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“College prep may eventually play a part.” Barbara sounds amused. “And listen, if this woman is really important, I can—”

“No, no, it’s probably nothing.”

“And we’re good, right?”

“Always, Barb. Always.”

She ends the call, wondering just what Barbara’s special project could be. Writing is Holly’s best guess, something carried in the genes. Jim Robinson, their father, spent ten years as a newspaper reporter on the Cleveland Plain Dealer; Jerome is writing a book about his notorious great-grandfather; so why not?

“As long as you’re happy,” Holly murmurs. “Not having nightmares about Chet Ondowsky.”

She flops down on the bed—comfy!—and calls Pete. “If you feel well enough to give me a hand, I could use one.”

Pete replies in a voice that’s a little less clogged and raspy. “For you, Hols, anything.”

It’s hyperbole and she knows it, but it still makes her feel warm inside.

5

Before signing off, Pete reminds her it’s the weekend, and he may not be able to get the stuff she wants until Monday, probably Monday afternoon. Holly, who works all the time when she’s working, sees weekends mostly as an annoyance. She has three missed calls from Penny and three voicemails. The VMs are basically the same—where are you, what’s happening. She’ll call and update her, but first she wants a cigarette.

She dumps her clogged portable ashtray in a trashcan by the motel office, then smokes beside the ice machine. When she started this nasty habit as a teenager, you could smoke everywhere, even on airplanes. Holly believes the new rules are a big improvement. It makes you think about what you’re doing and how you’re killing yourself by inches.

She calls Penny and gives her a progress report that’s accurate but far from complete. She relates a version of her conversation with Keisha Stone that omits the part about Ellen Craslow, and although she tells Penny about talking to the Dairy Whip Gang, she doesn’t mention Peter “Stinky” Steinman. She will if Craslow and Steinman turn out to be connected, but not until then. Penny’s frame of mind is dire enough without planting the idea of a serial killer in her head.

Holly undresses, puts on the smiley-face shirt (it comes almost to her knees), flumps down onto the bed, and turns on the TV. She stops channel surfing long enough to watch some of an old musical on TCM, then turns it off. In the bathroom she washes her hands thoroughly and brushes her teeth with her finger, scolding herself for not getting a toothbrush along with undies and the nightshirt.

“What cannot be cured must be endured,” she murmurs. Will she sleep tonight after such an eventful day, or will her thoughts turn to her mother as she lies there listening to the drone of semis on the turnpike, a sound that always makes her feel lonely? Oddly enough, she thinks she will sleep. Holly knows herself well enough to understand she’ll never have complete closure with her mother, and that Charlotte’s lies—a new millionaire walks into a bar wondering how her mother could do what she did—may rub at her for a long time to come (especially the hidden stash of jewelry), but does anyone ever get complete closure? Especially from a parent? Holly doesn’t think so, she thinks closure is a myth, but at least she got a little of her own today, smoking in the kitchen and breaking those fracking figurines.

She gets down on her knees, closes her eyes, and starts her prayer as she always does, telling God it’s Holly… as if God doesn’t know. She thanks God for safe travel, and for her friends. She asks God to take care of Penny Dahl. Also Bonnie and Pete and Ellen, if they are still ali—

Something bombs her then and her eyes fly open.

Maybe it’s not location, or not just location.

She sits on the edge of the bed, turns on the light, and calls Lakeisha Stone. It’s Saturday night and she expects her call will go to voicemail. There may be a dance in the longhouse, or—perhaps more likely—Keisha and her friends will be drinking in a local bar. Holly is delighted when Keisha answers.

“Hi, it’s Holly. I have one more quick question.”

“Ask as many as you want,” Keisha says. “I’m in the campground laundry, watching a drier full of towels go around and around and around.”

Why’s a fine-looking young woman like you doing laundry on a Saturday night is a question Holly doesn’t ask. What she asks is, “Do you know if Ellen Craslow had a car?”

Holly is expecting Keisha to say she doesn’t know or can’t remember, but Keisha surprises her.

“She didn’t. I remember her saying she had a Georgia driver’s license, but it was expired and that was a hell of a good way to get in trouble if you were stopped. Driving while Black, you know. Like Maleek Dutton. She wanted to get one from here but kept putting it off. Because the DMV was always so crowded, she said. She rode the bus to and from work. Does that help?”

“It might,” Holly says. “Thank you. I’ll let you get back to watching your towels—”

“Oh, something else,” Keisha says.

“What?”

“Sometimes, if the weather was good, she’d skip the bus and go to the NorBank close to her place.”

Holly frowns. “I don’t—”

“They rent bikes,” Keisha says. “There’s a line of them out front. You just pick the one you want and pay with your credit card.”