“I mean, I’m from Boise, but we both live in Twin,” I said.
“The sleds are pretty simple.” He showed us how to turn the snowmobile on, hit the gas, brake, and change gears. “Eco mode will get you up to forty-five or so.”
“Miles an hour?” I said. Jesus, Mary, and Joan Rivers, these things could fly.
“Yep. But if you really want to rip, you can switch it into Sport mode.”
“I’m sure Eco mode will be fine,” I said primly. I didn’t intend to go wild.
For a second, I worried I wouldn’t be able to get my helmet on without dislodging my wig, but I managed. Once I’d swung my leg over the beast, Layna climbed on behind me. When I squeezed the throttle gingerly, the snow machine jolted forward and Layna let out a happy shriek.
Soon we were flying along Warren Wagon Road under blue skies, surrounded by the vast expanse of Payette National Forest. I’d only been on the road in the summer, when my mom would drive us to Burgdorf. Unplowed in winter, the thoroughfare transformed into a snowmobile highway. Fresh powder piled high on every branch and needle of every ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. In Boise, I longed for LA—warm weather, relentless sunshine, palm trees, the sense of being in the middle of everything that mattered. But even I had to admit there was nothing in SoCal quite like this.
“Faster, pussycat, faster!” Layna yelled in my ear. I pushed on thegas and the speedometer needle crept up to thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five. “Take it out of Eco mode!”
“No way!” I shouted. We were on track to get to the hot springs early. We didnotneed to go that fast.
After an hour, I spotted the gate up ahead, beyond which a snow-packed lane led to the cluster of historic log cabins built around a rising cloud of steam. I’d never witnessed this lonely, snowbound version of Burgdorf. I felt sad my mom never had a chance to see it like this.
A tight U-turn had the snowmobile parked with its nose facing back toward Warren Wagon Road. Layna and I tucked our wallets and phones into the console, not wanting anything on us by which Baylee might discern our true identities. Layna grabbed her bear spray.
When I pulled off my helmet, my wig came off with it, but Layna helped me wrench it back on. We both donned oversized sunglasses to hide as much of our faces as possible.
“It’s not too late for us to hightail it out of here,” I said.
“No way,” Layna said. “You need that SIM card. Besides, I’m not leaving here without a soak.”
I glanced at my watch—it was twelve thirty, and we were supposed to knock on the door of Baylee’s cabin at one. We crunched past two battered old snowmobiles parked front to end like cars on a train. The front office attendant waved us on in to the hot springs.
The fifteen log cabins, built in a haphazard semicircle in the late 1800s, didn’t have running water or electricity and could be rented for a couple of days at a time. Cabin Nine sat about a hundred yards from the pool edge. The red bathing suit hanging on the line made it easy to spot. In a wooden hut markedDressing Room, Layna and I stripped out of our snowmobile suits next to a wood-burning stove. We’d both worn bikinis underneath. Layna yelped as we made our way across freezing stepping stones to the steaming rectangular pool. A relaxed-looking old guy floated on his back and a couple kissed in one aqueous corner. Otherwise the pool was all ours.
“I wish I could have you take my photo for the Gram,” Layna said. “This place would inspire FOMO in anyone.”
As I lowered my freezing body into the steaming-hot water, I groaned. I’d forgotten how amazing this place was. It really did beat anything I’d ever done on a Saturday in LA. “If we weren’t here to secure evidence proving I didn’t commit murder, I would feel so relaxed.”
“Except I kind of like that that’s why we’re here,” Layna admitted. “You know, all those years when I was playing supportive wifey to the douchebag, I didn’t realize it, but I think this was the woman I wanted to become. I mean, I’m finally doing it. I’m finally investigating a murder.”
“I get it,” I said. How to explain it, even to myself? Being out here in the wilderness somehow felt better than just being a grief-stricken wreck. “Should we practice what we’re going to say to Baylee?”
“We’ll say Connor sent us,” Layna said. “He was embarrassed to tell her, but he’s too scared of Errol to come. He wants her to send her smashed phone and plans for Day of the Rope with us.”
“What about the grenades?” I said.
“We take them and maybe ditch them later?” Layna said. “We can play that by ear.”
We were quiet for what felt like a long time. The steam rising around us, clouds rolling in, no kids around, the tips of our wig hair trailing in the water. I couldn’t even find it in me to be nervous anymore. I was in a snow-capped world of warm water. For once I was living in this very moment as it happened.
Layna looked down at her watch. “Looks like it’s go-time,” she said.
Twenty-Four
After the steaming waters, the frigid air felt good as we climbed the creaky steps of Cabin Nine in our bare feet. We figured we’d look less suspicious and entirely unthreatening in our wet swimsuits. Layna gestured I should knock, so I rapped my knuckles on the ancient wooden door.
“Baylee?” I called. “Are you in there?”
The door swung open and a stocky, big-eared guy grabbed us each by an arm and yanked. We stumbled inside and the door slammed behind us, lock clicking into place.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with iron-gray curls pooling at the base of his neck stood with his back to us, warming his hands at the wood-burning stove. He turned slowly to reveal a craggy face with acne scars and brows like overgrown cliffs. “Baylee’s not here,” he said.
