Page 97 of Whispers

“What happened?” a woman asked, as cars pulled at odd angles around the pickup. “Christ A’mighty, did someone drive into the lake?”

“I—I must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel,” Miranda said, her teeth chattering. The lie was just beginning. Claire shuddered. “One minute I was on the road, and the next—”

“Dear God,” a woman said. “Well, let’s warm you up. George, George, get the blanket out of the trunk; these girls are going to catch their death.”

Numb, Claire let herself be guided into the small group of vehicles scattered helter-skelter at the edge of the road.

“Would you look at that?” an old man said.

“They’re lucky to be alive.” A woman this time, a dark silhouette in a raincoat cast in sharp relief by the groups of headlights.

“Not like the Taggert kid.”

Claire’s knees buckled, but someone held her up, propped her on her feet, and kept her walking. Grief cut through her, as surely as any knife, and she began shaking violently.

“Did anyone call an ambulance?”

“Hang in there, girls,” a smooth male voice intoned. “You’re gonna be all right.”

Claire recognized the voice—didn’t remember his name—but knew that he worked at the gas station where she filled up. “Are any of you hurt seriously?”

She couldn’t find her voice.

“I don’t think so.” Miranda again. In charge.

Claire managed to nod to Tessa, who only whispered, “Dirty Harry.”

This was wrong. So wrong.

“What did she say?” a woman asked.

“Sounded like dirty something or other.”

“They’re probably all in shock.”

Claire blinked in the rain, shuddered from the cold, felt her wet, dirty clothes cling to her just as pain wrapped over her heart.

“George, for God’s sake, didn’t I tell you to give them the blanket that’s in the back of the car?”

Somewhere nearby, probably from one of the vehicles scattered on the shoulder of the road, a baby cried so hard he was beginning to hiccup. From the back of a pickup a big dog barked wildly.

“Shut up, Roscoe!”

The dog was silent.

“Say—” a woman whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “Aren’t they Dutch Holland’s girls?”

“Someone should call their parents.”

“Deputies are on their way.”

“How the hell did they end up in the lake? Jesus H. Christ, they’re lucky it was in this spot, anywhere else along this stretch, they would’ve crashed into a tree.”

One of the women guided Claire toward her Oldsmobile sedan. “You girls get inside—don’t worry about getting the interior dirty; it’s plastic. Can always be washed. I haul my dogs around all the time. But you need to keep warm.”

She opened the door, and Claire slid inside. Tessa and Miranda followed until they were huddled together, blankets wrapped around them. The owner of the car, a woman with a craggy face and gapped teeth, offered Claire a cup of coffee from a thermos. Other Good Samaritans gave Tessa and Miranda cups that they cradled, steam rising, in their cold hands.

Flashlights cast long beams in the rain as the women huddled and men started to look for the car.