“Then why would she have asked me to come to Miami?” I say.
“Could have been an accident.”
“Interesting timing on that accident.”
“Exactly,” Erin says.
Carl’s cell rings, and we pause.
He answers it on speaker. “Carl Frost.”
“This is Chief Duplantis in Natchitoches. Are you with Erin Stockwell?”
“I’m here, chief,” Erin says.
“Been trying to reach you,” he says.
Erin examines her phone. “Shit. My phone was still on silent. What’s going on?”
“A new piece of evidence has come in,” the chief says.
“What?” Erin and I say it at the exact same time.
“A red coat.”
“Carl and I are going to pack up and head south tomorrow,” Erin says as we walk back to the hotel. “Set up camp closer to the source.”
Now that school is dragging everyone back to it, not just those of us that had to live in it.
Erin’s eyes are still bright; her makeup still looks fresh even after this long day. Her youth is showing, and even though I’m not considered old in the real world, in this world I feel like a dinosaur next to Erin. Poison Wood hasn’t left its mark on her yet. Yet.
“How’d the story do when it aired?” I say as we all walk into the lobby.
“Crazy good,” she says with a smile. “This one’s got legs.” She and Carl head for the hotel door. “We’ll keep you in the loop,” she adds.
“Thanks.” I stop at the valet stand and the attendant jogs up. I hand him my ticket and scan my phone. There’s one long text message fromDebby that covers the dogs, dinner, someone named Otis Montgomery and his pet parrot, and my dad coming home from the hospital.
I press my temples and breathe through my throbbing headache. I’m sure he’s seen the news, but it’s Debby who messaged me, not him. I wonder ifPeoplemagazine has called him as well. At some point, I have to discuss with him what I found in his study, but for now that will need to be compartmentalized. Too many other things are fighting for attention.
“Rita!”
I look up, and a flashbulb goes off. Three reporters thrust microphones into my face.
“What happened at Poison Wood?”
“Did you kill Archibald Crowley?”
“Why haven’t you ever publicly discussed your mother’s death?”
The valet brings the truck around, and I push my way to the driver’s side.
“Did your father protect you, Rita?”
“Have you apologized to Johnny Adair?”
I slam the door shut and look away from the flashbulbs. I fumble with the gear shift and manage to get it into drive and punch the gas with no regard for how close they are. One of them bangs on the back window, and I jump and scream as I lurch into the light traffic, rooting for my phone and shooting off a text.
We need to meet. As soon as possible.
