Page 30 of The Missing Half
Chapter Twenty-nine
My tires churn up gravel as I pull out of the drive, and five minutes later I’m flinging open the door of the nearest gas station, heading straight to the wine-and-mixers aisle. My head feels hectic and disordered, as if someone cracked open my skull, dug their fingers into my brain, and jumbled everything I once knew. Despite all the answers I got today, I feel further from the truth than ever. Why did Kasey ask for all that money? Where was she going when she put those miles on our car? What happened to scare her back then, and what happened to Jenna now? With all this roiling in my mind, I suddenly don’t give a shit about my probation. I find the cheapest brand of red, grab two bottles by the neck, and carry them to the register.
Back on the highway, I lean over to grab my phone from my backpack. I know Jenna’s with her mom right now, but I want to tell her everything I learned from Sandy. More than that, I want to know the truth—the full truth—about why she skipped today, why, after weeks of driving our investigation, she’s suddenly taking a step back. My fingers dig around my bag blindly, but the wine is taking up so much space I can’t find anything else. I slide my hand lower and discover a partially crushed bag of peanut M&M’s. I toss it into my lap because it’s already one in the afternoon and I haven’t eaten anything today, then go back to my backpack, but still, I don’t feel my phone. I glance over to find the zipper of the front pocket and swerve slightly, my tires grating loudly against the rumble strip.
“Shit,” I mutter, straightening the wheel.
That’s when a movement in the rearview mirror catches my eye, and my stomach drops. The lights of a cop car are flashing behind me. And I’m driving without a license.
“No.” I flip my blinker and pull onto the shoulder. “No, no, no.”
I’d been so careful for so long.
I watch in my rearview as the police cruiser pulls up behind me and a male officer gets out. I channel my inner Jenna, rolling down my window and putting my hands on the wheel at ten and two. I just need to do what he wants to see and say what he wants to hear.
“Afternoon,” he says when he appears at my window. He’s older than me, but not by much. His nametag reads H. Sullivan.
“I’m so sorry. I know I swerved back there. I just got some bad news and was distracted.” I’m going for angelic, contrite, and just a tiny bit flirty.
“So, you haven’t been out drinking yet today?” He cracks a half smile: a joke.
I laugh indulgently, hoping he doesn’t spot the alcohol in my backpack. None of it’s open, but still. “Not yet, no. Usually I’m a very good driver. I swear.”
“Well, you look sober enough to me.”
“I am. Happy to prove it too if you want.”
Another smile. “I’ll settle for your license and registration.”
I lean over to open my glove compartment and riffle through a mess of papers to find my registration.
“All right,” he says after glancing at it briefly. “One down. One to go.”
I toss the registration back in the glove compartment then pull out my wallet, making a show of looking through it. “Oh my god,” I say, slapping a hand to my forehead. “I just remembered. I took my license out of my wallet last night because I was using a different purse, and I must’ve forgotten to put it back. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have your license on you?” He lets out a weary breath, and I can tell he’s starting to regret pulling me over. “You know it’s against the law to drive without one, don’t you?”
“It was a dumb mistake. The first thing I’ll do when I get home is put it back in my wallet.” Please let me go, I think furiously.
“Let me see your registration again.”
I hand it over. He tells me to sit tight, then walks back to his car, where I watch him anxiously in my rearview. I zip the top of my backpack, hiding the wine, then wait for what feels like far too long. Finally, he gets back out and walks over.
“Miss Monroe, could you please step out of your vehicle?” His voice is all business now.
“What? Why?”
“Because your driver’s license isn’t in another purse at home. It’s in some judge’s desk right now.”
Shit. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll—”
He holds up a hand. “That’s not all. You also missed a court appointment a few weeks ago.”
At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Then a murky memory wheedles into my head. The appointment was one of the many legal logistics I had to deal with in the wake of my DWI. It was set for right around the time Jenna came into my life and flipped it upside down.
“I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it—”
“You don’t seem to understand,” he says. “It’s against the law in Indiana to drive with a suspended license. If it was just that, I could let you get away with a ticket, but with the missed court appointment, there’s a warrant out for you. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Please step out of your vehicle. You’re under arrest.”