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“Never mind. It was just one of those odd Christmas displays. Inflatable. Kind of freaked me out. I’m okay.” The inside of the RAV4 seemed safe somehow, the dash lights glowing, the heater blowing warm air, the windows and doors locked tight.
Tate was no longer in the hospital scrubs, having changed into jeans, shirt and leather jacket. “Where to?” he asked.
“First my house.”
“The cops might be there.”
“I’m not running from the police.”
“You want to deal with them?”
“No, not yet.”
“And there could be reporters camping out.”
“I’m with a reporter,” she said dryly, and a corner of his lip twitched, showing the hint of a dimple beneath the scruff of beard shadow. His hair was mussed and when he cast her a glance, his eyes held a glint of amusement, as if he found the situation humorous or some grand caper.
“That you are, and you’re with the best.”
“Certainly the most humble.” Then she got serious again. “Look, I have to stop by the house. I’ll be quick. I need to check on my dog and grab some clothes.”
“Could be trouble,” he said.
“More trouble than I’m in now?”
He laughed. “No, probably not.”
“Probably not.” Folding her arms over her chest, she leaned back in the passenger seat and stared out the window.
“There’s a blanket in the back,” he said, and before she could argue he snagged a thin sleeping bag, dragging it over the console and dropping it into her lap while driving with one hand. Thankfully traffic was thin. Even so she still flinched when an oncoming vehicle hugged the center line. She was still twitchy from the accident, so recent, so violent.
“What do you know about the trucker?” she asked, tucking the sleeping bag under her chin and smelling a trace of wood smoke and must in its downy folds. “The guy who was driving the semi that jackknifed.” In her mind’s eye she saw the gigantic grill bearing down on her, heard the crackle of glass shattering, the crumpling of steel.
“That he’s in an ICU in Portland.”
“Will he be okay?”
He hesitated. “Unknown.”
“But maybe not,” she said quietly, and swiped at the passenger window where condensation had collected. Kara didn’t remember all the details of the horrific accident but felt the weight of another man’s life on her shoulders.
“Maybe not.” He was serious now, his face illuminated by the dash.
“God, how awful.” She swallowed hard against a tide of guilt. No matter what the reason, she should not have been driving so wildly, so out of control, so freaked by Margrove’s murder and Jonas in her back seat. If she would have forced herself to stay put as the police had suggested, that truck driver would be okay.
Or would he? What were the chances that you would be able to wait for the cops to arrive, Kara? Jonas was already in the back seat. He wouldn’t have allowed it. He would have demanded to be driven to the truck stop on the freeway or taken the Jeep himself.
She couldn’t let herself go down that dark, twisted path. Clearing her throat, she pointed at Tate’s iPad, still glowing on the dash. “What else do you know about the trucker? I figure you’ve already researched him.”
Tate slowed for a stop light, waited as cross traffic sped through the intersection. “His name is Sven Aaronsen. He lives in Boise. Owns two rigs, the one he was driving and another. He’s forty-seven, is divorced, a grown daughter who got married last year. Had a couple of busts, a domestic that was dropped nearly ten years ago and a DUI four years later.”
“And he’s still a truck driver?” she asked.
“Independent. As I said, he owns the company. One other driver.”
She felt sick inside. Deflated. Slumping against the passenger window, she said, “Take me to my house.”
“You sure? The police might be there.”
