“It’s fine,” I say, and I hurry for the escalator that leads to the rental-car stations. As I’m walking away I feel him watching me, but I don’t look back.
I head to the rental-car desk. The clerk looks twelve. I pull out my ID. “I have a reservation under Rita Meade.”
He just looks at me.
I look over my shoulder, then back to him. “Reservation. Rita Meade.”
“Damn, it’s really you,” he says. “I been reading about you. Saw that documentary-series thing you did on that town in South Louisiana. That’s some creepy shit.” He leans forward and lowers his voice as if we are in cahoots. “Are you here for another story?”
My stomach drops. “No. I’m here for a car.”
He straightens. “Right. Yeah. Well, you’re not going to get one here.”
“What are you talking about? I have a reservation.”
“Reservations don’t guarantee cars. People rent them here and don’t bring them back on time. Happens every day.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“Nope.”
I look at the booth next to his, and he says, “They don’t got any either. We’re all out.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m clinging for dear life to the seat in front of me in the back of a Dodge Charger going ninety on I-20.
“I said I’m going to the hospital, not that I want to be in the hospital,” I say over the loud death metal music to my Lyft driver. “Can you slow down?”
The driver eases up on the gas, slightly. I’m guessing his spare time is spent playingGrand Theft Autoor watchingFast & Furious.
My phone rings, and I answer it without looking who it is.
“You at the hospital yet?” Carl says.
“Not yet.”
“He’s gonna be okay,” Carl says. “He’s tough.”
Carl has known my dad since he and I teamed up. They met when Carl and I drove through Riverbend to cover a story in Mississippi years ago. We stayed overnight with Dad, and Carl entertained him with stories of when he’d been in the NFL. A shattered left leg suffered during a motorcycle crash had ended that dream but put him on the road to becoming an award-winning camera guy. He always sees the bad things coming. Speaking of.
“What’s happening with Laura Sanders?”
“Have you talked to Dom?”
I tap my nails on my leg. “Not yet. But I will. I promise. Just tell me what’s going on there.”
He’s quiet for a second, and right before I start to repeat myself, he says, “Jumped in on a scrum a few hours ago. Brief press conference by Mulholland. Only local reporters and me. This one is not out yet. Butthe clock’s ticking. Marshall Sanders is a handsome rich dude whose blond wife washed up on a beach. This ain’t staying quiet long.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Keep me updated on Judge Mac.”
We hang up as the Charger whips off the interstate and takes a screeching left through a yellow light before sliding into the ER entrance of Valleyview Hospital.
I climb out, retrieve my bag from the trunk, and race for the door. I check my phone again. Debby texted for me to go to the fourth floor. ICU.
I spot a bank of elevators down the back hall and suddenly feel the need to run.
The elevator door opens on the fourth floor. It’s empty except for a small woman with a blond bouffant that would make Dolly Parton swoon, sitting alone, staring at her phone.
