Twenty-Six
The Subaru’s heater blasted hot enough to roast a weenie. Still, my hands shook badly enough to make the steering wheel wobble. I drank a slug of gas station coffee to warm myself up from the inside.
As Layna and I had blazed along Warren Wagon Road on the stolen black Ski-Doo, four Valley County Sheriff’s Department snowmobiles roared by, lights flashing. But they didn’t even glance our way. Of course they didn’t—the officers were looking for two women in bikinis on a neon-yellow snowmobile.
Now darkness cloaked the canyon and the Subaru’s headlights cut through the spitting snowflakes as we drove along the Payette River. “What a mess,” I said. “Errol didn’t kill Connor. And I didn’t get Baylee’s SIM card. Poor Baylee. That finger. Jesus Christ.”
Layna didn’t respond so I snapped on the radio to drown out our still-chattering teeth. A local deejay let loose a relentless patter: “By next Saturday, get ready to leave your coats at home because it’ll be fifty-eight degrees in McCall! Sixty-eight in Boise! Those high temps should hold for several days.”
If I didn’t take drastic action, Connor’s corpse would be thawed out and rotting in my backyard in a week. “You heard what they said, right? That Connor is a rat. A narc. Not a federal agent. That’s good news.” But Layna said nothing. How long had it been since she’d spoken? “You okay?” I asked.
“Those guys—” she said. “That almost went so sideways.”
I risked a glance in her direction—she was shivering violently and staring straight ahead, glassy-eyed. “Except you saved us,” I said,desperate to bring her back to the present. “Swinging that hot pan like aLemonade-era Beyoncé with a baseball bat.” I was a solo mom. And I’d chosen to do something I thought was low risk. But it hadn’t been. Not at all.
“That was a woman’s finger,” Layna said. “I’m out. I can’t. No more of this for me.” For an instant, the Subaru’s back tires lost their hold and we skidded toward the river. But rubber gripped pavement again before we flew off the road and into the icy water.
“Jesus,” I said. I’d been the one texting Baylee from Connor’s phone. Or at least I thought I was texting Baylee. Actually I’d just confirmed her affair with Connor to Errol, who’d chopped off her finger in retribution. A lump of guilt sat in the pit of my stomach like a petrified double cheeseburger.
“That was too close,” Layna said, and she didn’t mean the Subaru’s veer toward the Payette. “And... and I can’t go through something like that again. I’ve got to tap out. This isn’t an adventure or me playing detective with no consequences. It’s real people getting hurt.” She scrabbled in her backpack, pulled out a spare bear spray, and stuck it in my glovebox, as if to do what she could to protect me. As if to rid herself of the whole situation.
“I understand,” I said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” I tried to sound brave. But I was terrified. Because Layna’s meaning was agonizingly clear. When it came to managing the nitty-gritty of corpses and white supremacists, and staying out of prison, I was on my own.
Twenty-Seven
When I finally stepped into my kitchen, I felt a tsunami of relief to have made it home alive. But as soon as I saw Emmylou, I realized my mistake. She wore a purple silk top with jeans, her hair upswept, lips painted red. A date outfit.
“Are you okay?” she cried. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I’m fine!” I said. “Totally fine.”
In real time, I watched her worry transform to molten rage. “You. Are. Two. And a half. Hours. Late. And. I missed. My date,” she fumed.
During my struggle to survive the afternoon, Emmylou’s plans to seeFunny Girlat the Egyptian Theatre with Oat Willimena had not been top of mind.
“You didn’t even text!” Emmylou said. “And that g-damn dog!” She pointed an accusing finger toward her favorite faux-fur-lined snow boots, which lay by the door. Little Sister had chewed the left one into a slobbery lump.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really messed up. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
“And where the hell have you been?” She gestured at my stolen snowmobile suit. “Obviously not at a baby shower!”
“I’m doing the very best I can to handle a really, really stressful time,” I said, my voice cracking with exhaustion. “I can’t tell you what I needed to do in McCall. But please, please believe it was important. I messed up. Big time. And I apologize. Truly. I know you have your own life. I know you have your own things you need to do.”
The cloud of anger around Emmylou dropped like a curtain, revealing raw, aching disappointment.
“It’s okay, toots,” she said. “I was just worried. And so excited to go on a real date.”
Somehow this made me feel even worse. “You know what? It’s only eight. What if you texted Oat Willimena? Tell her I finally made it home. Ask her if she’d want to go to the Modern with you for a drink. You could maybe even get some dinner?”
“It’s too late. She probably already ate.”
“But you could ask? Maybe split a piece of cake or something?”
“I do like their chocolate torte,” Emmylou conceded.
Blessedly, Oat Willimena texted back almost instantly that the Modern had the best old fashioneds she’d ever had and she’d be ready in five. Once Emmylou was out the door (wearing a cute pair of white Sorel boots I gifted her from my mom’s closet), I peeked in at the twins, who slept on the floor in an improvised fort, Little Sister between them. They were alive. I was alive. I’d made it back home to them unharmed. But barely. That was all too close.
A text notice had come in to Connor’s phone:A quick Cricket reminder! Your month of Cricket service is up in less than forty-eight hours. To continue your service, please make your payment of $40 before 4 PM Mountain Time Monday.
