Carried away by good feelings, she paused the current episode. Skipping his conversations with Taylor and some guy running to be the next Madera sheriff, she cued up “Episode Four: The Trial,” just to hear it again. She basked in warm fuzzies as Dylan leaned into the showboating of the Ventura County Coroner, mocking his incompetence. When he made fun of the man’s Prada loafers she almost cheered.
She was only halfway through when the back door of the quiet car whooshed open and the conductor entered—apparently, to conduct a random ticket check. As the first passenger reached into his wallet to show the photo ID thatmatched his confirmed fare, Cara rose and headed for the snack bar as quickly as she could without running.
From the snack bar, she moved to another quiet car, and then into a restroom. Locked inside, Cara quickly found Dylan on Insta and slid into his DMs with a simple message.
It’s me, Cara Campbell. I need to talk to you. ASAP.
DAY SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
CARA
A beautiful and historic train station with lots to see and do inside and out. Make sure you know where you’re headed when you get there because it’s easy to get lost in Downtown LA.?????(5 stars!)
—Kim L., Atlanta, GA, TripAdvisor
As the train made its way east toward Santa Barbara, hugging the coast, Cara studied the public transit options between Union Station in Downtown LA and the safe house in the San Fernando Valley. Metrolink was the quickest option and would get her directly to Reseda in forty-five minutes. The bus would take at least twice as long and would require her to make transfers, but the White Oak stop was very close to the address she’d been given. She wouldn’t take a cab unless she absolutely had to.
Cara checked her DMs for the millionth time.
Still nothing from Dylan Danvers.
She dodged the conductor all night, until he finally stopped walking from car to car. Her eyelids were so heavy that shefinally allowed them to close, sleeping in a window seat for the last thirty minutes of the train ride.
The squeal of metal on metal woke her abruptly. She opened her eyes to see downtown high-rises, old warehouses, and graffitied stucco. The train slowed steadily as it approached the raised platforms above the sprawling, Spanish-style Union Station.
Cara had attended a Children’s Hospital gala in the gold-and-brown-tiled art deco ticketing concourse and a wine festival on the tree-lined north patio but had never actually arrived at the station on board a train. At those events, she’d been a VIP. She was today, too, although anyone waiting to greet her would be in uniform and offering not to take her jacket but handcuff her. And instead of looking distinctive in Carolina Herrera, or edgy in Rachel Comey or another hot local designer, she was dressed to fit in. If only she had luggage. Its absence was a dead giveaway.
Spotting a frail-looking elderly woman trying to wrestle her luggage out of the overhead storage bins, she hurried to help.
“Can I help you with that?”
“Thank you, dear,” the old gal said gratefully.
Cara was relieved to note the woman’s hair color also came out of a bottle and was strikingly similar to hers. As she lugged the bag off the train and onto the platform, the two of them probably looked enough like mother and daughter that no one gave them a second glance.
They emerged into a cavernous passageway that smelled of urine and hot pretzels. Cara lingered, chatting with the woman, until she met up with a potbellied, middle-aged man who appeared to be her actual offspring.
Cara headed for the Metro Rail tunnel toward the front of the station but stopped when she got there. An LAPD cop was standing at the entrance, watching faces with what looked like professional interest. Plan B, then.
The bus left in ten minutes, but to reach it, Cara had to pass a gauntlet of tunnels, some of them also guarded by policemen. Her throat went dry. Were they here for her? The station was busy, but not so crowded they couldn’t see everyone passing by.
Whenever she was passed over for a part, her mom always quoted Marilyn Monroe: “Dreaming about being an actress is more exciting than being one.” And before she went to her next audition, she always looked in the mirror and gave herself another inspirational boost: “If you’re going to do something, do it with style.”
Cara took a deep breath and decided to follow the latter advice, with a codicil:You’re dressed different. You look different. You are different.
She forced herself to approach a man wearing aBeer MeT-shirt and a telltale red baseball cap.
“Do you know your way around this place?” she asked, for the first time in her life hoping for directional mansplaining.
He stepped closer just as a strolling cop glanced over. They must have looked like a couple, because his gaze didn’t linger.
Red ball cap flashed a yellow-toothed smile. “What are you looking for?”
“A bathroom, actually.”
“I think there’s one right by the fish tank outside of the bus depot. I’m headed that way, too.”
