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“Maybe so.” She slid him a glance as they passed the hospital, saw the police vehicles, lights flashing against the windows, several deputies trying to disperse the ever-growing crowd of Jonas’s fans, some of whom thought he was some kind of new-age messiah.
“That your doing?” she asked, hooking a thumb at the milling crowd spreading under the portico.
“They came of their own accord. I improvised. Just jazzed a few, told them Jonas was coming down to greet them.”
“From his hospital room?” She couldn’t believe it.
“Best I could do on the spur of the moment. Luckily some of them bought it.” He rounded the corner and headed in the direction of her home. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Well enough.”
When they reached her home, she instructed him to park one street over. “I’ll just be five minutes—maybe ten. If I don’t come back in that time, just leave.”
And then she cut across several yards and slipped into the back door of her house. Rhapsody about lost her mind. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry,” Kara said, wondering at her need to apologize to the dog who was turning circles at her feet. She let Rhapsody out, then put food in her dish and checked her water. As the dog returned, Kara locked the door behind her and dashed upstairs. Her headache was beginning to pound, and she desperately needed a shower. But there was no time. She didn’t want to deal with the police, not yet, and was certain they would come calling at any second.
Quickly, her pulse pounding at every sound, she stuffed clothes into an overnight bag and heard the dog bounding up the stairs. “You’re coming, too,” she said, and after throwing a makeup kit, brush and toothbrush into the open bag, stopped long enough to open the medicine cabinet, find a bottle of Aleve and toss back two gel caps dry. Then she dropped the bottle into her bag, zipped it and flew down the stairs, only pausing to slip on her coat and boots, grab Rhapsody’s leash hanging near the pantry, then snap it onto the dog’s collar.
Ten seconds later she’d locked the back door behind her and retraced her steps to the spot where Tate’s black RAV4 was idling near a snow-covered laurel hedge. “See that?” he said, pointing to a van parked up the street as she and the dog climbed inside.
“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 it’s 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, 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 arm’s 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.”