EIGHTY
CARA
F this and F you. Do it, @Carasloveisgold!
—@socialmedpsychic414
If Ajila had been telling the truth—and weirdly, it seemed like she was—then Cara had exhausted every possible lead. Forest Lawn Cemetery was the only place left to go.
She would be easy to find here, and maybe the authorities had already been alerted by the guard at the gate and were on their way with lights flashing and sirens screaming. Maybe Sheriff Burke was still with them, determined to track her to the gates of hell if needed.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She was where she was meant to be. All she needed was a moment to sit in the grass beside Karl. That was reason enough for her running, for all she had endured over the previous seven days.
She could keep running. She now knew how to forage for food and stay warm in the woods, but who was she kidding? And while she could probably keep moving from place to place around LA—for a while, anyway—her money would run out.Even if she managed to make her way across the border, she would always be on the run. Forever known as the Influencer Murderer, the Gold-Digger Killer, or some other stupid nickname, reviled for a crime she could never have committed.
Maybe Mexico was the answer—at least the true-crime shows about her would be in Spanish, so she wouldn’t know what people were saying about her.
Cara parked the car and got out, squinting into the red setting sun as she walked across the vast expanse of grass toward Karl’s final resting place. Nearby, a group of tourists was daring each other to hop the rope guarding the marble crypt where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard were interred. She waited for them to chicken out, then kneeled, running her fingers lightly over the flat grave marker. The letters of her husband’s name. The numbers that recorded the dates of his birth and death.
She took out her phone—a new one. Dylan had told her to get rid of the old one immediately after their call. She logged in to Instagram, no longer caring who was tracking her activity.
Roy Abel had tagged her in several public posts, pleading with her to get in touch. Stephanie had sent her a DM.
I PROMISE I didn’t tell them where you were. I told them you wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near the beach, but somehow they still figured it out.
Ignoring them both, she messaged Taylor:I’m so sorry we both lost the man we loved. My only regret is that I won’t be there to support you.
It was time to make her final post.
She took a picture of Karl’s grave marker, then inserted a heart emoji, followed by a broken-heart emoji.
I loved this man so much,she wrote.But there’s nothing else I can say or do to make you believe me.
The moment she pressed post, comments began to flood in.
Do it, Murderer.
They say nothing is bad enough to end it all over, although I admit this is a close call...
Cara, DM me or call me and I’ll come get you. As your lawyer and friend, I promise there are still legal avenues we haven’t exhausted.
Please get in touch IMMEDIATELY we have a KILLER sponsorship opp for you
Cara was just so tired. She stretched out in the grass, laying her head on the cool granite slab. She closed her eyes, wishing she could sleep forever and never wake up.
Then her phone rang.
EIGHTY-ONE
JORDAN
To 8201 Chelan Drive, Los Angeles, CA. 1 hr. 52 min. 34.9 miles. Expected arrival time 8:15 p.m.
—Google Maps
Jordan’s luck with traffic had finally run out.
He should never have gotten on the 10, despite Google’s recommendation, a mistake he realized as soon as the yellow traffic-flow indicator turned bright red. He had no idea how the system worked, just as he had no idea how the city’s traffic could stop on a dime for no apparent reason.
