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She thought she might throw up and stepped through the screen door to the dry backyard and stared up at the sliver of the moon as a bat darted past, nearly invisible in the night, the whisper of his wings audible over the sound of a train on faraway tracks.
The thought of staying another second was out of the question, and the money she’d hidden in her suitcase was still there. She could make it. She’d just have to rethink what she was planning, tighten her belt.
So who had stolen her money?
As a warm breeze ruffled her hair, she thought back to the past few weeks. Hadn’t it been about a month ago when Jensen, turning sixteen, had put new wheels on the old truck Uncle Milo had bought for him? And he’d somehow outfitted the same truck with a “sick” stereo system with speakers that could be heard from two blocks away.
She remembered his father asking Jensen how he’d paid for the stereo, tires, and rims. Jensen hadn’t missed a beat, reporting that he’d worked for a friend’s dad in a winery, had been paid under the table, and he got a “great” deal on the equipment. Uncle Milo hadn’t questioned him again.
But there was something in the way Jensen told the story, how his gaze slid away from his father to land on Remmi, that suggested he was lying. At the time, Remmi had thought he was just avoiding his father’s uncompromising stare. Now she realized Jensen had been silently gloating, knowing she’d hidden the money, happy that he had one over on her.
“Prick,” she’d whispered between clenched teeth as the bat swooped by again. Her fingers had curled into fists, and she wanted to wring Jensen’s thick male neck and wipe that knowing smirk off his face. Lying thief!
It was all she could do not to run into the room he shared with Harley and confront him. But he’d just lie. And no one would believe her, even with the evidence of the shiny mag wheels on his beater of a car. And then there would be all sorts of questions about how she’d gotten the money and if she had any more. And Jensen would just end up silently laughing at her. She thought of keying his damned car, slashing those huge monster tires, but she didn’t want to do anything to mess up her escape, so she slowly counted to ten as the bat’s wings whirred, then kept going to twenty, then thirty, and finally stopped at seventy-five.
Jensen wasn’t worth the trouble.
With the money that was left in her suitcase and bank account, she’d departed the Gibbses’ home and never returned. She’d left a note explaining that she was an adult and was leaving and that she would let Aunt Vera know when she’d settled somewhere. That was a lie, as it turned out, for she never bothered to contact any of them again.
She’d once overheard Vera say, in a conversation with her friend, Rebecca, the minister’s wife, that Remmi was “an ungrateful wretch.” Vera had been in a foul mood that day, and Remmi hadn’t done a good enough job with the laundry. She had just scolded Remmi, and Remmi had told her, “Oh, bite me!” which hadn’t endeared her to the family.
Another time, she remembered Aunt Vera confiding again to Rebecca that her niece was “a poor, misguided thing,” which had made Remmi’s blood boil, considering the fact that her loser cousins were, for all intents and purposes, juvenile delinquents whose grades were always hovering just above failure. Nonetheless, Vera, whose voice had been low, a conspiring whisper, had added meanly, “Well, you know, what can I tell you? Remmi’s mother, you know, Edwina? Or Didi Storm?” Remmi had been in the other room, but in her mind’s eye she could see Vera making air quotes around her mother’s name. Angry, she almost rounded the corner to confront her, but before she completely worked up her nerve, she heard Vera go on. “You already know Edie was a loose woman, God rest her soul, and, of course, the apple never falls far from the tree.”
Meaning Remmi—who hadn’t even really started dating at the time. She’d felt her blood pressure rise, and her hands had curled into fists.
“Thank goodness, my parents never really knew, though, of course, I’m sure they suspected. She did have that child without a husband, never named him, either. It about killed Mom and Dad. They were God-fearing Christians, let me tell you, and they would have been mortified, absolutely mortified if they knew half the things Edie did when she got to California and Vegas. There’s a reason they call it Sin City, you know, and Edie was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.”
“You’re a saint for taking her in,” Rebecca had responded.
“Well, it was the Christian thing to do. You would have done the same.”
Remmi had taken one step toward the kitchen when she heard the screen door bang against its frame, and then Milo’s voice filled the kitchen. “Hey, there, good-lookin’!”
“Oh, dear. Milo! I didn’t expect you ’til tomorrow or Friday,” Vera had cried, startled.
“Got the deal done early. It came together slick as can be. Three combines and five—count ’em, five—tractors to a dealer in Boise!” He sounded excited, and when Remmi gave up eavesdropping and walked into the kitchen, he was swinging his wife off her feet near the table where an open Bible and lesson plans were spread next to the salt, pepper, and napkin holder. Rebecca, whom Remmi called Mrs. Weber, was still seated, a glass of iced tea in one hand, her expression one of surprise as Uncle Milo set his wife onto the floor and Vera, rosy-cheeked, fanned herself with one hand.
He’d even tossed a rare smile Remmi’s way, then winked at his wife. “Big bonus for this one.” Cocking his head, he’d
added, “Tell ya what: Dress up. Let’s go out for dinner tonight! Just you and me. Remmi can be in charge of the boys.”
Oh, sure. Like they would do anything she suggested.
But Aunt Vera looked almost girlish for a second. “Okay!” she’d agreed, and Mrs. Weber had found her large bag and stuffed the lesson plans into it.
“You two have fun,” she’d said and bustled away.
The moment had passed for Remmi to mention her own upbringing and defend her mother, so she let it slide, but she never forgot the conversation.
Never.
CHAPTER 18
“So what have we got on Karen Upgarde?” Settler asked from behind the wheel of one of the department’s Crown Vics as she and Martinez drove to the Montmort Tower. The morning was gray and gloomy, clouds low enough to wisp around the higher buildings, the upper stories of the tower itself seeming to disappear. They parked on the street, as the valet was confused about what to do with a police vehicle and the hotel management did not want any signs of police presence on the premises. The brass had agreed, and Martinez found a spot within one block and nosed the Crown Vic into it.
“Nothing much more than we knew last night,” he’d told her as they climbed out, the chill of the day seeping through her raincoat. Threading their way through pedestrians hurrying in the opposite direction, they found a coffee shop adjacent to the Montmort. Though it was early November, the windows facing the street had been decorated with tiny Christmas lights. Inside, the small establishment smelled of roasted coffee. Settler and Martinez stepped into a line of customers that curved around small café tables, where a few patrons were sipping from steaming cups while reading their handheld devices. One older man actually had a newspaper spread in front of him, while a millennial with a man bun and thick-framed glasses worked a laptop in the corner. Christmas music played as background to the conversation, rattling silverware, and a hissing espresso machine. The “to order” line moved quickly, and within minutes, they were seated at a table in the back, near the hall to the restrooms, Martinez, as always with his back to the wall, watching the front windows and glass door.
She, too, had a view of the front door and the big windows, but also of the walkway to the back hallway. “When will we get the tox screen?”
