Page 4 of 44.1644° North
I blinked in the radiance of all that good use of time and dental floss. “Yeah? Thanks.”
Like me, this guy was somewhat older than the late-twenties-early-thirties crowd. I was thirty-three. I thought he might be a bit older. The faint lines around his eyes weren’t all due to laughter. He had dark brown hair, light maybe-blue eyes, and was a little over average height with an athletic build.
In short: just my type.
He was saying in an easy baritone, “Other than the fact that there’s no data to suggest hitchhiking is an exceptionally dangerous endeavor.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve seen that 1974 CHP report.”
“And according to the FBI—”
I finished, “Less than a thousand rapes and murders along the interstates between 1979 and 2009.”
“Correct.” He smiled again and offered a tanned, well-shaped hand—class ring, no wedding band. “Rory.”
It suited him. It also didn’t ring any bells for me. We shook hands. “Skylar.”
“Ah. Skylar Brennan.Ugly Town, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ve listened to you a few times.”
I waited to hear more, but that seemed to be it. Not exactly effusive. In fact, downright noncommittal, but that was okay. I wasn’t here to build my fan base.
I felt it was only right to point out, “Anyway, less than a thousand rapes and murders is still a lot of rape and murder.”
“I don’t disagree.”
I couldn’t help a little snort. “Then you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You peopledoargue a lot.” There was no denying the appeal of that smile. All the same…
I tilted my head, giving him another, closer look. “You people?You’re not one of us?”
He avoided my eyes as he sipped his beer. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?”
“I’m more of an observer than a participant.”
“That’s how it starts.”
“It’s how most things start.”
“True. But you’re a true-crime fan?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Should you really admit to being afanof true crime?”
“Good point.”
Hmm.
Hailey returned, drinks in hand, and introductions were shouted across the table. If possible, the noise level had gone up a couple of decibels in the last five minutes.
She looked at Rory, looked at me, and in answer to her silent inquiry, I shouted, “Rory’s making the argument that violent crime wasn’t all that common along the interstate back in 2004.”
Hailey, who shared my theory that Deirdre had most likely climbed into the wrong car at the wrong time, leaped into the fray. “Okay, but Route 112 is not an interstate highway. Maybe the rates for homicide and sexual assault are higher on back roads and country lanes.”
