“Awesome!” she said, with as much sincerity as she could muster.
None of the cops seemed to notice her as they passed, probably because they were on the lookout for an unaccompanied blond female. But as they neared the women’s restroom, she saw a female officer questioning everyone who entered.
“IthoughtI smelled Wetzel’s,” Cara said, rerouting toward a pretzel kiosk at the far end of the main terminal.
“Mind if I come with?” asked her companion.
“I’ve got it from here,” she told him. “But thanks for showing me where the bathrooms are.”
Escaped convict Cara Campbell certainly wouldn’t stand in line buying cinnamon pretzel bites, right?
“What is goingonaround here?” the woman in front of her asked. “There are copseverywhere.”
Cara shrugged. “No idea.”
And then she saw a man wearing a cowboy hat. In his khaki shirt, and army-green Madera County Sheriff’s jacket and pants, Sheriff Burke stood out from the all-black LAPD. Stationed in the center of the concourse, he looked methodically from face to face.
Cara didn’t dare to move as he trained his gaze on the Wetzel’s Pretzels line, scanning from front to back. When he reached her, his eyes widened.
She pretended to check the time on her phone. “Oh, shoot, my bus is about to leave.”
As she fast-walked outside and up the stairs, she heard her Instagram ping.
FORTY-EIGHT
JORDAN
“It’s all about the attention. That’s really all she’s ever cared about anyway.”#TeamTaylor #CatchCara
—@desireek
Was that her?
Jordan hardly had time to register a flickering feeling of recognition before his view of the pretzel stand was blocked by a group of laughing, jostling sailors in dress whites. He started moving closer.
After wasting the previous day driving north and then south again, and a restless night in a cheap downtown hotel, he was overstimulated, sleep-deprived, and dead on his feet. Watching faces in the crowded train concourse he’d had a hard time shaking the feeling he was in a zombie film. He just didn’t know if he was surrounded by zombies or if he was a zombie himself.
But that face . . .
Her features matched, although so had a dozen other women who’d gotten some work done. And her rough-cut hair was purplish-black, the same color as Rae Ann Salter’s. She’d sharedher home with Cara Campbell, and most likely, the bottle of Clairol Nice’n Easy he’d seen in the bathroom trash.
Most damning was the fact that she seemed to recognize Jordan, too.
He moved faster, shoving his way through the crowd. When he reached the pretzel stand, she wasn’t there.
“Did you see a black-haired woman just now?” he asked the last woman in line, realizing as he did that she had black hair, too.
The woman pursed her lips and looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his sheriff’s badge. “They say it’s the most common hair color.”
“Did you see where she went?”
“I didn’t see.Sosorry.”
Her tone was confrontational, as if she was ready for a fight. He definitely wasn’t in Madera County anymore. Giving up, Jordan turned in a circle, scanning the crowd. When he saw a sign for Metro buses, he started running.
“Coming through!” he shouted, shoulder-barging a man who didn’t get out of the way quickly enough.
A worker was buffing the floor to a slippery sheen, but his waffle-soled tactical boots kept their grip.
