A little over a year ago she had donated Pete’s old Jetta. It had been one of the hardest things to part with because it still smelled like him, and because of the memories it held.
“Hey, you okay?” Dutch asked.
Cassidy stood. “Thank you for the help,” she said, not looking at him.
He didn’t reply, and she finally looked at him. The bemused smile was gone, replaced by a stillness in his eyes that grounded her. But it was too much, and she quickly glanced away.
Gary waved her over, then climbed into the cab.
“I’ll follow you there, make sure you can get into the lot,” Dutch said.
Cassidy felt a jolt of emotion. “You don’t have to do that,” she protested.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Cassidy watched him carefully for a moment, then turned and stepped to her side of the tow truck.
Inside the cab, Cassidy asked permission to charge her phone, and when Gary grunted his consent, she attached the cord and set her phone on the console.
“Friend of yours?” Gary asked as they pulled onto the freeway and Dutch’s engine revved up behind them.
“Not really,” Cassidy said, and looked out the window. The cab felt stuffy even though Gary had cranked the A/C. She watched Dutch in her side mirror, his expression completely calm, his posture confident, at ease, as if nothing in the world could knock him from his throne.
Gary shook his head, adjusted his haunches.
Feeling uneasy, Cassidy watched him for more, but he kept quiet. The radio played country music low in the background. Soon they were crossing a section of Shasta Lake, its indigo waters being plied by power boats, the shores lined with a brown rim like rings in a bathtub—wave deposits for each level of the reservoir’s storage. Scattered in the prickly-looking trees, she noticed a campground and nearby beach and swimming area enclosed by a string of buoys.
By the time they pulled into the parking lot for Shane’s Automotive, Cassidy had used her phone’s web browser to locate the airport and the rental car agencies and name of a local taxi service. But where should she go? Home to Seattle or on to San Francisco?
The obvious choice was Seattle. Even though it was cutting it close, she might still make her flight. She could close the door on the search for Izzy and move on to the exciting task of working on the flank of an active volcano. She would take a helicopter flight over the destruction zone, observe the rare event of lava flowing into the sea. Maybe she could even fit in a day of surfing, after the work was complete.
But leaving California without knowing Izzy was safe felt wrong, like a betrayal. She’s gone from one bad decision to the next, each one becoming more dangerous, Cassidy thought again. Like she’s spinning out of control.
Who would rescue her? Not Preston Ford, she realized.
Gary got out of the cab just as a battered blue truck turned into the driveway, followed by Dutch. A man in black sunglasses, jeans, and boots, climbed down from the truck. He and Dutch embraced man-hug style, and then Gary began to unhook her car.
Cassidy unplugged her phone from the dash. The screen lit up with the usual series of voicemail messages, but one had a name that made her freeze. She stared at the screen as the sounds of the men talking faded to nothing and her heart thudded hard into her temples. She pressed the “play” button then squeezed the phone against her ear.
There was a long pause where Cassidy could hear nothing, then, as if from far away, a sound. Cassidy plugged her other ear and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus every ounce of energy on the noise. Was someone whispering? The recording ended and she immediately tapped “play” again, cranking the volume and blocking out all other sensory input.
Again, the long pause, where she heard a complete absence of sound, as if the recording was made in a vacuum. And then she heard it, so faint but Cassidy felt sure now: weeping, soft and constant, as if the person in distress was trying to hide it. Just when Cassidy identified this, the voice spoke, but it was so indistinct that Cassidy didn’t catch it. She played it again, straining to hear the words. This time, she caught them: “I’m sorry.”
The tow truck cab door was yanked open, startling her.
“You waiting for an invitation, princess?” Dutch growled. Cassidy blinked, noticing her car locked behind a chain-link fence. The tow truck driver stood on the back of his rig, reconfiguring his gear for the next tow.
Dutch’s scowl softened when he saw the look on her face. “What?” he said.
“It’s Izzy,” Cassidy whispered.
She quickly called Richard while Dutch watched her with scowling eyes. “I need Preston Ford’s number,” she said.
“Why? What’s happened?” Richard asked.
“I just got a message from Izzy. She’s in trouble.”
“Did she say where she is?” Richard asked.
“No, I’m not even sure she knew the phone was on.” The possibility had occurred to her that the phone had called Cassidy automatically somehow. Maybe one of Cassidy’s messages was at the top of her call log, and had been accidentally triggered. But was Izzy apologizing to Cassidy? Or someone else?
“Well, I can call him and let him know.”
“Richard, can’t you just give me the number? I promise I won’t abuse it.”
“Alright,” Richard said softly.
Cassidy copied down the number on her hand, then dialed, bracing herself.
“Yes,” a deep, rich voice answered.
Cassidy introduced herself, then launched into the news. “I just got a call from Izzy. She sounded upset, like she might be in trouble.”
“Did she say where she was?” he asked.
“No,” Cassidy replied.
Cassidy waited through a long silence, wondering if the call dropped.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “If she calls back, don’t hesitate to call me at this number.”
“So, are you going to
