Out of breath and starving, she collapsed onto the rocky ground. She hadn’t allowed herself to eat, telling herself it was the same as intermittent fasting. But she couldn’t take it anymore. She tore open the wrapper of the Clif bar and took a ravenous bite. As she chewed it into a dry, white chocolaty paste, she knew she needed something even more than food: water.
She was so thirsty.
EIGHT
JORDAN
Big accident on 41. No way anyone survived.
—@madera_watchdawg
The prisoner’s name was LaDonna Williams, which she spelled for him, stressing the capital D, as she got dressed in the A-frame’s bedroom. She managed to preserve her modesty by facing away from him and using the towel to cover her torso while putting her orange jumpsuit back on. As Jordan cuffed her, he saw her look longingly at the civilian clothes she’d picked out, still stacked neatly on the bed.
“I wasn’t paying attention, you know, because I wasn’tdriving,” she told him after he had walked her up the dirt driveway and settled her in the caged rear seat of his vehicle. “It all happened so fast.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just this pickup truck coming right at us—in our lane!”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“I think it was a girl. She must have had a death wish or something. This is going to add to my time, isn’t it?”
Jordan looked to his left and then pulled onto the highway. “You didn’t think to stay at the crash site?”
“The gas tanks were probably about to explode or something. I was afraid for mylife.”
“You can save that story for the prosecutor. It’s not my call whether they charge you or not.”
“Can you put in a word for me, though?” she pleaded.
“I will testify that you did not resist recapture and that you surrendered peaceably.”
His answer seemed to satisfy LaDonna, who leaned back in her seat. “That’s right. I’m about the most peaceable bitch you will ever hope to meet.”
Traffic was now backed up almost half a mile before the wreck, so Jordan turned on his flashers and drove in the empty left-hand lane, scaring several gawkers back into their cars with whoops from his siren. When he reached the wreck site, it was swarming with first responders. He parked and got out.
“Sit tight,” he told LaDonna.
She batted her eyelashes. “I’ll be good, officer.”
Jordan counted one fire rescue truck, two ambulances, a half-dozen sheriff’s vehicles identical to his, and a county wrecker. Everyone was busy, and distant sirens signaled even more help was incoming. Nodding at the new kid on traffic duty, Jordan headed for Beto, who was straddling the center line with his arms folded. Beto may have looked still as a statue, but Jordan knew he was watching everything and running the show.
Bree’s truck had been opened like a tin can, and the cab was bloody but empty. When Jordan reached Beto, he tilted his head toward it.
“Did the pickup driver make it?”
“They’re taking her to Valley Children’s. The EMTs got her breathing, but they didn’t look too hopeful.”
Jordan’s chest felt heavy. He looked down. The blood streaking his fingers was Bree’s. “She’s a friend of Sydney’s.”
His chief deputy groaned. “Goddamn it. I’m sorry.”
“It was probably her fault. LaDonna says she was in the wrong lane.”
“LaDonna?”
“The prisoner. I picked her up about a mile north.”
