CHAPTER SIX
The sky had grown dark as the thunderstorm moved in. Nearly every afternoon they’d come, big billowy towers of clouds around lunchtime that turned into a dark menacing mantle covering the sky a few hours later. Sometimes the rain would last only a few minutes, sometimes for an hour or more, but always, there was the lightning.
And the thunder.
Sara knew she should have been used to it by now, but she wasn’t. Every time the thunder clapped she’d jump, then pull the blanket tight around her as she huddled on the couch, as far from the windows as she could get. That was the only place she felt even remotely safe.
She’d tried the bathroom once. It had only the one frosted window, and not being able to see turned out to be worse. So she stayed in the main room, and cowered as the bright flashes and thunderous roars of each storm ran its course.
As much as it terrified her, it was, in an odd way, her favorite part of the day. For however long a storm would last, she could forget about everything else, and think only of the light and the sound and the rain and the darkness. Because when the clouds cleared away, the real world returned, and when that happened, everything came rushing back.
Even when she tried to draw, something that had always been her escape before, she couldn’t forget and would end up pushing her sketchbook away.
Her overriding worry was that she had waited too long to disappear. It didn’t matter that nearly seven weeks had passed without anything happening. They’d already been closing in, forcing the change of plans and hastening her departure.
“A quick trip to celebrate,” she’d suggested. She smiled, though inside she’d never felt more horrible. “Just the two of us, in San Diego.” She had already arranged for Rachel to watch Emily, and though she knew her husband had work he’d been planning on doing that weekend, she’d convinced him to go.
But even rushing things, had it been too late? If yes, she didn’t know what she’d do. The pain would be… unbearable.
Outside everything suddenly glowed white. She didn’t see where the lightning struck, but it was
She didn’t even know she was yelling until the noise in the sky began to die. Without a doubt, that was the closest she’d come to being hit since she’d arrived.
Putting her hands over her head, she curled into a ball.
All she could think about was the nightmare outside.
Terrifying and nerve-fraying.
And freeing.
If only for a little while.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Callie said over the phone. “Anything you need, just let me know and I’ll take care of it.”
“I’d like to talk to that PI you hired,” Logan told her. He was sitting in the El Camino in the parking lot of the University Place Inn. Harp and Barney were in the office arranging rooms for the night.
“Absolutely. Let me give him a call and see when I can get you in.”
“Thanks.”
Three minutes later, Logan’s two traveling mates walked back outside. Instead of getting in, Barney headed down the walkway along the three-story motel, while Harp walked around to the driver’s window of the El Camino, motioning for Logan to roll it down.
“We’re on the first floor near the back. One twenty-three and one twenty-four,” Harp said. He handed one of the keys through the window, then headed off after his WAMO buddy.
As soon as Logan was parked in front of the rooms, they all got their bags out of the back and split up. Logan’s room was a balmy eight-two degrees, so he fiddled with the thermostat until the air conditioner clicked on. The temperature was just starting to get bearable when his phone rang.
“Fulkerson said he’d see you whenever you could get to his office,” Callie told him.
“Hold on.” Logan searched for paper and a pen, finding them in the nightstand drawer. “All right. What’s his address?”
She gave it to him. “Call me if you need anything else. Whatever it is, I’ll make it happen.”
When Logan stopped by Harp and Barney’s room on the way out, his dad, of course, wanted to come along, but Logan told him it would be easier if he saw Joe Fulkerson on his own.
As he was starting up his car, Harp rushed out of his room.
Logan leaned through his open window. “Dad, I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”
“What?” Harp said, confused.
“I need to do this alone.”
“You already made that clear. I just…I just forgot something.”
Now it was Logan’s turn to be confused.
Harp pointed toward the passenger side of the truck. Sitting on the bench seat was the padded envelope Callie had given Harp back in Sausalito. Logan could see the copy of
“Thank you,” Harp said, clutching it with one arm against his torso.
Logan could see a million thoughts and emotions racing through his father’s eyes. He wished he knew the right thing to say, something that would get his father to open up and talk, but he was afraid anything he might try would cause Harp to clam up completely.
So Logan simply smiled and said, “No problem.”
Joe Fulkerson’s office was in an old, brown, brick building several miles from the university. The sign on the door said FNR Investigations, and it appeared to take up half of the fourth floor.
Logan waited in the lobby for less than two minutes before an older Latina led him into the inner workings of FNR. The few single offices he saw were along the outside walls, taking up prime window territory. Most of the employees, though, seemed to work in a large bullpen area of high walled cubicles.
Fulkerson was not in a cubicle. He had a corner office that looked toward the smog-hidden mountains. His desk was an old metal monstrosity that seemed out of place with the rest of the furnishings. Joe was sitting behind the desk, squinting at a computer monitor. He was a thin, middle-aged man who’d buzzed what little hair he had left on his head as close to his skin as he could without shaving it off. It was what Joaquin back at Dunn Right liked to call the full Captain Picard.
“Mr. Fulkerson?” the woman said. “This is Mr. Harper.”
Fulkerson immediately rose from his chair, a large smile appearing on his face. With unnecessary enthusiasm, he came around the desk and extended his hand.
“Mr. Harper. Thanks for coming down.”
They shook.
“You can call me Logan.”
“And I’m Joe.” Fulkerson glanced at the woman. “Thank you, Mary.”
She smiled and left.
Fulkerson motioned toward the guest chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.” Once they were both settled, he said, “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
They looked at each other for a moment, then Fulkerson leaned forward. “So Mrs. Johnson says you have
