DANVERS:Do you have any idea where she is?
SILVERMAN: (laughs)What’s happenin’ now is that the US Marshals have taken over the operation. Burke isn’t runnin’ shit, if you’ll pardon my French. And I don’t think voters are going to be all that thrilled to learn the federal government has taken over law enforcement operations in Madera County. That’s not how I plan to run things, take my word.
DANVERS:So in your expert opinion, Cara is no closer to being apprehended today than she was yesterday?
SILVERMAN:She’s in the wind.
DANVERS:With the wildfire, wild animals, and incompetent law enforcement, I’m worried she can’t survive out there much longer.
SILVERMAN:I guess that could be a silver lining. Maybe the taxpayers are off the hook for her lifetime room and board.
DANVERS:To be clear, I believe Cara Campbell is innocent.
SILVERMAN:I’ve met my fair share of gold diggers, and believe you me, innocent ain’t a word I’d ever use.
DANVERS:If Cara is going to come through this safe, we have to find her first. Crime Fam, if you see something, say something—to me!
DAY THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
CARA
Hey y’all, check out my new dance. I call it rich lady dancing with bears.
—@tiktokB00M
As Cara inhaled the aromas of nutty coffee and crisp pine with subtle notes of musty loam, she felt safe, warm, and protected. She was in Ojai, glamping with Karl.
Or were they in the Sahara?
Cozy beneath the fluffy duvet of a king-sized, four-poster bed in a tent appointed with colorful rugs and priceless Moroccan antiques, they snuggled together, drinking spiced tea he’d brewed for them and gazing out the window at the dunes they planned to zip-line over at sunset. Setting aside his mug, Karl leaned over and kissed her passionately.
“Your love is worth all my gold,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes with his baby blues. “What’s left of it.”
Then her lawyer, Roy Abel, entered through the tent’s open flap holding a hammer wrapped in an evidence bag.
“Did you forget something?” he asked.
Laughing, he rushed toward them and began hitting Karl in the head.
Cara reached out to stop the attack but couldn’t. The bed was gone. She was sinking into the sand.
Why was Abel wearing a black ski mask? She hooked her thumbs into the mask’s eyeholes and pulled it off. It wasn’t Abel—it was the grandmotherly jury foreman, her purple hair glowing menacingly.
Then she morphed into Cara’s stepdaughter, Taylor.
“Guilty as charged!” Taylor said, aiming her hammer at Cara.
“Over my dead body,” Karl said. He laughed, like he always did, at his own joke.
The bright red blood spewing from the top of his head was anything but funny.
Cara screamed and opened her eyes.
She definitely wasn’t glamping. She wasn’t even in a tent. She was lying on hard, rocky ground, looking up at a pine tree and sweating in a mildewed sleeping bag. Her mouth was so dusty she must have been inhaling dirt while she slept.
Fisk was crouched next to a small gas stove, watching her as he stirred instant coffee in a banged-up metal camping cup.
