Dirty Letters(22)

Mee-Mee. I hadn’t even realized that she’d swiped another Furby. But the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

I picked up the wet furry key chain and patted Hortencia on her head. “Okay . . . whatever you say. Road trip it is!”





CHAPTER 10

LUCA


“You take a left here.”

I’d pulled over at a stop sign, which was also the end of the road we’d been traveling on for the last half hour. We basically had two choices. Turn left or turn around. “Ummm . . . Doc. There’s no more paved road. To the left is only dirt.”

“Well, then I guess we drive on dirt for a little while.”

I sighed. “Can I see the map, please?”

Doc had been flipping back and forth between a half dozen foldable maps over the last three days. He also had a giant Hagstrom book. I hadn’t seen one of those since I was a kid—for a damn good reason, apparently. I took the map from Doc and traced the route he’d highlighted in yellow. “I don’t see why we can’t use Waze. It tells you when to turn and how to avoid traffic jams, too.”

“Those applicators are tracking devices.”

“You mean apps.”

“Whatever. The government already knows too much about us. Our forefathers fought for freedom, and the young people today give it all back.”

I leaned forward in my seat and looked down the dirt road Doc wanted me to turn onto. It looked pretty sketchy. Our RV didn’t have four-wheel drive, and the path was really narrow. “I don’t think we should go this way. I’m afraid we might get stuck.”

“Okay. So let’s walk, then.”

“Walk?” My brows drew together. “Where are you taking us?”

“Just a short little diversion. It shouldn’t be more than a half mile up the road.”

I shook my head. “I thought we were done with detours yesterday, when you made us drive two hundred miles off our path to see a Blackburnian warbler.”

“A detour means going off our path. This little visit is right on our way.”

I glanced down the dirt path once again. “I think the interstate is more like right on our way.”

Doc unbuckled and started to get out of the RV. I guess we’re taking another detour.

“The baya weaver builds the most beautiful nests. He builds it for the female, and if she approves, she’ll mate with him. They’ve never been spotted in this country before the last month.”

I turned off the RV and unbuckled. I supposed the man had taken two weeks off from his life to do this crazy trip with me, the least I could do was indulge him on his excitement over a few birds. It wasn’t like anyone was waiting for us in California. I hopped down from the driver’s seat and stretched my arms over my head and then twisted from side to side. A walk would do me some good anyway. Since I wouldn’t let Doc drive, I’d been behind that big wheel for the better part of eight hours already today.

“Imagine if humans did that?” I mused. “If men had to build an entire house to try and attract a woman?”

“I’m afraid I’d have been in trouble. I never was too handy swinging a hammer.”

Doc and I started to walk down the dirt road. I wasn’t even sure where we were heading—a park again, I assumed. “Are you sure this is the way? It seems pretty residential, and I can’t imagine that a national park doesn’t have a paved road leading up to the entrance.”

“I think this is right. Martha said when we arrived at her street, to go about another half to three quarters of a mile and look for the painted garbage cans.”

“Martha?”

“The woman we’re going to visit from my online bird club. The baya weaver built his nest in her backyard.”

I stopped in place. “We’re going to someone’s house? How do we know she’s not a crazy serial killer?”

Doc pushed his glasses up his nose. “I could say the same about Griffin, couldn’t I?”

Great. Another thing for me to worry about. Griffin being a serial killer might’ve been the only thing that hadn’t crossed my mind in three days of driving. I’d already panicked he might be married, gay, a gigolo, a hoarder . . . There’d even been a hundred-mile stretch through Illinois when I’d considered maybe Griff was really a woman—one who’d been playing me for eighteen years and had sent me a photo of her little brother. That insane thought had led to a few hours of internal debate over whether I could ever be physically attracted to a woman for him—her—him . . . whatever. I was seriously considering turning into a lesbian for a man I’d never met who turned out to be a woman. Now I’d have to contend with thoughts about Griffin the serial killer through at least the rest of Nebraska and half of Colorado.

Great. Just great.



Martha was the most colorful person I’d ever seen. Literally, not figuratively. She’d told Doc to look out for her painted garbage cans to identify her house but had failed to mention everything she owned was painted. The exterior of her small dollhouse-like home was painted in three shades of pink, with yellow and teal trim, and each room of the interior was painted a different neon color. Her clothes were also just as bright—she wore a bright-yellow blouse with even brighter red pants, and her glasses were a glossy shade of violet. If Doc was surprised by the shock of color, he’d done a damn good job of hiding it. He and Martha seemed pretty excited to finally meet. Apparently they’d been part of the same group and chatting for a few years now. This trip was making me realize there was a lot about Doc I didn’t know.