“Honestly? Money just showed up in my account on the first of every month, and I never questioned it.”
Fisk flashed Rae a look that said,I told you so.
“Yes, I was a fool, which is why I have to figure out was going on. It was a bombshell, at least to me, and that’s the only lead that wasn’t looked into.” Cara met Rae’s gaze. “So, I’m going to follow it.”
“Too bad it took all this for you to pay attention to your personal finances.”
“The irony is not lost on me, believe me.”
“I’ve never had enough money to lose track of,” Rae said, but with a conciliatory tone.
Relieved, Cara started eating. She hadn’t had tater tots since she was a kid, and they tasted exactly the same now: crispy and slightly frost-bitten.
“Do you have anyone who can help you?” Rae asked.
“Karl’s aunt still stands by me, but she lives in a nursing home. My best friend, Stephanie, will probably help. I’m thinking I’ll contact my lawyer first.”
“We don’t trust lawyers as far as we can throw them,” Rae said. “Do we, Fisk?”
Fisk shook his head.
“And yours failed you,” Rae pointed out.
“He did, but he also promised me it wasn’t over. I can’t imagine me escaping was what he meant by that. He at least owes me more information from the forensic accountant—he clearly wasn’t ready for what the guy said in court.”
“Isn’t your lawyer obligated to tell the police you contacted him?” Rae asked.
“I’m just going to talk to him, not tell him where I am.”
“You should run my wig theory by him,” Fisk said.
“What’s that?” Rae asked.
Cara sighed. “My husband’s killer had long, blond hair. Fisk thinks it might not have been real.”
Fisk yawned and pushed back from the table. “You ladies can keep working through this, but it’s time for me to brush my teeth and hit the hay.”
“Nose trimmers are in the top drawer,” Rae told him, giving him a tender pat on the behind.
“Yes, dear.”
Rae stood up as he went into the other room. “I better go with him. He needs his ears done, too.”
Cara was left alone at the table, her heart aching for Karl and their own everyday moments, forever extinguished. As she leaned forward to pluck a worn cloth napkin out of an agate napkin holder, the glowing power light from the computer in the front room caught her eye.
Beckoning her.
During the trial, she’d avoided social media and press coverage. But now she wanted to know everything.
While electric toothbrushes whirred behind the closed bathroom door, she crossed the room to the computer and jiggled the mouse. The screen illuminated the room, revealing a piece of paper with all of Rae’s passwords taped to the desk by the mouse pad.
Fisk playfully protested in the next room—it sounded as though Rae had begun grooming him in earnest—as Cara logged in and googled her name.
The search results went on for innumerable pages, but the accident, her escape, and the intensifying search were top stories. So, too, were the fires hampering efforts to find her. According to theModesto Bee, a tip line was already inundated with calls. There was video of a press conference given by Sheriff Jordan Burke she couldn’t watch without turning up the sound and a link to Dylan Danvers’s latest episode on Spotify she definitely did want to hear.
“Jesus, Rae!” Fisk hooted. “Are you trying to kill me?”
It had been six months since Cara logged into Instagram and there were now thousands of unread DMs. She was about to open one from a user called @TotesTeamCara when the commotion in the bathroom stopped.
