Rather than dream up a retort, Annie muttered something she knew was neither fair nor useful. Murphy was right, of course; Annie was a big girl and shouldn’t have acted so hastily. She wouldn’t have if there had been a way to clear her head. But her brain wires were clearly misfiring, thanks to the echo of Bella’s voice.
Ammie.
Happy Cwistmas.
With a heavy sigh, Annie started the engine again and turned on the heat, what there was of it. She wondered if she should wait to see if someone came home; after all, several of Winnie’s “clan,” as Winnie called them, lived in the big house. But the weather was troubling—more troubling than snow, because sleet could quickly turn to ice, and the winding roads up-island could become treacherous. With any luck, Annie would see some of the clan on the way and be able to flag them down. In the meantime, she needed to get ahead of the storm, or whatever the fine shards of icy water turned out to be, which she might have known had been predicted if she’d turned on the radio, which she still would not.
But as she backed out of the driveway, her text alert dinged. She slammed on the brakes. It was John. Thank God he’d gotten through.
F’S AUNT AND UNCLE DON’T HAVE HER, he’d typed. THEY’RE COMING TOMVWITH ME TO HELP SEARCH. CAN’T FLY OUT TILL TOMORROW—TOO MUCH SNOW.
That’s all he wrote. It said a lot. But not enough.
With her hands now shaking, Annie went to her recent calls and hit John’s number.
“Hey,” he said.
“They really don’t have her?”
“They do not. They were at a restaurant north of here yesterday but got snowed in last night. I’m told that happens a lot here.”
Annie decided not to tell him where she was. Or why. Or that it was sleeting. She looked at the fine slivers of frozen stuff that were now coating the windshield too quickly.
“What?” John asked. “I can’t hear you.”
She decided it would be better to let him think they had a bad connection than to tell him she didn’t know what to say.
“No more news?” John asked, raising his voice. “Can you hear me?”
Annie held her breath. She knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell him about the phone call from Bella. Or to share her instinct about Abigail’s boyfriend. But, again, it would have been doable if they were face-to-face, not held hostage by precarious cell service, especially since he was so far away. “I hear you now. And no. No news that I know of.” She hoped she’d become a convincing liar.
John said something again, but the connection wavered, that time for real.
“What?” Annie asked.
“Ten days,” he shouted over the gravelly connection. “Ten days till our wedding.”
She wished she hadn’t heard him. “Let’s hope this is over by then. And that everything turns out well.”
“That’s what’s keeping me going right now.”
John could be sweet. She knew that about him; she cherished that quality. But right then, she did not want to talk about their wedding.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Kevin’s looking for me.” She gulped her guilt and told herself it was for the greater good. For her good, actually, as he’d be angry if he knew she hadn’t alerted Linc about the call from Bella, and that she’d driven to Winnie’s to start her own probe. He’d also be upset that she was driving Taylor’s old truck in the sleet.
“Let me know when you get a flight,” she said, then added, “I love you,” which was a small consolation for not having told him the truth.
If he responded, his words were lost to a gust of wind.
She clicked off and finished backing out of the driveway. Then she drove out onto the road, deciding that to make amends for her disobedience, on the way home she’d stop at the police station and tell Linc everything.
* * *
With her eyes drilled on the pavement, Annie gripped the steering wheel, her hands set at ten to two. “A steering wheel is like a clock,” her dad told her when he’d taught her to drive several decades ago. “If you keep your hands at ten minutes before two, you’ll always be in control.”
She wasn’t sure if the same theory applied when roads were slick and sleet was rapidly turning to ice. So much more hazardous than snow. The constant curves of the hilly terrain made the driving extra-precarious. As did the fact that the icy windshield was now clogging faster than either the squeaky wipers or the rumbling defrost fan could clear it. And, despite its cranking, slap-slapping sounds, the old heater was losing its battle for effectiveness, thanks to the wind that had picked up speed and was blasting the truck from all directions.
If she had her Jeep and not Taylor’s pickup, things might go more smoothly. But she did not have her Jeep. So she knew not to waste time feeling sorry for herself but to concentrate on getting back to Edgartown, and on what she’d say to Linc.
