. It was a close call, but Mark was sure things would go as planned tonight.
Alibi done. No one is going to look for me. Trap is set, following the M.O. Kerry's FBI friends profiled. Will is across the country. Now, I just need Baxter.
The only reason he didn't wait another week was because this was the last day of Baxter's shift for a while. The guy wasn't scheduled to work for another month, and that was too far down the road for comfort. For all Mark knew, the real Jigsaw Killer could be caught by then and he'd have to come up with a completely new way to kill him.
He didn't allow his mind to wander as he drove to the mall. He was completely in the present. Hyper-focused. He saw every person he drove past. The sound of his own excited breathing was clear in his ears.
He parked his car in the spot just out of view of the cameras. Raising his hood to hide his hair, he stalked forward. He clutched the syringe in his pocket, keeping his head down, and squatted behind the dumpsters.
Despite the two hours of waiting, Baxter had appeared right on time, carrying two giant trash bags and swinging them over the same bin he always did. And then, like the trash he was, he proceeded to light himself a cigarette and lean a shoulder against the metal, sighing out smoke and oblivious to the shadow that closed in on him.
Hoffman was behind him, uncapping the needle.
He let Baxter take one more exhale before he plunged the needle into his trapezius, pushing all the sedative in. Besides the surprised flinch, Baxter fell over in an instant.
Too easy.
He smirked and went to drag the man by his ankles, far from the evening light's touch and the watchful eyes of any cameras.
He was confident Baxter wouldn't wake for the next four hours. Ten milligrams of Diazepam and at his low bodyweight, he wouldn't be surprised if it took at least five.
But to be safe, he handcuffed his wrists and ankles before stowing him in the trunk and slamming it shut.
"Nice and easy, son. If you're going to do a job, you got to do it right."
These words were old and distant memories. He had heard it often, when he was just a young boy learning how to build birdhouses or change the oil of their family station wagon.
Despite all the trouble this elaborate revenge required, Mark felt it was the right way. Framing the Jigsaw Killer would keep suspicion off of him. And it allowed something more.
"One day, you will be the man of the family. And as a man, it is your duty to protect the family."
He knew his father would have wanted a hand in avenging Angelina's death. Using the skills passed down to him to kill Seth Baxter was a way to share the knife handle as it plunged into that bastard's heart.
Mark Hoffman senior would have designed something more elaborate, had he been alive now. Perhaps a timed electric chair or something a little more flashy. His father would rewire his childhood home's lighting fixtures for Christmas to flash in sync with music he blasted on the stereo. The man's brilliance always left Mark awestruck.
He arrived at the warehouse, the yellow door's peeled paint familiar and comforting. The rain wouldn't let up, it seemed. That was fine by him.
Let it rain.
He got out, feeling the warm water seep through the openings of his jacket, invigorating his resolve.
Getting Baxter out of the trunk and carrying him to the slab had been as easy as bringing in groceries.
He took the hoodie and shirt off his back, curling his lip at the patches of tattoos along his torso, and secured the leather straps. Clamping the neck restraint closed and checking his handiwork, he nodded to himself.
This was clean. Baxter would not break free, no matter how hard he tugged at his restraints.
He left the man, checking his watch, noting he had at least an hour and a half before he would begin to wake. The motion detected lights would trigger when Baxter flailed about, and Mark would begin the game.
So now he waited.
He took post at his vantage point, behind the door with the peephole, sitting on an upturned eight gallon bucket and leaned against the wall. Exhaustion seeped through his bones and made his eyelids heavy.
When was the last time he slept?
Days? It seemed so.
He rarely slept anymore. He hadn't been able to drift naturally since she died. Only heavy drinking brought him waking in his bed, not remembering how he got there.
As soon as Baxter was dealt with, he'd return to this self medication. He'd reward himself for his hard work.
He closed his eyes, thinking only of Angie. He couldn't linger on happy memories of her. They only tightened his throat. So he held onto the night he found her, throat slashed in her bed. Anger boiled in his chest and he held onto it with gratitude, knowing soon all this hate would blossom into satisfaction when the pendulum would slice through Baxter's guts and spill his blood for all this pain he had caused.
The lights flashed on. He heard a gasp and metallic fumbling in the room. He opened his eyes, surprised at how fast the time had gone.
"GAHHHUHH!"
He sneered as he silently got to his feet. He took out the small remote from his pocket and turned on the television, squinting through the peephole.
Trapped and wriggling, panting and looking terrified, Seth Baxter froze when the TV flashed to the edited footage Mark had prepared from copies of the current collection of Jigsaw tapes he had pilfered in the past months.
"Hello, Seth," his own voice, distorted to that raspy whisper, brought chills up his neck. "I want to play a game. Right now, you are feeling is the same feeling you have bestowed upon others. But now-,"
"It is onto you," he mouthed softly, lip syncing to his own recording, smiling.
"No!" Seth gasped.
"Some may call this karma. I call this justice. Now you served five years on what should have been a life sentence for murder. A technicality gave you freedom. But it didn't give you an understanding of the impact of taking a life. Today, I give you true freedom."
"NOO!"
"In thirty seconds, the pendulum will drop far enough to touch your body. Within sixty seconds it will cut you in half. To avoid the pendulum, all you have to do is destroy the things that have killed. Your hands."
Seeing Baxter lift his hands, emotion twisting his face and wetting his eyes, was a beautiful sight.
He wondered if he would put them in between the pressure plates or would he truly accept his fate with the pendulum.
Mark already knew it was likely he would try to survive.
"Make your choice."
The clock began ticking.
The motor revved up and the pendulum dropped, whooshing over Baxter's stomach.
"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.
This infuriated Mark but he gritted his teeth and remained patient. He waited this far. He could wait another sixty seconds.
The thunderous clang of the pendulum lowering its first interval and Baxter's horrified gasps were a reward for his self restraint.
Baxter pulled and looked around, a wounded rat in a glue trap. After vain attempts to break free from the straps and chains, he finally put his hands in the crushers.
At first he flinched away.
But the next lowering and the constant whoosh of the blade made Baxter finally oblige and press the switches to compress his hands.
The crunch and wet splat of gore followed by the pained yell filled Mark with triumph. Suffer.
Baxter pulled his crushed hands free, trying to pull his collar off. When it didn't and the realization widened his eyes, it was finally time.
The first slice was quick and without any notable sound besides pained screams.
The second slash and his belly ripped open to show the tubes of intestines glisten cherry red under the lights. Tearing flesh had the sound of wet cardboard ripping.
The third slash and Baxter was now in two pieces. A clump of his guts flung across the room.
Sixty seconds, gone in an instant.
It felt far too short.
Baxter was dying, his head turned to look right at him. They locked eyes and a defeated understanding darkened in his pale face.
"I did what I was supposed to do," he whispered in weak confusion before he jerked and let out his final rattling breath.
The pendulum slowed, its job done, now allowed to rest.
Mark went to the room, looking down at his handiwork. He had seen plenty of dead bodies in his life. But unlike the usual twist of pity when gazing at a victim, he felt a cool detachment as if he was browsing meat at a butcher's shop.
He took his serrated knife, Angie's gift, and carved the jigsaw puzzle piece along the body's skin and peeling it out of his flesh.
He was still conflicted, knowing he should dispose of it properly, but wanting to keep it as a souvenir to remember this moment.
Angelina can now rest in peace.
"And you can burn in hell," he spoke to Baxter's empty eyes.
Peter Strahm
Stepping off the plane, he could feel the dry heat of California as he walked up the gate tunnel and into the airport. He sighed in relief, thankful for air conditioning and being in a more open space.
Flying these days was brutal. It was bad enough that security had exploded and new restrictions that didn't make sense were imposed, but he also ended up with a middle seat with a broken backrest, the very last spot available for the next flight to San Diego.
His lower back was killing him. But his spirits were high.
Will had called him, her voice desperate. "I could really use a friendly face right now. I'll explain when you get here." He had plenty of time to take off. And his face could be downright cuddly when needed.
Lindsay, from Allison, had informed him that Will's relationship with her immediate family was complicated. It was hinted she would benefit with a grounded companion while coping with the multitude of emotions.
He would withhold the analytics, wanting more than anything for this opportunity to bloom into something they both wanted. He was worried for her, it sounded like she was having a terrible time.
She was currently at the hospital. He waited in line for a rental car, feeling impatient but keeping his frustration down. He would see her, sooner than later.
He was given an old Honda Civic, the cruise control not working, but he didn't care.
Traffic was backed up miles and slow but it didn't annoy him.
Because when he pulled up to the hospital parking lot and saw Will sitting on a bench, clasping her knees to her chest, while balancing a cigarette in between her fingers, he felt a pleasant tickling in his chest.
He got out, walking to her with a warm smile. "Hey, Will."
She looked up at him, forcing a smile back. He saw it in her eyes. She was hurting. "Thanks for coming, Pete."
He sat on the bench beside her, the sharp acrid smell stinging his nose but he didn't complain.
She looked tired. Bags under her eyes, lines cutting her forehead and the corners of her mouth. "Have you had lunch?"
She shrugged. "No."
He waited a beat. "Want to grab something? I'm starving."
She looked at him with a hopeful glimmer. "Yeah. Dad's sleeping and Bram needed to take care of things. I'm down to get out of here."
"Any good spots?"
She smirked. "This is San Diego, Pete, the real question is, what are you hungry for?"
"I hear fish tacos here are to die for."
"You got that right. Come on, I'll drive." She disposed of her cigarette and led him to her rental, a Dodge Charger.
"They gave you a muscle car?" He asked, bewildered and envious.
She laughed, the sound a beautiful thing. "Yeah, I lucked out."
He had only experienced Will drive once, but as she sped across lanes and dodged cars, he held on for dear life, wondering what her more reckless use of the steering wheel meant. He kept his teeth clenched and thoughts to himself, though.
"How was your flight?"
"Fine," he lied, "the peanuts were gross."
She snickered again. "You eat those?"
"I don't turn down free food."
"Fair."
She soared across the pavement, taking them across a tall bridge that overlooked grand Navy warships, yachts, and a cruiseliner.
"The views were beautiful here."
"They are," she agreed. "And the weather is perfect. I almost miss it here."
Almost. It was a baited statement and he could tell she was ready to open up to him. "So why not?"
"I left here with Frank. My brother still hasn't forgiven me. Which I get. And now that my father's awake, I can't keep running anymore."
"You felt like you were running before?"
She parked the car along a street downtown, where a tiny restaurant with loud corrido music blared from a corner speaker.
"Not to be so dramatic, but my whole life I've felt like I'm running from something. You know what I mean?"
She had said this in passing, leading the way into the restaurant and studying the menu board while he stared at her in alarm. He did not know what she meant, not personally. But he knew of a long list of conditions that could drive an urge for escape.
"Lunch is on me," he announced, "get as much as you want."
"Thanks. What are you having?"
"Fish tacos, of course," he tried to stay jovial. "You?"
"The Cali-burrito, missed those back east."
They got their food and sat outside, the warm sun kissing their shoulders and brought out the rose-gold in her hair.
"So I have another favor to ask."
"Sure," he said before taking bites, watching her.
"Come with me when I visit my father." She keeps calling him 'father', as if trying to keep distance. "And maybe bring up a reason for me to leave next week. I said I'd stay for a while, but I just can't. But I can't just go and tell them that. So if you can mention a case, hell, the Jigsaw case, that would be so helpful."
It was a silly thing to ask. Surprisingly non-confrontational, which he did not think typical of her. But he wouldn't judge. "If that's what you think is best, sure."
Relief relaxed her shoulders. She put a hand on his, squeezing it briefly before releasing. "Thank you."
Her hand left a buzzing sensation on his skin. He cleared his throat. "Anytime." He took this as a good sign. "May I ask why?"
The narrowing of her eyes answered him but she let in a deep breath. "I just can't face him right now. It's hard to explain."
"Maybe I can help make it easy," he prompted, curious and eager.
They got their food and sat outside, looking out at the street where people went about their lives with smiles and no worry.
"Did I ever tell you why I became a cop?"
"No, you haven't."
"When I was fourteen, home intruders broke in. My father stood up to them. I hid." She spoke matter-of-fact and monotone, as if reading a newspaper. "Bram was a baby. I remember that day. I don't remember his face anymore. But I remember his voice. He had come into the room I'd been hiding in, digging through drawers. He hadn't even bothered to wear a mask. It makes sense now, but at the time I didn't think about why that was. He lft the room. And I heard my mother scream. And the gun shots. My father yelling. My mother not. Bram, crying in the other room." She didn't touch her food and ran her fingers through her hair, eyes downcast. "I became a cop because I wanted to catch the bastard. I thought I could do it." And then her face twisted, her grief muscles twitching.
He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it comfortingly. "What happened next?"
"The case went cold. By the time I was old enough to join the force, politics kept me from it. I tried to fight them but they had assigned it to other investigators. Lazy pricks. Said I was too emotionally invested and to let them handle it. And then I met Frank. And just let it go. I had other things to worry about after that. And I let it all distract me."
"Can you continue to let it go?"
"Not when my dad's awake. I just can't now, right? He needs to know the guy that did this is locked away for good." She was somber. "But what can I do now? It's been decades. I barely remember anything. And I don't know if I could just take time off and investigate solo, you know? I didn't keep many lasting connections here in San Diego."
"But you do want to investigate it?"
She blinked, nodded. "Yeah. I do."
He nodded, his mind listing the various things that would need to get done. He could reach out to San Diego PD, offer FBI resources in exchange for access to the investigation. And he could recommend Will to one of the programs they had where they offered temp work with her department. "I can help."
The tears brimming her eyes faded away. "I knew I could count on you."
His heart skipped a beat. "Don't you forget it."
Wilhelmina Maddox
"Hi, Angie," Will brushed the stray leaves and dirt off of her tombstone. She replaced the wilted bouquet with fresh angelonias and laurels, pushing stray blades of grass from blocking her name. "Sorry I haven't visited in a while."
She hesitated, as if she was really there. "You probably already know, but Mark and I broke up." No longer did tear dew her eyes when she dwelled on this. "I'm sorry, I couldn't make this work. And I'm more sorry that I let Baxter out of prison. You didn't deserve that." Now the salt flowed down her cheeks and she wiped at them and looked away, admiring the clouds above. "I just hope that you are in a better place." Her voice broke. "You and Peter. I don't think Mark wants me in his life anymore and I need to respect that. I know you'll look after him. So I'm not worried." Her face flushed with guilt.
Like everything else, she chose to let things go.
Every time she crossed paths with Mark, he looked through her. He came to work, looking pristine and well kept. But he had returned to the days when he was a loner. Only when a new Jigsaw case appeared, had he socialized with their colleagues, though he continued to pretend she didn't exist.
And now that her father was awake, Bram was exhausted with being the only one there for her family. Things needed to change. She needed a change.
She wanted to be a better person than she was.
She stood over the bones of one of her closest friends, Angelina's very memory forever tainted by her own failures.
She could follow Mark and drink her pain to oblivion. Push everyone away.
But I'm not a quitter, damn it. I'm tired of quitting.
Yet she had to quit Mark. She had to, because he had quit her first.
She was so tired of feeling so damn lonely.
"I know I don't deserve forgiveness over Seth Baxter. But I hope you can forgive me for letting Mark go." She sniffled and turned away.
Mark Hoffman stood, watching. She flinched back and gasped, his presence like that of a phantom's.
"I didn't know you were back."
"Landed this morning," she blinked quickly and shrugged, eyes downcast while her cheeks burned. How much had he heard?
"How's your father?"
This sudden interest, she had not expected. "He's well."
"I thought it was the groundskeeper who maintained their graves."
She shrugged and the shrill ring of her phone made her sigh in relief. "I got to take this. Bye." She wasn't sure when she'd come back. Probably not for a long time. She left him there, feeling his eyes follow her.
While walking to her car, she answered. It was Ally.
"Hey," she was about to explain her long lunch break.
"I need you southside. There's another Jigsaw death." There was a prickle in her words.
She sighed. "I'm on the way."
"Will, first, listen. Are you sitting down?"
"Yes?" Now fear's icy grip squeezed her throat. "Do we know the victim?"
"It's Seth Baxter."
She stared out the windshield to an old sycamore tree where half the branches were dead and rotting. "What?"
"Seth Baxter. Looks like Jigsaw liked Ange's cooking." The misplaced humor and practical glee caught Will off guard. Ally sounded almost happy.
She covered her mouth and began to cry all over again. She should have maintained her composure. She shouldn't have felt the emotions she did. Relief. Hope. She found herself glancing at Mark's back in the distance as he looked down to the tombstones.
"Thank God."
