She glanced at the screen—11:38 p.m.—and decided not to wake Martin.
What if the dead girl was Izzy? Another thought trickled into her mind. What if it was Dominique? What if Izzy was heading to this place all along—either to join her, or maybe try to save her?
Cassidy closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against the glass. A scene formed in her head where Izzy was running across a field of dry grass, her blonde hair swinging wildly, and a man in thick black boots catching her. A shiver chilled her skin.
Izzy could have hitched a ride from somewhere near Charlie’s cabin in Bend to Mt. Shasta. The distance wasn’t far—probably only three or four hours. Izzy could have arrived as early as mid-morning.
Then Izzy drifted away with nothing but the clothes on her back and what was left of her money. From the images of the biker rally on the TV, it appeared as though the party lasted all day. Given that Izzy was experiencing a major crisis, it made perfect sense that she would be looking for an escape. Maybe while trying to figure out what to do.
A wave of heaviness began its slow, deliberate cascade, filling her feet, then her legs, her pelvis with what felt like wet sand. She sank into the desk chair, tossing her phone to the bed. Holding her head in her hands, she heard her breathing rattle in her chest. Rationally, she knew that she was safe inside a hotel room, that she was not watching Izzy die, but her thoughts wouldn’t obey.
The sound of the motorcycle’s grinding, shuddering engine blared in her ears. She imagined herself on the back, holding the biker’s waist as he accelerated out of a turn. Cassidy’s hands began to shake. Is it my fault? she thought.
A flash of memory from a certain road in San Francisco crawled into her mind. The bike cutting through the dark, with Pete at the wheel, gunning it, going too fast on that curve. She remembered the police report listing Pete’s likely speed and the intersecting skid marks burned into the road.
The past pulled at her. She went back to the hospital room, and the image of Pete’s broken body, the motionless hands that would never hold her again.
A pain broke through the stillness and Cassidy pushed against it, pushed past the noises rushing in her ears and the smell of the hospital room’s starch and medicine, pushed hard.
No! Cassidy jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over.
I will not, she told herself, balling her fists.
Calming herself with a shaky breath that made her throat feel even tighter, she lay down on the bed. Her phone was nearby, and she tapped open a web browser, then searched for any updates on the news story. But there was nothing new.
Cassidy understood that of course Preston Ford knew about the murdered young woman by now—he probably owned the news channel that broadcast it. Did he think it was Izzy? Was he right now mounting a giant investigation? Was he on his way to Mt. Shasta to get to the bottom of it? Cassidy slumped onto the pillows. The air conditioner fan kicked on, grinding loudly. She slipped under the thin sheet, suddenly shivering.
She remembered the look in Charlie’s eyes—his normal easy charm no match for his fear. Had he been lying to her? Cassidy had the feeling that he wasn’t telling her everything about what happened between them, but if Izzy was dead, it didn’t matter now.
With the lights off, Cassidy tried to empty her mind, knowing that she would not sleep but hoping for some kind of mental downshift that would pass as rest. She tried distracting herself with thoughts of her new lab, of the coming of fall, and of her many projects. She imagined arriving in Hawaii, her team assembling for the brutal workload she had planned. Most of her gear had been shipped there in advance, but some items she needed to buy on the island, like car batteries and the solar panels. If she returned home in the morning, she would have just enough time to finishing packing and make her flight. But what if Izzy was dead? Would she be able to turn her back on the girl, even then?
Her thoughts bounced from project to questions to bits of memory from her day, but in the back of her mind, the troubling images from the television continued to churn. Who would do such a thing to a young woman? What threat could she possibly have presented? The images from Cody’s video returned despite her efforts to ignore them. Once again, she tried to understand Izzy’s motivations.
She put herself in the young woman’s mindset, beginning at Charlie’s house. I find out that instead of making a little extra cash from a night of fun, someone I trust tries to blackmail my dad about it. I call him, try to understand why he would do this, but it ends in an argument. Then, I hitch a ride with someone headed to a party in California, maybe to see a friend in trouble. When we arrive, I have no place to stay, my dad’s cut me off so I’m almost out of money. Then . . .
Then what? It seemed Izzy was no stranger to creative moneymaking. Would she do something at the party to make money? Something that in the end, put her life in jeopardy? Cassidy remembered seeing a film many years ago about how young girls were used as mules to smuggle drugs across borders. Would Izzy do something like that, but the deal went wrong somehow?
The image of Mel’s face hovering over her
