Nineteen

An hour later, exhausted by a prolonged argument with someone who wasn’t there, an immense weariness pinned her to the bed. Lola rolled onto the floor, willing the fall to jolt energy back into her bones. No dice.

She crawled the few feet into the bathroom, reached for the sink, hauled herself up, retrieved one of her newly purchased pills from her Dopp kit, placed it on her tongue, and headed back into the too-big, too-empty bed.

Make decisions.

The words came unbidden, almost as though Charlie were in the room. In his role as sheriff, he occasionally got pulled into search and rescue operations—tourists unprepared for Montana’s mercurial weather changes, hunters who got lost in the excitement of tracking an elk, kids separated from their parents on a group outing. Most of those people survived. Some didn’t.

The difference, Charlie said, came down to two things: a healthy dose of luck and a person’s own actions. “The ones who panic almost never make it. You can see where they’ve wandered all over the place instead of staying in one spot where somebody could find them. They lose body heat. They hyperventilate and get lightheaded and can’t think straight.”

“And the ones who do?”

“They make decisions. They don’t let their fears spiral out of control. They say, ‘First, I’ll do this one thing. Then I’ll do one more thing. Then I’ll do the next thing.’ They make one small decision after another, rather than looking at the whole overwhelming picture, which is what makes people lose their damn minds and do stupid things.”

Lola was on the verge of losing her own damn mind. Thoughts skittered around in her brain like drops of water flicked into a cast-iron pan over a high flame.

A bitter taste fizzed against her tongue. The pill. She’d forgotten about it. She spat it into her palm. There. That was one decision. She needed to be clear-headed for whatever came next. Which was to talk with Malachi, a need grown even more urgent after the attack on the cop. Another decision.

She didn’t dare go back to the park to find him. Decision number three—an easy one.

School, maybe. Linger outside, wait for him after classes. She tapped her iPad and googled high schools in Salt Lake, relief in the familiar moves. Malachi probably went to the school closest to his neighborhood. She reached for her notebook and pen, ready to jot down an address. A photo flashed on the laptop screen. She groaned. Once again, she’d forgotten the implications of working in a big city. Salt Lake’s high schools, whether the crenellated stone piles dating to the previous century or low-slung modern varieties, were huge. No matter which school was his, each offered a wealth of doors from which Malachi might leave. He might drive his own car, or ride with friends. He might take a school bus or a city bus or ride his bike or walk. Her chances of “accidentally” bumping into him at school were minuscule.

She shoved the notebook away from her. A folded pamphlet peeked from its pages. She pulled it out. Raised it to her lips for a big fat kiss. It was the hockey schedule that Donovan Munro had pushed upon her. Malachi would almost certainly be at the Friday night game, claiming what he’d imagined to be his rightful spot as center in Frank’s absence.

The journalism gods had delivered up Tynslee. Lola beseeched them yet again. “Let Malachi be there—and let him talk to me—and I promise I won’t call his dad an asshole anymore. Not to his face and not even behind his back.”

There. She’d made her decisions. She rewarded herself with the pill, partially dissolved, warm from her palm, and lay back. Oh, Charlie. Her agony—kept at bay for a few hours thanks to the distraction of assault, both her own and that of the police officer—fell upon her with a great hunger, so savage that it hurt to breathe. She willed the pill to work faster. Which it did, finally, just enough.

It was like low tide, she thought, harkening to the Chesapeake Bay excursions of her Maryland childhood. The waves still pounded the shore, but farther away each time, leaving the sand smooth and firm, the sort of surface you could trust, not like the churning, sucking shoals that would be stirred up when the tide rolled back in again. Lola’s breaths came long and shallow. Her eyelids drooped.

The phone buzzed in her ear.

“Damn Munro.” She hoped she hadn’t clicked the “on” button while she was still speaking. At least she hadn’t called him an asshole. She congratulated herself for keeping her promise to the journalism gods.

“What? Maybe I have the wrong number?”

Not Munro. A female voice. Lola held the phone before her face. The numbers and letters blurred and danced. She wasn’t sure she believed what they were trying to tell her.

“Tynslee?”

“Miss Wicks. Are you all right? You sound funny. Did I wake you?”

“I’m fine.” Lola sought safety in the lie. “Just sleepy.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll call back later.”

“No! No! I wasn’t really asleep. Just dozing.” She waited, both for Tynslee to declare intention and because she didn’t trust her voice.

“I thought about what you said. About how maybe you could help me.”

“Yes?” That much, at least, sounded okay.

“Is there any way we could talk again? Someplace that wouldn’t be obvious?”

Lola still had a bit longer to think before the pill fully kicked in. The journalism gods took stock and stared it down.

“Of course. Think you could handle a hockey game?”

She regretted the words almost as soon as they came out of her mouth. Of course Tynslee couldn’t face a hockey game. Her boyfriend had been the team’s star. Not to mention the fact that she had yet to bury her mother. How would it look if she showed up for a night of lighthearted fun? Lola mumbled as much, along with an apology. But Tynslee cut her off.

“You’re right. Even if I could go to the game, I don’t want to. But I need to get out of this house. I’ll ask my dad. Maybe I can meet you outside the game.”

Lola looked at the phone and thought that surely the gods were setting her up for some sort of spectacular fall. She stuttered something about the funeral.

“It’s tomorrow. The game’s not until the day after. You’re coming to the funeral, right?”

Damn straight Lola was going to the funeral, one of the richest sources of material for any reporter writing about a newsworthy death, especially if the death in question was the sort of thing resulting in “no comments” and firmly closed doors. No matter how tight-lipped people became at the sight of a reporter, they blabbed at length in eulogies, oblivious to the person in the back row surreptitiously taking notes. Lola reminded herself to thank Jan for urging her to bring a dress, and for the fact that the dress in question was black.

The one she’d worn to Charlie’s funeral.

She pushed the thought away with a quick mental apology to Charlie. He, better than anyone, had understood her single-mindedness when it came to work.

“And please stay afterward. Someone’s going to have to help us eat all of those funeral potatoes. Wait—”

Lola heard a man’s voice.

“I have to go.” Tynslee clicked off.

Lola tossed the phone in the air and caught it, a quick celebration that an invitation by a family member—not just any family member but the daughter of the deceased—had just assured her of entree to the gathering of family and friends after the funeral itself. She’d almost certainly have it all to herself, other reporters probably barred.

For that split second, she forgot about Charlie. She forgot about the man in the park. She forgot about the poor cop. She forgot about everything other than the fact that, even if only for a little while, she was going to wholly own the story. And then the pill, its effects held at bay by her momentary elation, asserted itself and dragged her under.