Tell me about those people in the van,” Dylan says. “Don’t leave anything out.”
I tell him again about my finding the Bible and getting a job where Cole worked, about my talking him off the bridge and going to the media. “Cole is dead now, and I know he didn’t kill himself. I feel responsible.”
“Just because you told the Trendalls he was suicidal?”
“Yes! I was trying to help and I made everything worse. The least I can do is make sure they don’t get away with it. Those poor kids. Thinking their dad killed himself just when things were getting better. And little Ava, being so scared . . . and that sleazy man . . .”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I watch the headlights illuminating and darkening his face. I wonder if he’s thinking what a fool I am.
He reaches across the seat and takes my hand. It quiets me, and suddenly I can’t think about anything except his thumb stroking my skin. His eyes shimmer as he looks straight ahead. “You’re the best person I know.”
My heart hitches. I look down at his hand and fight the tears. I feel my trembling subside as gratitude falls over me, and with it, a stunning calm.
“We’re going to Wichita Falls,” he says after a moment. “It’s about a hundred miles from Dallas. I’ve been there before. It’s big enough that we can easily find a place to stay, and small enough that it might not be the first place they’d think of to look for you.”
“If he knows you’re involved with me, don’t you think they’ll be looking for your car?”
“Yeah, but I may have thrown them off track. I taped my phone to an eighteen-wheeler. He’s probably headed somewhere on I-20. That’ll keep them busy for a while.”
“Do you think they’ll do an APB or something?”
“You mean a BOLO? Be on the lookout? No, I don’t think so. I think they’re going rogue. There were no police escorts with them at the motel. Just the two of them. I’m sure they used their badges to get the cooperation of the motel manager, who probably showed them a surveillance video of you checking in, but I don’t think they’re wanting this to be a police-wide effort. They don’t want anyone else apprehending you and getting your story.”
“That’s something. But what if the manager recognized me and called them?”
“Again, he would’ve called local police, not two Shreveport detectives’ personal cell phones. No, I think it was my phone.”
“When you went back into the department after I left Shreveport, did Keegan say anything to you about me?”
“No, but he had this look.” I can see the wheels turning in his head. “But the other night, same night you saw Keegan in Dallas, I found Rollins in a bar in Marshall. I didn’t get a lot out of him, but I guess I got his trust. Little while later, he gets a DUI driving home, and he calls me to bail him out. He tells me that Keegan doesn’t trust me, but he—Rollins—does.”
I look at him. “Keegan doesn’t trust you? He knows?”
“I don’t know how much he knows. Just that he’s suspicious. Probably enough to keep close tabs on me. Or maybe he just thought I had a better chance of finding you than he did, especially when I headed to Dallas. I think we’re okay. Your car is ditched. My phone is gone. I know this car isn’t bugged or tracked. But just in case, I’ll get a rental car when we get to Wichita Falls.”
“Won’t they track your credit card? Rental car companies won’t take cash. I could buy a car on Craigslist. I’ve done it before with cash and there are no questions. But I’m running low.”
“I have some cash,” he says. “Brent’s dad gave me some for travel. I guess this qualifies.”
“He gave it to you to hunt for me.”
“I look at it differently. I think he gave it to me to find Brent’s killers and bring them to justice. That’s what we’re doing.”
I stare at him for a long moment, taking in the myriad emotions packed into the expression in his eyes. “Do you feel guilty? Deceiving them?”
“Sometimes. But Brent would want this.”
I swallow. “Yeah, he would. I never should have told him about my dad. I never should have opened up. I’m not a drinker. I hardly ever drink, because I don’t like to lose control. But one night we had dinner and I had some wine, and it loosened me up, and he got me talking about my dad’s death and all that happened.”
“And he latched onto it like a dog with a bone? That was Brent. I remember when we were around twelve or so, he developed an interest in the JFK shooting, and he spent a year reading everything he could get his hands on, culling out every conspiracy theory. He even talked his parents into taking us to Dallas that summer so he could walk on the grassy knoll and figure out where everything happened. He was convinced he was going to get to the bottom of the shooting.”
I smile. “That sounds just like him. Did he?”
“He finally agreed with what the government concluded. Once he was satisfied, he wrote this long report in history class for extra credit and moved on to something else. Guess he was a born journalist.”
“That’s how he was with this, and honestly, the more he found out, the more grateful I was. I really thought he might find the evidence I needed to take down the people who killed my dad. And that morning, he called me, so excited. He said he had something for me, that he’d put the flash drive in the mail to me, but he couldn’t wait so he wanted me to come by. I went by on my lunch hour . . . and that was when . . .” My voice falls off.
“Yeah,” I say. “They must have found out what he was doing. He had probably just done that interview with Sara Meadows.”
“And somehow they knew I was going to find him.”
“They knew somehow that he’d called you. They may have tapped his phone. Or maybe they would have set up whoever found him—didn’t have to be you. His mom, his cleaning lady, a coworker . . . We may never know that.”
“They’re bloodthirsty animals,” I whisper. “They have to be stopped.”
He squeezes my hand, then strokes it with his thumb again. “They will be,” he says. “I promise you that.”