I gave my father a halfhearted hug and then went back inside the hotel room to gather my children.
33
My father followed us to the car. After the kids climbed in, he told me to be careful. He started to say more, but the slamming of the car door interrupted him.
Leo had climbed out again, his voice shaky, his eyes wide as he asked, “Mom, why do you have a gun?”
That was an easy question to answer: I didn’t.
I leaned into the car and saw the weapon resting on the passenger’s seat. Next to it, a Post-it, though not a number this time. A word, written in all caps, in red ink: TODAY.
“Mom?”
My mouth went dry, more at the note than the weapon. “It’s not mine.”
My father, who had been watching our exit from several feet away, started toward us. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I asked him to stop.
“Dad, get your stuff.”
The edge of his mouth lifted at what I’d called him, but he climbed the stairs to his room without question.
Leo eyed the gun. The fingers on his right hand twitched, and I laid my hand on his arm. “Don’t.”
He took a step back. “I wasn’t going to.”
I arched an eyebrow but said nothing. I understood his impulse—to touch it, to confirm it was real, because how could it possibly be?
By the time Leo had noticed the weapon, Audrey had already climbed into the back seat. Now, curiosity drew her to her knees.
“Sit,” I said, firmly. When she did, I turned to Leo. “Watch your sister.”
Neck still prickling, I dropped to my knees beside the driver’s-side door. Crawling, I swept my fingers along the metal, probing crevices and bumps alike. As I searched, Leo’s stare burned the top of my head, and Audrey’s voice came at me equally hot, “Mommy?”
She threw open the back door, and it was only reflex that kept it from smacking me in the jaw. I pushed the door closed.
“Just a sec, Peanut.”
Near the back bumper, I found what I’d been looking for: a small rectangle of magnetized metal. As easily as I discovered it, I worried there were other GPS trackers better hidden.
Had Carver placed it there that first night, before I realized Sam was missing? Maybe later at the hospital, while I had been awaiting Leo’s MRI results? Or perhaps it was Helen who had planted the tracker while I was distracted by the sight of my husband’s blood. I thought of all the places I’d been, all the people I’d seen, and all I knew for certain was someone had tracked me to Zoe’s to start that fire, then to the hotel to plant that gun.
Then another thought struck me: Had I been tracked for months? Had Carver’s appearance near my home that first night been the random event I’d first believed it to be?
A strange number popped onto the caller ID of my phone. As I hit the connect button, I held my breath.
Zoe didn’t spare time for a greeting. “I’ve been talking to the police. Cassie—” Her voice broke, and she hesitated. When I pressed the phone more tightly against my ear, I caught the edge of what might have been a sob. “Perla’s dead.”
I placed my palm on the hood to steady myself.
“She was killed.”
That couldn’t be right. She’d been helping me. I’d just seen her. Only the night before.
I thought of the first time I had met Perla. She had been only five years older than Leo was now. So young then. So young still.
Then I realized there was no still.
“They found her body in her apartment late last night.”
Each detail was a gut punch. Then the significance of it hit me: my phone and my laptop had been in Perla’s possession. Either could’ve been used to track her to her apartment.
Perla was dead. Zoe hadn’t yet said how she’d been killed, but I saw the gun on my front seat and I knew. She had been shot to death, for no reason other than she had been helping me. Then the gun that had been used to kill her had been planted in my car. I felt sick. It was my fault Perla was dead, as surely as if the gun had been mine.
“Cassie, the police are asking why you left before the firefighters came. What time you got to my place. Whether Leo was with me while you were gone. Why would they be asking about Leo?”
I grabbed the gun from my car, removed the bullets—couldn’t chance a curious kid finding the weapon before the police—then wiped it all with the hem of my sweatshirt.
“Who found her?” I asked. Had she been killed before I had visited? And if so, where had the body been?
“What?”
I needed to know. To be sure. “Who found Perla’s—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the word body.
“The police found her. They got a tip.”
Of course they had. Just like they had been tipped to my presence inside the abandoned house—an intruder with a gun, Rico had said—and just like they had probably been tipped to the gun in my car. How much time did I have? Not much, I guessed. I was suddenly certain the news of Perla’s murder was the reason for Rico’s earlier distraction.
“I also overheard one of the officers mention the key you gave them. It matched Perla’s locks. And something about prints on a wrapper?”
Understanding seized me: I had been in Perla’s home. I had locked her door as I left. I had given the police her key. And I had turned over a wrapper that likely had on it only my fingerprints, or the fingerprints of my son. I had never seen the rock with the number three that Rico had mentioned, but I was willing to wager that it had been as carefully manufactured as the rest of it. Had the rock come from my own backyard? Had the paint come from our garage?
Suddenly, I remembered the text I’d received while Leo had been hospitalized: I know how you can be when you’re jealous. At the time, I had envisioned Brooklyn dead, with evidence planted on her body for the police to discover. Right idea, wrong person.
I tossed the gun, bullets, and tracker into a dumpster. “Whose phone are you using?”
“A neighbor’s. I didn’t think you’d want me using my own.”
“Get someplace safe.”
I gave her Leo’s number—I’d used my own burner to call Rico, and it would be easily traced. I powered down my phone—useless now—and took out the battery. I considered tossing it in the dumpster, too, but it seemed too valuable a resource to discard so easily.
Searching for the tracker, talking to Zoe, disposing of the gun—it had taken only a couple of minutes. But each second seemed a step closer to something horrible.
I motioned for my dad to get in the car. I couldn’t leave him behind after what had happened to Perla. We would have to abandon the car, but for now, we needed to get away from the hotel. Quickly.
I told my dad: “Leave your phone.”
He dropped it, stomped it, and kicked it across the asphalt. It skittered to a stop near the dumpster.
I pulled out of the parking lot just as I noticed the red and blue of a police cruiser’s light bar reflected on the hotel’s stuccoed walls.
I wasn’t running from the police. Not with the kids in the car. But that didn’t mean I had to make it easy for them. Though I planned on calling Rico—especially since I wouldn’t be able to make our appointment—I needed time to think.
I kept my foot light on the gas pedal and my eyes straight ahead as I pulled out of the lot, passing two police cruisers on their way in. I couldn’t be sure but, when I risked a sideways glance, I thought I saw one of the officers look in my direction. As soon as I hit the street, I turned left and pressed hard on the gas.
Okay, so maybe I was running from the police.
I ignored Audrey’s questions and my father’s panicked stare, my attention focused on two things: the road ahead of me and my rearview mirror.
I ended up at the convenience store pay phone I had used to call Helen the night before.
“Where are we going?” Audrey asked from the back seat.
I steadied my hands on the steering wheel as I
pulled over. “I’m going to have Grandpa call a friend of mine,” I said, though this wasn’t entirely true.
I glanced in the rearview mirror at my daughter’s face. Definitely close to cracking.
“Dad, I need to leave you here, with the kids.” I kept my voice light. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He didn’t ask. He had seen the tracker. He knew.
“Let me go instead.”
I smiled at him, even as I wished I could accept his offer. “No offense, Dad, but I’m faster than you are.”
But I wondered if I would be fast enough. What would be a safe enough distance away to ditch the car? And once I had, how many minutes would it take to run back to my family?
If the police were out looking for me, it wouldn’t matter. Even an Olympian couldn’t outrun a police car.
“I could be three cities away before your friend comes,” he said.
“I’m not letting you do that.”
“It wouldn’t—”
I interrupted. “You weren’t there six years ago. Be here now.”
It turned my stomach to say those words, but they ended all debate, as I had known they would. As Perla had said: Sometimes people are assholes.
Before I left, I gave my father instructions and a number I had long since memorized.
“He’ll help,” I said, feigning confidence.
Unless he wasn’t home.
Unless he was sleeping.
Unless he decided he didn’t want to risk arrest helping someone he barely knew.
As I drove away, searching for a good spot to abandon the car, I wondered if I was making a mistake trusting a man who earned his living by baking pot-laced edibles.
34
Daryl lived on a four-acre lot between Santa Rosa and Sebastopol. The home was small and in need of paint, but the pot garden beside it was well tended.
Lester lumbered up the gravel driveway to greet the car. Daryl’s braking took the Lab by surprise, and he bounced off the driver’s-side door like a pinball against a bumper. The cone around his neck kept his snout from being snubbed.
“Sorry, Doc,” Daryl said sheepishly. “I could’ve sworn I left him in his crate.”
“I’m glad he’s doing better. And thanks again for picking us up.”
“No problem, Doc.”
Daryl pulled the car alongside the front deck, killing the engine, and Audrey immediately snapped off her seat belt. She bounded out of the car with as much exuberance as Lester had shown ramming into it, all trauma temporarily forgotten. I wondered how long that would last.
Leo made no move to exit the car, so when my father climbed out, I whispered, “Watch them, okay? I need to talk to Daryl.”
He nodded but avoided my eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t want me to see the worry reflected there, or the hurt of what I’d said to him earlier.
Inside, Daryl’s living room wasn’t what I had expected. The floors were stained concrete, and an abstract print played off the gray tufted chair and a purple rug I suspected was wool. An open laptop sat on the simple ottoman that served as a table.
Daryl lowered himself onto the couch, which was covered in a geometric print and positioned next to a large seven-leafed plant. That last part I had expected. The marijuana scented the room with skunk.
“He’s male, but he’s beautiful, so I kept him,” Daryl said.
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the plant. I asked the obvious question, “Lester hasn’t tried to eat it?”
Daryl chuckled. “Once or twice.”
His frayed jeans and ripped shirt looked incongruous against the sofa.
“Nice place,” I said.
“I inherited the furniture from my sister when she died last year in a motorcycle accident,” he said. “She always had better taste than I did, and, unfortunately, a more reckless nature.”
This from the “pot entrepreneur.” “I didn’t realize you’d lost a sister. I’m sorry.”
“I think she would’ve liked the floors. A customer told me my old carpet dishonored my sister’s memory. Plus, it reeked of weed.”
Daryl crossed his legs, resting one flip-flopped foot on the opposite knee. “So, Doc, why’re you here?”
I had chosen Daryl because a pot dealer’s home wouldn’t be the obvious choice for my family’s refuge. Maybe for good reason.
“My husband’s missing, and a former patient who was helping me was shot to death.” I watched Daryl’s reaction to that second part. His face was stone, his eyes red, hooded orbs, so I told him the rest of it. I figured by letting us into his home, he’d earned the full story.
When I finished, Daryl uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Can I be straight up?” he asked.
“Can you be any other way?”
Daryl grinned. “Nah, not really,” he said. “I’ve only met Sam the once, but he seems like a standup guy. Besides, you’re hot. That doesn’t offend you, does it? Because you’re a doctor?”
“Depends on where you’re going with it.”
He nodded as if I had said something profound. “Anyway, so you’re hot, you’re smart, and you’ve saved Lester, even when I couldn’t pay.”
This was pretty much near always, but I didn’t say so. Lester was worth saving. “Not that I don’t love a compliment, or several of them in this case, but . . . ?”
“Why would he leave you?”
“For another woman.”
“Nah, I don’t buy that.”
“You don’t think he was having an affair?”
“Oh, no, he easily could’ve been, but even the woman who told you they’d hooked up didn’t think he’d leave, right? Besides, like I said, you’re hot.”
“So you’ve established.”
“And you’ve got kids and I’m guessing a decent paycheck.” Daryl looked sheepish. “Sorry again for not being able to cover Lester’s surgery, but since pot became legal, it’s harder to make ends meet, you know? I would sell my sister’s furniture, but it’s all I have left of her.”
“It’s fine, Daryl.”
“Anyway, I think you need to strip away all the bullshit and focus on what you know.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, and my face must’ve shown that, because he added, “What do you know to be true?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you were telling your story, you told me Sam was having an affair, but you don’t know that. You think that.”
“Based on evidence.”
“But you don’t know that.” He settled back on the couch. “There’s this guy I know, Jace, has a turtle named Turtle.”
“Clever.”
“Yeah, he’s stoned pretty much all the time,” said the man sitting next to a potted marijuana plant. “Turtle has unusual markings, on account of when he was little, he got clipped by a weed-whacker.”
I winced at that. “Poor Turtle.”
“Yeah, just missed one of his legs. Curious little bastard always where he shouldn’t be.”
“Like Lester.”
He did that profound nod again. “So Jace’s buddy Joe meets Turtle and insists the reptile is a reincarnation of his dead dad, because the dad’s initials are etched on Turtle’s back. He offers Jace a thousand dollars for Turtle.”
“I’m guessing Joe was high at the time?”
“He’s never not. Anyway, Jace insists the markings aren’t the dad’s initials but a palm tree, and they fight for hours over who’s right, and Joe leaves pissed off and vowing to take back his dead dad. Later that night, Jace notices Turtle’s gone.”
“Stolen?”
Daryl grinned. “See, that’s what Jace thought. He goes to Joe’s house, and Jace ends up heaving a huge rock through Joe’s front window. Gets carted away.”
“Arrested?”
“Carried out on a stretcher. It was a really big rock, and Jace threw out his back.
“So when Jace gets out of the hospital, Joe agrees to keep the cops out of
it, says he won’t even charge Jace for the broken window—if Jace gives him Turtle.”
“So Joe didn’t steal him after all.”
“Nah. Turns out Turtle got stuck in one of the bathroom cabinets. Like I said, curious little bastard.”
I got where Daryl was going with his story. “You’re saying Jace just assumed Joe took Turtle and could’ve saved himself a lot of hassle if he’d instead spent a few more minutes searching his house.”
“Exactly right.” Daryl laced his fingers and rested his chin there. “So—what do you know?”
I thought about that. Really thought about it.
“I know Sam disappeared while out trick-or-treating with Audrey.”
He nodded.
“I know he was suspended from work because of rumors he was having an affair with a student.”
He nodded, more vigorously this time. “What else?”
“He may have been having an affair.”
Daryl stopped nodding. “Nah. I mean, yeah, maybe he was. But what you know is there’s a photo, which someone messed with at least a little bit. You know that Sam’s friend thinks he was having an affair, and this woman—” he paused, giving me room to fill in her name.
“Brooklyn.”
“You know Brooklyn says she and Sam were hooking up. But the video’s the only undoctored, unbiased evidence you have, and it just proves they were tight. They could just as easily have been friends. Sam could’ve been helping this troubled girl—”
“Hannah. But she admitted she lied.”
He smiled at me, in that indulgent way he might if I were Audrey’s age. “Because liars wouldn’t trade more lies for cash.”
“True enough.”
“Anyway, maybe Sam was helping Hannah, he seems the kinda guy who would do that shit. So Brooklyn and Sam are friends who’re both concerned about this girl, and Brooklyn exaggerates the relationship. If Hannah’s lie was convincing enough to get Sam suspended, couldn’t Brooklyn be lying too? See . . . you don’t know. So focus on what you do.”
I thought of all the “facts” I’d taken for granted. Not just the affair. Sam’s blood on those plastic teeth. Sam’s jeans being used to set the fire at Zoe’s. Because of the texts and the surveillance equipment found in our home, I knew we were being watched, and whoever was watching could fake either of those details.
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