I follow Marshall Sanders’s car over a short bridge and into the drive-through lane of Raising Cane’s chicken. I stay close and inch through the line behind him. The press, former students, and their parents aren’t the only people being drawn to this town. I run through options of what to say to him when we get to wherever it is he’ll lead me.
I text Katrina that I’ll call in a bit, then ease the truck up to the speaker box. It’s my time to order. Fried chicken strips are not on my diet, ever, but that, fries, and Texas toast are all that’s offered here. I lower my window.
“Hey, good lookin’, what can I get cookin’?” a woman says.
I roll my eyes and scan my options, which include chicken strips or chicken strips. I pick a combo. She tells me the price, and I pull up behind Marshall again. When it’s my turn at the window, I keep my eyes on Marshall’s car as I pay. The smell coming from the Styrofoam container as I pull away has my stomach rumbling like there’s a primal need inside me that has been ignored for far too long.
As I follow Marshall out of the lot and back through town, I open the lid and take a bite of the Texas toast inside and almost whimper when I eat it.
Marshall pulls into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn Express near the interstate, and I count five white vans in the parking lot. One saysNCNon the side. I want to get to him before they do. He parks on the side of the building, and I pull up behind his parked car and lower my window.
When he steps out, I say, “Marshall Sanders.”
He looks up, fight or flight in his eyes. He takes his daughter’s hand, who has gotten out of the car as well. She looks at me and smiles.
“I remember you,” she says.
Marshall squints at me; then recognition dawns on his face. “No comment.”
“I’m not here for a comment, Marshall. I just want to talk. Off the record.” I glance toward the front of the hotel. “And you may not want to take her in there right now.”
He looks between me and the building.
I hold up my bag of food. “Maybe we could have lunch together?”
A group of reporters exits the front of the hotel, Carl and Erin among them. Marshall pulls his daughter closer.
“One lunch,” I say. “That’s it.” I nod toward the cluster of reporters. “It will be better than that.”
Carl spots me; then Erin follows his gaze.
“Get in,” I say.
Marshall walks his daughter to the passenger side of the truck and helps her into the back seat; then he climbs up next to me. I peer over my shoulder and back out as Carl and Erin start toward us. I swing the truck around and pull out of the lot before they can get too close. My phone starts ringing as I head back for town. Marshall is watching me like he is regretting his impulsive decision. His daughter has buckled her seat belt and meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Let’s find a place to talk before you have to deal with all of that,” I say to Marshall.
I turn down a side street and pull over. I grab my phone and call Grant.
“Hey,” I say when he answers. “Are you at that bed-and-breakfast you told me about?”
“No. But I will be later,” he says.
“Any way I could go by there for a bit?”
“Yeah. Of course. You’ll be the only one there. The owner left me a note saying she had a family emergency, so I’ve got the place to myself.”
“Can you send me the address?” I say, cutting him off.
“Oh, sure. Are you—”
“I’ll explain later,” I say and hang up.
I click the link he sends and follow the directions through the narrow windy streets to a small Southern cottage with dark-green shutters, white columns, and dormer windows in the roof. A plaque planted in the front lawn says it was built in 1855. I keep driving and find a place to park a few streets over.
I grab my bag of food. “Let’s go.”
Marshall and his daughter follow me on the oak-lined street to the bed-and-breakfast. There’s no keypad on the front door, and it’s unlocked. What is this place?
