“Pick up,” he said, hearing the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Come on, damn it!” With the phone tucked to his ear, he turned the truck around, then hit the gas and started racing down the lane leading to the county road. He heard her phone click to voice mail. Damn! “Saw you take off. What’s up? Call me.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat.
Why the hell hadn’t she told him where she was going?
The simple answer was that she didn’t want him to know.
“Screw that,” he ground out as he reached the county highway and, with a quick look in either direction, cranked the wheel.
Fishtailing, the truck slid on the wet pavement before the tires caught. His cell phone jangled and he saw it was Carter. He picked up and wrestled with the idea of asking him if Jenna had heard from Cassie, but decided Carter would share that info if he had it and he didn’t want to worry Cassie’s parents . . . yet.
“Kittle.”
Carter’s voice was deep. Serious. “You saw my message about the tri-county area,” he stated.
“Yeah, just got it.”
“Sparks found about seven more scattered around the state, but the thing of it is, there are no Oregon license plates with an image of any kind of bucking bronco. Wyoming? Yes. Oregon? No.”
Of course, that would have been far too easy, Trent thought, scowling through the windshield as the truck’s tires sang against the wet pavement.
“So either your info is faulty, or you misunderstood.”
“He said a bucking bronc. I was there.” Frustrated, Trent snorted through his nose. He’d almost known this would turn out badly.
“Could he have been talking about the license plate holder? Not the plate itself, but some kind of decorative bracket fixing the plate to the SUV?”
“Maybe. But he seemed pretty sure of himself.” Of course Rinko was a patient in a mental hospital so he lost some credibility there.
“There are plate holders with any kind of image you want, you know. Like the name of the dealership, or if you’re a sports fan, you can get one for your favorite team, like the Trailblazers or the Oregon Ducks or Oregon State Beavers or whatever. Also, local dealerships offer to decorate plate holders.”
To Trent, looking for a decorative license plate holder with a horse on it was a long shot, a stab in the dark.
But what else did they have to go on?
“Sounds good,” he said, and clicked off, then turned the wipers onto the fastest speed offered. He tried his wife’s mobile number again.
Of course, she didn’t pick up.
His jaw slid to the side and he squinted into the darkness.
What the hell was she up to?
ACT III
Absently rubbing the scratches on her wrist, she stalked the perimeter of her room, barely eight by ten and dominated by her dressing table with its vanity mirror. A small window was cut into one wall. The other three were covered with large posters, mounted carefully. Each was from a movie starring either Jenna Hughes or Allie Kramer, one butting up to the next, a collage of pictures of the women in their most celebrated roles. There were other images on the posters, some with their costars’ faces, but dominating each poster was a close-up of Jenna or her famous daughter.
Her stomach curled as she surveyed them, but she took in each individual poster, her eyes tracing the fine lines of the women’s expressions, of their features, the sensual mouths, large eyes, and different noses. Always Allie appeared a pixieish, younger version of her mother, but the resemblance was evident, caught by the camera’s eye.
Bile rose in her throat as she walked past the posters, circling the room, eyeing each print.
She felt edgy.
Fidgety.
Anxious.
It was time again, she knew. She couldn’t fight the demons much longer, nor did she want to.
Which one? she wondered, retracing her footsteps as she slowly walked the perimeter of this, her safe place. Which one would be best?
It had to be of Jenna.
For tonight.
She made six circuits. Each time the poster with Jenna portraying Zoey Trammel called to her and seemed to follow her with her eyes. “You,” she said to the image of Jenna in a wide-brimmed hat, her head turned to look over her shoulder, her lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Zoey.”
