Mark shuts down the window and starts again, reopening the case file from the beginning. Two moms. Three kids. What’s the connection? What am I missing?
According to the nurse in the emergency room, Torelli was on her way to drop Skipper off with her sister, who had gotten married. The story jibes with what he already knows. The elementary school confirmed that Torelli had taken the boy out of school because he was returning to Wichita to live with his mom, and a credit card search showed that hotel rooms had been reserved at Hiltons in Victorville, Lake Havasu, and Albuquerque, all three cities en route to Wichita.
Mark looks at the notes he has on the sister. Vanessa Valla, twenty-six; lives in Wichita, Kansas; occupation, server.
So, Torelli packs up her nephew and her daughter under the pretense of dropping her nephew off and returning nine days later, but instead, she rips off her husband with her husband’s office assistant, and the two set off together. They drive to Barstow, which makes sense, but then disappear, not taking the 40, which is the only route to Kansas. So where did they go?
He looks away from the screen, stretches his arms over his head, and rolls out his neck.
The sister. Something niggles at him. He toggles the screen back to life and clicks on the sister’s file. She’s ordinary to the point of boring. Other than Vanessa’s getting pregnant when she was seventeen, her life has been completely unremarkable.
He scans the itinerary for her honeymoon. She and her husband are spending three weeks in Belize. On Wednesday they fly home.
A smile creeps onto his face, and if he were a fist-pumping kind of guy, he would be punching the air. Instead he gives himself an invisible pat on the back and zooms in on the three glowing letters he hadn’t noticed before.
OMA.
The thread he’s missed until now. The pull in the fabric and possibly the key to unraveling the whole damn mystery.
The sister lives in Wichita, and that’s where she and her husband flew out of for their honeymoon, but on Tuesday, they will be returning to Omaha, the city where her husband lives.
Torelli has led everyone on a wild-goose chase, leading them to believe she is going to Wichita, when the entire time her plan has been to go to Omaha.
So who is she trying to fool? Frank? The FBI? And how does Herrick factor in?
He pulls up Google Maps, punches in the new destination, then hits redial. “Fitz, I need you back at the office. Call off the roadblock and get me on the next plane to Las Vegas.”
23
HADLEY
Hadley’s ankle is killing her, and she is bored and irritated—the drive so far a tedious, torturous journey of worry and pain.
They’ve been driving for three hours, and Grace hasn’t spoken a word other than to ask Hadley where she preferred to eat, McDonald’s or Jack in the Box, to which Hadley replied neither, to which Grace rolled her eyes and chose McDonald’s, then proceeded to inhale thousands of calories in a matter of minutes as Hadley picked at an undressed wilted salad and cursed her mother’s wide-assed genes.
The lack of conversation is deafening. They are in a small confined space; the least Grace could do is make polite conversation to help pass the time. But anytime Hadley starts something, Grace answers with a monosyllabic response and a glare that makes it clear she has no interest in chatting.
She’s probably upset she’s involved in this, and Hadley does feel bad, but what was she supposed to do? The FBI was chasing her. How was she supposed to know they would follow them to Barstow? She figured that once they were out of Orange County, they would be fine.
She glances back at Mattie and Skipper. Skipper stares out the window. Mattie has her eyes closed but opens them when she feels Hadley looking at her. Hadley gives her a reassuring smile, and Mattie offers a thin one back.
Then she shocks her. “That was cool the way you talked that lady into giving us her car. I didn’t think it would work.”
“You didn’t?” Hadley says as a strange ballooning fills her chest, and it takes a second for her to recognize the feeling. It’s been a long time since she’s had anything to be proud of.
Grace chimes in, “How’d you know to wait for someone old?”
Hadley’s pride grows. Grace doesn’t seem easily impressed. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked old people. They’re less uptight about things, so I figured my chances were better.”
Grace nods her approval, and a small smile curls her lips. “I think you’re right. My grandmother would have loved to have been given ten grand to loan her car to someone. She’d have talked about it for years.”
“Were you close with your grandmother?” Hadley asks.
“We’ll stop in Baker,” Grace says curtly, the smile dropping from her face to settle into a tight line. “Less chance of us being spotted there than in Las Vegas.”
Hadley tries not to be hurt by the abruptness.
“Make sure you call Dad,” Mattie says.
Hadley glances back at her.
“He’ll get suspicious if you don’t call him.”
Hadley nods and turns back in her seat, disturbed that Mattie has been thinking about Frank. Mattie is right to worry, but Frank is her dad, and Hadley can’t help but wonder about the damage it might be doing for her to be conspiring against him.
“Do I need to pull over?” Grace says.
“No. I called him this morning from the hotel, and I’ll call him when we stop for dinner. He knows I turn my phone off when I’m driving.”
“What will you tell him about your phone?”
“I’ll tell him I dropped it in the toilet. I’ve done it before.”
“You can use my burner,” Grace says, “so he can’t trace the area code.”
“Your burner?”
“I bought one when we stopped at Walmart.”
“Oh,” Hadley says as her heart sinks, realizing she should have thought of that, and also realizing that, had Grace not said something, she would have made the catastrophic mistake of calling Frank without thinking about the area code.
“Thank you,” she says, meaning it to only be for the offer of the phone, but it comes out thicker than that.
Grace gives a curt nod, but Hadley watches as her jaw twitches, then sees her slide it out to still it.
“So, where are you from originally?” Hadley says. “Do I detect the hint of a southern drawl?”
Grace sighs through her nose. “Look, Mrs. Torelli, we’re in this together because I said I would help you, and I am, but we’re not friends. This doesn’t make us friends.”
Hadley tries not to be stung, but it’s hard. She’s always hated when people don’t like her, and she likes Grace. Last night, when they were counting the money, she actually thought they kind of were friends, or at least friendly.
She turns toward the window and looks out at the same beige scenery they’ve been driving through for hours—beige desert, beige scrub, beige hills in the distance.
“Can you stop that?”
Hadley looks at Grace, then down at her leg, which is jiggling up and down in rhythm with her hand, tapping impatiently on her thigh.
She forces her leg to be still and slides her hand beneath her thigh to stop its twitch, and she decides it’s a good thing she and Grace are not friends because, if they were friends, Hadley would have something very unfriendly to say at the moment.
She turns back to the window with a huff, then quickly straightens. She can’t really blame Grace for being pissed, especially after what happened in Barstow. The cops arrived minutes after they’d left Nancy’s car at the McDonald’s. They could see the police cars from across the street, dozens of them with their lights swirling. She thought Grace might have ditched them right there, but she didn’t. Instead, she growled, “Get in,” and they all scrambled into the van Grace had bought from Craigslist when they were still in Orange County.
At the time, when Grace insisted that they stop at the Walmart so she could buy a car online, Hadley thought she was being rid
iculous. Hadley suggested they go to a car lot when they got to Barstow so they could pick the car they wanted.
It turns out Grace was being cautiously brilliant. She wired the money to the seller from the store and instructed him to leave the van at the Motel 6 across from the McDonald’s, with the key hidden behind the bumper. It was like she suspected that what happened in Barstow might happen, and again, Hadley can’t help but wonder how it is she’s so good at this.
“Stop.”
Hadley’s head snaps sideways; then she looks back down at her leg and realizes it’s bouncing again. She folds it beneath her to quell its jitter.
They were on their way before the police were out of their cars, and there’s been no sign of trouble since. She wishes Grace would just relax. They’re safe. They made it.
She feels her leg wanting to bounce.
24
GRACE
Grace pulls the van beside the office of the Wills Fargo Motel in Baker and kills the engine. She leaves the others in the car and is relieved when the kid behind the counter accepts her cash for two rooms without any questions.
She returns to the van and parks it out of sight; then all of them walk toward the strip of restaurants they saw on the way in. The choices are limited—Dairy Queen, Pizza Hut, or Denny’s. They settle on Denny’s because it’s closest.
They wait at the front for the hostess, who also appears to be the waitress and the manager. The sign on the register reads NO CHECKS, and Grace watches Mattie looking at it, her brow creased, and she wonders what she finds so interesting.
“This way,” the hostess/waitress/manager says.
Mrs. Torelli leads with the boy, and Grace follows, holding Miles tight against her and breathing him in. He has been amazing through all this. Four hours in the car and not a peep. She’s so thankful she feels it all the way to her toes. She’s not sure she could have handled any more stress.
She’s realized she’s made a horrible mistake. Whatever Frank is into is bigger than skimming cash and not reporting it to the IRS. Her heart hasn’t stopped hammering since they left Barstow. A battalion of cop cars raced into the McDonald’s moments after they left the old lady’s car there. They don’t send that much firepower for fudging on your taxes.
She should have ditched Mrs. Torelli at the hospital or even in Barstow, jumped in the van with Miles, and taken off. Whatever this is, she wants no part of it. She has Miles to think about. She nuzzles the soft folds of his skin, unable to believe the danger she’s put him in.
In the morning, she and Miles are leaving. She got Mrs. Torelli out of Orange County like she promised, and from here on out, they are on their own. With a little luck, the FBI will forget about Grace altogether.
She glances over her shoulder and realizes Mattie is not with them. She stands at the hostess desk, an amused smile on her face as she places a pen back in the penholder.
Dinner is quiet. Several times Mrs. Torelli attempts to start a conversation, but Grace refuses to engage. This relationship is over, and Grace sees no reason to make it more difficult than it already is.
As they shuffle toward the door, Grace glances at the hostess desk, and despite herself, she smiles. The NO CHECKS sign has been altered, and now, beneath the original message, in parentheses, it reads, Czechs welcome.
Grace looks at Mattie, and color rises in the girl’s cheeks, though her expression remains poker straight. Grace gives her a small nod, then turns away. She likes the kid; she really does. She’s funny and has a rebellious streak Grace can relate to.
When they get to the motel, Grace changes Miles into his pajamas, then gets changed herself, shoving the disgusting clothes she’s been wearing for two days in the trash.
At the Walmart, where they stopped so she could buy the van, she restocked Miles’s supplies and bought a few supplies for herself, including jeans, sweats, a couple of T-shirts, and a new pair of shoes.
She smiles at the broken sole with its dried superglue gaping at her from the trash can. A million bucks. She will never have to superglue her soles again.
She carries Miles outside, to find Mrs. Torelli lounging beside the motel’s sorry excuse for a pool, a hole of water ten feet long and eight feet wide. Mattie and the boy wade hip deep, talking about baseball, a topic that seems to be high on the Torellis’ conversation list.
The desert air still holds a remnant of the day’s warmth, though soon it will be cold.
Mrs. Torelli holds her arms out for Miles, so Grace hands him over and sets down the diaper bag, which holds Miles’s baby supplies along with the money.
“You okay?” Mrs. Torelli says.
“Still kind of hungry,” Grace says. “Do you mind watching him a minute? I’m going to check out the vending machine.”
“You just ate.”
Shrug.
Mrs. Torelli rolls her eyes like there’s something wrong with Grace, but hungry is hungry, and Grace has always had a healthy appetite.
She walks to the vending machine and stares at the selection. None of it sounds very good. As a matter of fact, now that she’s in front of it, staring at the bags of chips and cookies, her stomach roils and she feels a little sick.
“You okay?”
Grace looks up to see the motel clerk looking at her with concern, and she realizes she’s been staring at the machine for a while.
The kid is probably a few years younger than she is, acne peeking beneath a half-grown beard that only sprouts in earnest on his chin and lip. He reminds her of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, or maybe of Scooby-Doo himself.
“Do you have anything stronger than soda?” she says, realizing what it is she’s really craving.
His smile screws up at an angle. “Follow me.”
They walk past Mrs. Torelli, who holds Miles in the crook of her arm. She’s looking down at him, making little pucker noises as he sucks happily on his bottle. The woman is like a baby whisperer, a serious miracle worker. If Grace were the one holding him, he would be screaming his head off, the bottle being swatted away as he shrieked.
She’s read about certain people having a gift when it comes to soothing away colic. Some experts hypothesize it has to do with a particular scent; others say it’s acoustic, a particular tone of voice. Whatever the case, Mrs. Torelli has it in spades. Grace has never seen Miles so happy.
Mattie and the boy are now out of the pool, wrapped in towels and playing with the handheld electronic devices they seem obsessed with.
She follows the clerk into the office, then behind the counter and through a door that leads to a small room with a desk, a bed, and a chair. He gestures to the chair, then opens the bottom desk drawer to pull out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and two Dixie cups. He pours them each a shot and holds hers out to her.
“What were you in for?” Grace says with a nod toward the crude tattoo on his forearm of an X with a line through it.
“Stupidity.”
Grace smiles. “Me too.”
“You were in prison?” he says.
“Didn’t quite make it. Six months in jail, and the judge commuted my sentence.”
“Lucky.”
Shrug. At the time it didn’t feel lucky. At the time it felt like Grace’s life had ended.
They raise their Dixie cups to each other and knock back their drinks. The whiskey burns as it goes down, and she coughs. It’s been a long time since she’s indulged in anything stronger than beer, and even scrounging together enough money for that has been difficult.
He lifts the bottle, offering another, and she nods. He refills her cup, and this time she nurses it, sipping it slowly.
“Rough day?” he says.
“You could say that.”
“Hunter.”
“Grace.”
The alcohol takes effect quickly, swirling warmly through her body before seeping into her bloodstream and wrapping softly around her brain.
Hunter pours himself another as well but just holds it, staring at the liquid as he swishes it ar
ound. He barely looks old enough to drink, and Grace wonders what he could have done to land him behind bars so young. He doesn’t look like the dangerous type. Probably drugs. That’s what most young people are in for. His tattoo is a popular one among inmates. It means strength, something you need a lot of when you’re counting your days to freedom.
“Got caught stealing a car for a girl,” he says, reading her thoughts.
“You were going to give your girl a stolen car?”
He shakes his head. “No. I stole a car so I could go see her.”
“Wow, that is stupid.”
He toasts her with his Dixie cup. “You?”
She gives him the abbreviated version. “I broke into a church.” She leaves out the part about her best friend being with her and about it being the coldest winter Georgia had ever seen and that Virginia was sick.
“Really needed to pray?” Hunter says with a cockeyed grin.
“Really needed to get out of the cold.”
She sees a small shudder run through him and knows he’s spent some nights in the cold himself.
“No big deal,” she says. “I went in. I got out. And now, here I am, living the dream.”
None of it is that simple, but he raises his cup to toast her anyway. “To second chances.”
“To second chances.” They both shoot back what remains in their cups, then for a long moment sit quiet. That’s the nice thing about ex-felons; they know how to be still.
Grace rarely thinks about Virginia, that distant night like a dark hole that sucks the light from the present each time she remembers it. They say she fought the police when they tried to take Virginia away. She doesn’t remember that part, but it was included in the charges: breaking and entering; destruction of property; negligent homicide; resisting arrest; assaulting an officer.
She blinks away the memory and looks around the small room. The space is worn but not unpleasant. In the corner is a guitar, and on the bureau, a harmonica. She imagines Hunter whiling away his nights playing wistful romantic melodies for the girl he stole the car for.
Hadley & Grace Page 10
