By Deb’s count, Vera Hunt had shown her son’s mug shot four times in a single report. Deb certainly hadn’t done her son any favors by refusing to give the Sheriff’s Department a photo of Robert. She’d thought anything she could do to drag her feet, slow the sheriff down, would give Robert a better chance to get away, but that strategy had backfired. She’d only given Travis Tennant time to show up on the scene. Time for the island’s men to decide they needed to arm themselves and prowl the streets, like a serial killer was on the loose.
And Robert looked handsome in that mug shot, but too pleased with himself.
He hadn’t listened to her. When had he ever? She’d told him another lie, that he wasn’t welcome in her home. Those words had sliced into her heart, would rise and redden and thicken and scar. And for what?
So Robert had time to damn near blow himself up.
She had studied herself in the mirror, scrutinizing her crow’s feet and roots, and then started making calls.
Vera Hunt could get her on that night. Jonathan Richards was still on Yannatok, interviewing locals. They could patch her in via satellite. They’d even bump some expert witness from the Jack Benson trial.
Now there was a guilty bastard.
She filled her next hours so she didn’t have to think too much about being on national news, beamed into houses with living rooms where armchair psychologists would shake their heads at what an atrocious mother she was and kitchen-table judges would find her guilty. She borrowed a light blue shell and cardigan from Laura Roth that could have been worn by the widowed grandma who’d raised her. She kept her jeans on, though; they’d only shoot her from the waist up. And she paid for highlights and a layered haircut at La Vita Bellisima, the island’s one classy alternative to Supercuts. She splurged on some new makeup, too, Revlon and Covergirl. Doe-brown eye shadow instead of her usual steel gray. Petal-pink lipstick.
When she next studied her reflection, she saw Debra MacPherson, someone you could trust to find your dream home.
She’d seen Vera Hunt’s show before. She knew the story she needed to tell to save her son.
* * *
He staggered for hours in the wrong direction, only realizing his mistake when the Yannatok Bridge hovered in front of him. Robert hunched in the trees by the shoulder, his throat scraped by thirst, and stared at the road. He couldn’t see the spot where the bridge finally crossed the finish line in Seattle, of course, but he knew it was there.
Somebody had tagged the island side of the bridge again. WWRF. Robert squinted, not sure if he was reading the letters correctly. Because what the hell did that mean?
What if he just kept walking? What if he gathered his last remaining bits of strength and ran over that bridge, dove for the opposite coast, went as far into Seattle as his feet could carry him? Wouldn’t that be the best move?
No.
He would make it home.
He would make things right with his mother.
He turned around, and hobbled on.