The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(55)

Chapter 8

Bright sunshine and clear blue skies in Northern Kentucky—where the Cincinnati airport is located—catch Landry off guard.

The weather had been so gloomy at takeoff after a nonexistent sunrise in Mobile, and it poured nonstop in Atlanta. Somehow, she didn’t expect to be greeted by a dazzling summer day upon reaching her destination, but there it is, beyond the wall of plate glass in the terminal. Somehow, it makes her feel slightly reassured about whatever lies ahead.

As she makes her way to the ladies’ room, she finds herself scanning the faces of passing strangers, and of the women waiting on the long line to use the stalls. Among them she might just find Elena, whom she knows should also be landing here right around now.

Landry knows what she looks like, having seen the photos posted on Elena’s blog. Dark hair, round, pleasant face, in her early thirties . . .

Which describes many of the women she’s encountered so far in the airport.

Stepping out of the stall, she makes eye contact with one.

“Elena?”

The woman looks at her.

“Are you Elena?”

She shakes her head, shrugs. “No habla ingles.”

Landry apologizes, conscious of the curious stares of other women in the line. She wonders what they’re thinking, then decides not to care, tired of fretting about . . .

Well, just about everything.

What would Meredith do? She’d move on without a backward glance.

Landry dries her hands and does just that.

It’s probably better that she hasn’t run into Elena here at the airport, she decides, having caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She’s definitely looking travel weary. The sooner she can get to the hotel and pull herself together, the better.

At the car rental counter, she finds another long line and busies herself calling Rob from her cell phone while she waits.

“So you made it.”

His familiar drawl makes her aware of just how far from home she really is.

“Yep—I made it.”

“You doing okay?”

She hesitates. “Sure.”

“Good. Listen, I was just talking to John, and he used to have a client up there. He said that if you get a chance, you should try the chili at Skyline.”

“Did you tell him this isn’t a pleasure trip? I mean, I’m walking into a funeral for a friend who was murdered . . .”

And they haven’t caught whoever did it.

“I know you are,” Rob says quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay. I know.”

He’s back there at home, where everything is nice and normal, instead of here in a strange place worrying that whoever killed Meredith might turn around and come after her.

Because of course there’s no reason to think that.

Is there?

She stares at the blond hair of the woman standing directly in front of her and idly speculates about whether it’s a wig. It looks like one. Fashion choice by a brunette who thinks blondes really do have more fun, Landry wonders, or is she just yet another woman who’s lost her hair to cancer treatment?

“Next!” calls the counter agent, and the woman steps forward.

“I’m going to have to hang up in a minute,” Landry tells Rob. “It’s almost my turn.”

“Okay, wait—do you have any idea where the new car insurance cards are? Because I need to put them into the glove compartments and I can’t find them anywhere.”

Of course he can’t.

She reminds him—again—that she thumb-tacked them to the bulletin board in the kitchen.

“I looked there.”

“Look again.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Next!” calls the rental counter agent, finished with the woman ahead of Landry.

“Trust me,” she tells Rob, “they’re on the bulletin board. I’ve got to go.”

She hurriedly hangs up, steps forward, and pulls out the folded papers containing printouts of her reservations.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wells. Are you a member of our frequent renter program?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Would you like to join?”

“No, thanks.” I’d like to get into a hotel room with a hot shower, that’s all I’d like right about now.

“Are you familiar with Cincinnati?”

Feeling more impatient by the second, she admits, “No, I’ve never been here before.”

“You’ll want a GPS system in the car, then. And I’ll get you some maps.” The agent briskly steps away from the counter.

“I can tell you how to get where you’re going,” says a familiar voice behind Landry.

She turns to see Bruce Mangione, Private Investigator and Personal Security.

They hadn’t done much more talking for the duration of the flight. He’d gotten busy on his laptop after takeoff, and she’d finally managed to lose herself in the celebrity biography she’d downloaded to her e-reader the other night. The other passengers seemed equally subdued, probably thanks to having risen in the wee hours to make an early flight, then spending several mind-numbing hours at the gate. No one—not even the flight attendants—seemed to be in a conversational mood anymore.