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Janine collapsed onto the chair and buried her face in her hands. Careful of the cat in her lap and the years between her and her friend, Sarah touched Janine’s arm, then scooted closer and slid her hand onto her old friend’s back.
Jeremy had been raced to the hospital in Whitefish, then flown to the trauma center in Seattle. He’d been in one hospital or another for the better part of the summer. And when Sarah had gone to visit him, they’d begun building a serious relationship. His parents hadn’t welcomed her, not at first. Not until they saw that their only son was determined to keep her close.
And no one ever said that Jeremy Carter lacked determination.
Lucas’s injuries had been
minor. So minor that people assumed he was drunk, the way it often seemed to happen—the passengers or the innocent occupants of the other vehicle bore the worst of the trauma while the drunk driver walked away with barely a scratch.
But he hadn’t been drunk, except maybe on anger and pride, and there had been no other vehicle. Just Jeremy’s little red sports car, a graduation gift from his parents, flipped on its top, Jeremy seriously injured and Michael Brown, sweet, playful Michael Brown, thrown across the highway and killed.
And the big cow moose dead, her calf standing beside her, bawling. A neighbor, George Hoyt, had taken charge of the calf until state wildlife officers could come for it.
Janine straightened, letting Sarah’s hand fall away, and sniffed back her tears. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to call the sheriff,” Sarah replied. “Like you should have. I still don’t get why you didn’t.”
Janine turned to face her, her words urgent. “Lucas was dead, and I didn’t see the gun. I was covered in blood, and I was not going to be the next person shot.” Her shoulders slumped. “Besides, the cops don’t believe women like me.”
Her simple statement was a gut punch. An echo of the past.
Maybe Montana hadn’t changed so much after all.
“The sheriff is my cousin, Leo,” Sarah said. “I’ll make him believe you.”
Janine lifted her chin a few degrees, then nodded. She’d moved to Deer Park in seventh grade with her mother, a waitress at the Blue Spruce. Town was small enough that rumors flew, and the kids all heard their parents talk about Sue Nielsen and her errant ways. Sarah and Holly had thrown a Halloween party at the house in town that year and Peggy McCaskill suggested Sarah invite Janine, saying “that girl needs a friend.” Becca Smalley and her beady-eyed buddies said if Janine came, they would stay home. “Too bad, so sad,” Sarah replied—they’d miss out on the fortune teller, the games, and her mother’s popcorn balls. After that, she and Janine had become fast friends. Janine had stayed in Deer Park for a few months after high school, then moved to Missoula herself, picking up restaurant work. The next year, they got an apartment together. Leo had been a couple of years ahead, but Sarah bet he’d remember Janine, too striking not to notice.
She pulled out her phone. “Cross your fingers for reception.”
“Mine’s dead,” Janine said, laying her phone on the table, the screen shattered. “It cracked when I dropped it, when I thought …”
“Thought what?”
“When I thought the killer saw me. I ran for the door, I tripped, it went flying. I grabbed it and got out of there, fast as I could.”
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t know. I think so. I don’t know.”
Sarah pushed a few buttons, but nothing happened. Her mother had said the landline was shut off, but hadn’t mentioned trouble with cell reception. Of course, her mother regularly ignored her cell phone, often for days. Sarah eased the cat onto the floor and stood. “Why don’t you hunt up some quilts or blankets while I try outside? It’s clear enough, I might get a signal without having to drive up to the highway. We’ll sleep on the couches tonight.”
“Sarah,” Janine said. “About Jeremy. I’m so sorry. I meant to call, or write, but …”
Sarah swallowed, her eyes stinging. When would her eyes stop stinging?
“He didn’t deserve to die so young,” Janine continued.
“No one does,” Sarah snapped. “Cancer doesn’t care how old you are or what you deserve.”
Two minutes later, she stood outside, her twill jacket with the belt and too many pockets zipped tight. She’d spoken too harshly, she knew. Part of the fallout of losing your husband at forty-seven. The therapist had said she might feel anger at the wrong things, say something she hadn’t intended to say. Might yearn for alone time, though she’d always welcomed company.
That’s why she was here. Where the unexpected presence of an old friend in need had changed her plans yet again.
“Focus,” she muttered, staring at her phone. Leo and his wife had come to Seattle for Jeremy’s funeral—the McCaskill clan had outnumbered the Carters—and he’d enveloped her in a hug meant to say that everything would be just fine. Even though she knew nothing would ever be fine. Leo had always been that way.
She trusted him. But that didn’t mean Janine would.
Two bars. She scrolled through her contacts, then punched CALL. “Go through, go through.” The body must have been found by now, by a secretary or partner. By a client, coming for an appointment. Or his wife, wondering where he was and why he didn’t answer his phone. Did Lucas Erickson have a wife?
