Forty-Two

She pulled out her new phone and texted Munro.

Mai missing.

Then it hit her: Melena.

She’d left her alone with Bryce and Galon, either one of whom might have had something to do with Sariah’s killing. That silly warning not to say anything about Mai. What woman didn’t share secrets with her husband? And what husband didn’t pass along secrets to his best friend? She’d been so wrapped up in her own confusion that she hadn’t adequately considered the consequences to Melena. How long had it been since she’d left Melena? An hour? Two?

But first, Mai. Lola’s hand hovered over the phone, forefinger resting on 9. She could press it, follow it up with the 1 and another 1. But even before she’d met Charlie, she’d known all about law enforcement’s skeptical attitude, too frequently justified, when grown people went missing, especially if nothing pointed to a crime.

She moved her finger away from the numbers, back to the letters, and texted Jan. Better safe than sorry, she thought. Might not be home soon after all.

In the time it took her to type, a flurry of messages from Munro arrived.

Who?

What’s going on?

Where r u?

And then, with a journalist’s instinct to fear the worst: Call cops.

Another slew of texts, these from Jan.

WTF?

Margaret expects you.

No way, Wicks.

Can’t believe you’d do this.

Don’t even bother coming back.

Lola thumbed Jan’s number, bracing for the explanation. But an explanation would take time she didn’t have. She clicked off, ran to the car, tossed the phone onto the dash, and turned the key in the ignition.

She peeled out of the parking lot, leaving rubber on the pavement, the phone sliding off the dash and ricocheting off the door onto the floor. Went full East Coast driver on the interstate, all the old skills back, full employment for horn and middle finger. Gave quick thanks for her cheap suburban digs as opposed to the fancy and farther-away downtown hotel. It took her all of ten minutes to get to Camellia, and that only because she glimpsed a cop car’s light bar ahead of her as she took the exit. She passed the cop, and the poor sucker who’d gotten caught, at a sedate twenty-five, foot quivering on the accelerator, stomping it as soon as the cop car was out of sight.

The car swung wide around the damnable curves of Camellia’s streets. The radio blared storm warnings. Be okay, she pleaded. Melena, so slight and whispery and dangerously disoriented by mourning. Her hulking, brooding husband. And Galon, not as physically intimidating as Bryce, but with a skier’s lithe fitness. Melena wouldn’t stand a chance against either of them.

Finally, the house. No sign of the black Suburban. Maybe the men were gone. Lola hesitated at the door. What if they weren’t?

“Lola?”

Melena came around a corner of the house, peeling off a pair of muddy work gloves. Probably covering plants or whatever you were supposed to do to protect them as bad weather approached. Even though she was sure Melena had told her that Bryce was the gardener. Which didn’t matter now.

“I—Melena, where’s Bryce?”

“He and Galon are on their way back to my sister’s house. Lola, are you all right?”

Relief nearly knocked Lola off her feet. She braced herself against the front door. “Melena, I think you’d better come with me. Right away.”

Melena tilted her head. “How mysterious! Where are we going? And, why? I need to clean up, of course. I’ve just been out turning the compost pile.”

“No time. Just come with me.” Lola cast a glance down the street, expecting to see the black Suburban headed her way, heedless to the niceties of a speed limit. How much time had she wasted due to the speed trap? How much was she wasting now? She took Melena’s elbow and steered her toward the car. “Please.”

Melena stopped in the middle of the walk.

“You’re scaring me.”

A car turned onto the street. Lola’s heart thudded. Not the Suburban. A quivering sigh escaped her. Melena’s eyes widened, still puzzled but with the dawning recognition of something seriously amiss. Lola watched the wheels turn. Hurry, hurry.

Melena held up a forefinger. “One second.” She stepped into the house and returned, shrugging into a warm coat, brushing past Lola to toss a purse into the back seat. Lola eyeballed the coat enviously. Her windbreaker was fast becoming inadequate.

Melena pulled on a pair of slim leather gloves with something approaching a snap, and finally Lola saw the uber-efficient carpooling, activity-organizing, meal-managing PTA mom she’d expected to interview before that eons-ago phone call from Munro announcing Sariah’s murder.

“Whatever’s going on, you’re in no shape to drive. You’d better give me the keys.”

Lola surrendered them. “If that’s what it takes to get you out of here, fine.”