“Yeah,” I say, to the river, to the morning, to no one.
She is not disappearing.
I’ll figure out the rest as I go.
Chapter 6
Lola
I make a list. This is what I do when things get complicated. It’s not a feelings list, not a pros and cons list, nothing that requires emotional literacy or the acknowledgment that I am currently experiencing something that could be classified as feelings. A facts list. Concrete, enumerable, actionable.
Facts:
One. I am wanted by law enforcement in three states for a bank heist I did not commit.
Two. My former best friend, Amber O’Connor, who I have known since we were nine years old and who I apparently did not know at all, has framed me with what sounds, from the fragments I’ve managed to piece together from news alerts on a burner phone, likegenuinely impressive thoroughness.
Three. I have approximately four hundred dollars in cash, a ‘borrowed’ car with a slow leak in the rear left tire, and no ID that I’m comfortable showing to anyone with a badge.
Four. I am in a small town in the middle of nowhere that has, inexplicably, four of the most compelling men I have ever encountered in my life, all of whom appear to be operating as a unit and directing that unit’s attention at me with a focus that I find —
I cross out four.
Actionable items:
The partial bond. Hound Jack until he finds a solution to get rid of it. Ignore it at all times and certainly don’t make it stronger.
Money. I need more of it, and I need it in cash, and I need it from a source that doesn’t require paperwork or ID because the last thing I need is my name in any system anywhere.
The carnival.
I think about this for approximately ten minutes while sitting on the edge of Doris Harrow’s very reasonable guest bed, looking at my shoes, doing the arithmetic. A carnival this size needs labor. Not skilled labor, not documented labor. Bodies, willing and able to carry things and run stalls and smile at the public for hours at a stretch. Cash in hand, no questions if you don’t make them ask questions.
It is a good plan.
It is a good plan that involves staying in Sweetwater Valley longer than forty-eight hours, which I have told myself I’m not doing, which I am apparently doing anyway, and I am going to make peace with this contradiction by labeling itstrategic flexibilityand moving on.
I put my shoes on and go find whoever’s hiring carnival labor.
It turns out to be Tristan.
Of course it’s Tristan. Tristan, who makes extraordinary eggs and has forearms that I am not thinking about and who looked at me this morning like I was something he was quietly pleased to have found. Which is an expression no one has directed at me in long enough that I don’t have a calibrated response to it.
He’s at the carnival grounds when I get there, late-morning, directing two teenagers in the assembly of what will clearly be a substantial food operation. Burners, a prep table, containers that suggest scale. He spots me before I get close, which should feel surveillance-adjacent but somehow doesn’t. He raises a hand in greeting like he expected me back and isn’t making a thing of it.
“Lola,” he says. “Eggs were okay?”
“The eggs were excellent and you know it.”
His mouth does that attractive curve. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard the carnival pays workers cash in hand.”
He tilts his head, a small assessment. “It can. What are you looking to do?”
“Whatever needs doing. I’m not precious about it.”
He looks at me for a moment. Not the threat-assessment look that Archer does, not the everything-is-interesting look that Jack does. Tristan’s look is quieter than both of those. More patient. Like he’s reading something that requires good light and he’s willing to wait for it.
