I pulled off the highway near Columbia and spent the night in the parking lot of a Fairfield Inn, a couple of miles from the University of South Carolina.
I was glued to the car’s radio, and caught several updates on the incident in Mount Holly, but nothing about a car being heisted at a gas station in Charlotte, so hopefully no one had put that together. I desperately wanted to call Carrie, to let her know how I’d gotten away and find out what she’d told the police, but I didn’t know if she even had her phone and I didn’t want to put her, or myself, at further risk. I didn’t know if the police were still chasing me or still believed I was guilty. I only knew I had to find Hofer—and Hallie—before the police found me. Before Hofer followed through on his threat!
And as I sat there, huddled in a car in South Carolina, not knowing what my next move would be, not knowing if every cop in the state was looking for my car, I did think of someone who might know where Hofer was.
His daughter. Amanda.
I did the old McDonald’s drive-through thing again for breakfast burrito and located the nearest library, and I was at the small stone building when it opened at 10 A.M.
The woman at the information desk pointed me to two computers in a kind of reading room, a bunch of magazines and newspapers arranged neatly on a round table. The old, large-monitor Dell warmed up creakily, taking me to the state library homepage. I clicked over to Google and typed in “Amanda Hofer.”
Dozens of items came up. The first, from the Lancaster County Crier, which I assumed was the hometown paper.
“LOCAL TEEN, 19, KILLS MOTHER AND BABY”
Then below it: “Said to be on Painkiller at Time of Accident. OxyContin and Xanax Linked to Auto Double Homicide.”
Farther down, “Local D.A. Seeks Murder Conviction in Tragic Double Homicide.”
I scanned the details, about how elevated traces of OxyContin and Xanax had been found in Amanda’s blood as she drove to her cosmetology class that morning. How she had been seen driving erratically through traffic. How she had driven right off the road and onto the victim’s lawn, bouncing off a tree and right up to the house, where she mowed down Deborah Jean Jenkins and her two-month-old son, Brett. How the child’s father was in the army serving in Afghanistan and had never even seen his newborn son in person.
As I read the actual details, my heart filled with compassion for this man, and for a moment I had to stop and take a couple of breaths, my thoughts finding their way to Hallie, who was around the same age as Amanda Hofer.
Then I scrolled farther down and found what I was looking for in the Atlanta Constitution:
“TEEN AUTO KILLER PLEADS TO TWO COUNTS OF AGGRAVATED VEHICULAR HOMICIDE. RECEIVES 20 YEARS”
It showed Amanda, drawn and pale-looking, as she was led from the courthouse.
To begin her sentence at the medium security Pulaski Women’s Prison in Hawkinsville, Georgia.
That was exactly what I wanted!
I switched to the website for the Georgia State Prison System, clicked on “Women’s Institutions,” and immediately found Pulaski. It wasn’t far from I-75. A two-or three-hour drive from where I was.
Visiting hours were from 11 A.M. to 4 P.M. All visitors had to present a valid photo ID.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out Carrie’s husband’s license that I had taken.
And his business card. Attorney-at-Law.
I knew it was a long shot, but that’s all I had right now.
I looked again at Rick’s face. Okay, hardly a perfect match—I had blue eyes; his were green. His hair a bit lighter.
Still, it could work. I mean, we weren’t exactly talking the supermax at Florence, Colorado, here … This was a medium-security women’s prison in backwoods Georgia. Probably a work-farm facility.
And it had to be the last place on earth anyone would be looking for me.