Page 67

CHAPTER 15
From the floor Kara’s phone buzzed.
Still shaken, Kara glanced at the small screen. Caught a glimpse. Recognized the number. “It’s Aunt Faiza.”
“What the hell does she want?”
“Only one way to find out,” Kara said, eyeing the phone. “I can answer—”
“Shit, don’t!”
She leaned a little farther to try and snag her phone and as she did, the Jeep slid to the shoulder. Ice scraped the driver’s door. Gravel crunched beneath the tires.
Jonas flung himself forward, wedging his body into the space between the front seats and, stretching one arm, he snatched the phone.
“Hey!” The Jeep bounced into the narrow oncoming lane.
“Keep your eyes on the road!” he ordered, hitting his head as he returned to the back seat. “Jesus! You can call her back later.”
She eased the SUV to the middle of the once-plowed surface again.
“And don’t use the hands-free option. Okay?” She caught his reflection in the rearview mirror again. He was rubbing his crown. “Just forget it and fucking drive.”
“I’m not ‘just driving’!” She was suddenly pissed—her emotions stretched to the breaking point, her nerves fraying by the second. “You need to tell me what you and Margrove were planning, why you hid in my damned car, and why the hell I haven’t heard from you since you were released!”
“So now you want to know what I’ve been up to? Unbelievable.” He leaned back in the seat and she saw him shake his head. “Where have you been, Kara? In the last twenty fuckin’ years, where the hell have you been?”
“Wait . . . what?” How had the conversation turned like this?
But Jonas couldn’t stop himself and as the icy landscape whizzed by, he ranted. “I could count the times you showed up at the prison on one hand, and that’s if I’d lost three fingers!” He was angry. Enraged. In the reflection, she saw the flush crawl up his face. “How many times did you show up? Huh? Twice. Twenty fuckin’ years in prison and you came twice with that freak show of an aunt. Like a million years ago.”
“She was my guardian.”
“I thought Margrove was.”
“It . . . it . . . fluctuated.” She thought of her lonely years with Aunt Faiza and how she’d escaped to Margrove’s house in Sellwood. How with Merritt and his second wife she’d felt safe. Cared for.
“Oh, geez.” Disgusted, Jonas let out a harsh laugh. “Just forget it! Drive!”
“I came. To the prison. But you wouldn’t see me!”
“Once—no, no, twice,” he said, and glanced out a side window. “Two damned times. Big fuckin’ deal! And you never bothered to show up again.” He said it derisively and a needle of guilt pierced her heart.
Don’t fall for this. You can’t trust him. Can NOT. He was a manipulator before prison, you heard Donner and Marlie accuse him of it, so don’t let him work you.
Was he a killer? A cold-blooded murderer? Had he really slit Merritt’s throat in the same manner that Donner was killed? The grade sharpened and she tapped her brakes, felt the Jeep slide a bit, tires hitting ice beneath the snow.
“Jonas, I’m sorry if—”
“Don’t. Okay? Just . . . don’t. It’s too late for apologies and come on, you don’t mean it. I bet I’ll hear the same from my own damned mother. She gave up on me, too.”
“I never gave up.”
“I said don’t! Shit.” He let out a breath through his nose. “Just fuckin’ drive, okay. Take me to 84.” He was looking out the side window, swiping at the fog and studying the frosty landscape as if trying to get his bearings.
“I-84? The interstate?”
“Duh. Isn’t that what I said? There’s a truck stop west of The Dalles. Hal’s Get and Go. You can drop me there.”