The Girl Who Survived(75)

“Yeah?” She settled into the passenger seat; Rhapsody curled in the foot well.

“A photographer. Freelance.”

“How do you know?” Clicking her seat belt in, she eyed the van.

“I’ve hired him.”

“Oh.” She sent him a look. “Great.”

“But I didn’t this time. Someone else either has already or he’s out trying to grab some shots on his own and will try to peddle them.” He put his Toyota into gear and pulled away from the curb. “He’s just the first to show up.”

“You’re the first,” she reminded him.

“Can’t argue with that.”

But he was right. All too soon her house would probably be swarming with cops and reporters and photographers. All with a million questions, most of which she didn’t want to answer. At least not yet. As they passed the van and she saw a man in a watch cap staring at the front of her house, she knew she would be inundated if she tried to stay at home. Reporters would be camped on her yard, photographers training their camera lenses on her, neighbors and curious bystanders using their cell phones to catch a glimpse of her, and of course the police would come calling. Kara would have to talk to them, of course, but she just wasn’t ready yet. “You can take me to the hotel on Wheeler Street,” she said, then glanced down at Rhapsody and patted her head. “I mean, if they take pets.”

“You don’t know?”

“No and I don’t have a phone . . . wait. She dug into her bag to retrieve her iPad. “This’ll do . . .” As he drove toward the heart of town, she pulled up the website for the hotel. “Nope. No pets and its full. No vacancy.”

“It’s almost Christmas. Places are booked.” He adjusted the fan, it whirred more loudly, warm air flowing from the vents while she searched the Internet.

“Here’s another one, a motel on the east side and—” She googled the Lazy Daze Motel, pulled up the website and discovered that it, too, with its amenities of free Wi-Fi and complimentary continental breakfast did welcome all pets, but again was full. “No room at that inn either. Crap!”

“What about your aunt’s place.”

“Stay with Faiza?” she said, and thought of her mother’s sister and shook her head. “No.”

“A cousin then? A friend?”

“No cousins around and . . . and no friends either.” That was a sad statement, but true. She’d never made any real friends, just acquaintances she’d met in school, girls whose fascination with her had been based on the trauma she’d suffered, the infamy of it all, as if she were some kind of tragic, tarnished celebrity. And she’d never worked in one job long enough to form any real bonds, never felt a connection deep enough with a coworker to form a real friendship, one in which she could confide all of her hopes, fears, dreams and nightmares. Whether it had been because she’d learned to be standoffish, keeping people and questions at arms’ length, or because people naturally avoided the girl who had survived such a savage family annihilation, she didn’t know.

“Uh, there’s really no one,” she admitted, feeling a pang of self-pity. Clearing her throat and her mind, she dismissed the pathetic emotion; she’d learned early enough that dwelling on her heartaches only made them worse. “Surely I can find something,” she said, and delved into the Internet again.

“Okay.” He slowed for a corner, then ventured, “You could stay at my place.”

“What? Your place? No!” Shaking her head, she searched for another motel and found nothing in town. “God, no. Not a good idea, but . . . but thanks.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. Really? No way. “Maybe there’s something out on 84.”

“Forget it. The interstate’s partially closed.”

“What?” She glanced up at him. “Closed?”

“Um-hmm. A section of the road is shut down. Because of the storm. The Gorge is a mess.”

“You’re kidding.” But she could see from his expression that he was earnest, and she knew that sometimes in winter, blizzard-like conditions of freezing rain or ice or snow could cause the highway skirting the Columbia River Gorge to be closed.

He glanced at her iPad. “Google ‘road conditions.’ ”

She did. Of course he was correct. “Well, crap.”

“Look. You can crash at my place until we find something. It’s no big deal.” He tossed her a smile—the first real one she’d seen, white teeth flashing in the dark interior, his face partially illuminated by the dash lights. “And you lucked out. There’s room available and I’m dog friendly.”

“Very funny.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his grin fading just a bit as he angled through an alley to connect to a street that paralleled the river, “I thought so.”

*

It practically took an act of congress for Thomas and Johnson to be allowed into Jonas McIntyre’s room and when they got there, the patient was reticent, refused to talk.

“We just want to know what you were doing up at Merritt Margrove’s mobile home,” Thomas explained, but McIntyre, if he did hear them, didn’t say a word. He never made eye contact with them and appeared almost comatose lying on the bed and hooked up to all kinds of hospital equipment.