Colleen got off the sofa and danced, singing the lyrics in an off-key voice. Cat danced, too, letting out some of her pent-up energy from being stuck inside the house. Colleen sidled up to dance behind her, and when Cat turned around, the other girl stayed right there, like they were squeezed together in a crowded club. Neither of them had much rhythm, but Cat didn’t care. They swayed, they sang, they bumped together, and when the song was done, they played it again. And then again. Eventually, after the fourth time, Cat switched off the music and collapsed back on the sofa. She put her feet on the coffee table, and Colleen did the same, sitting right next to her. Both of them were sweaty and hot. Colleen put a warm hand on Cat’s leg below her shorts.
“You got anything to drink around here?” Colleen asked.
“Sure, what do you want? We’ve got Coke, Mountain Dew, water.”
“Got anything harder?”
Cat grinned. “I think that can be arranged. Like what?”
“Tequila.”
“My kind of girl,” Cat said.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Brayden wasn’t watching, and then she went into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Jose Cuervo from Stride’s stash in the cabinet. She grabbed two shot glasses and brought everything back to the other room. When she poured an inch for Colleen, the girl downed it in a single swallow, and Cat did the same for herself, enjoying the burn.
They did it again.
And again.
Cat began to feel happy. The alcohol went to her head. She relaxed, humming the way she always did when she was a little buzzed. She took the remote control for the television, turned it on, and muted the volume. Mindlessly, she flipped stations, not even spending a second or two at each one.
“Do you ever think about running away from here?” Colleen asked in a dreamy voice.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Leave your life behind and go somewhere new. I’ve always thought it would be cool to vanish and leave a big mystery behind me. Magazines would write about it. Maybe they’d do those true crime TV shows, too. ‘Whatever Became of Colleen Hunt?’ That kind of thing.”
“People talk about stuff like that, but they never do it,” Cat said.
“Oh, yeah, that’s because most people are cowards. Stuck in their blah blah lives. But I could. What about you? Do you think you could ever just pick up and go?”
“When I was on the streets, maybe I could. There were a lot of days back then when I wanted to take off.”
“Well, see, we could do it together,” Colleen said, and Cat couldn’t tell if she was joking. “Run away, go off the grid. Cash only. Color our hair. We could be ghosts. No one would ever find us.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Hey, when I make up my mind to do something, I do it. You want to go, we go. I’ve got my car on the street. I’m all packed.”
Cat looked at her strangely. “I’m sorry, you’re packed?”
“I just mean, I’m free to do whatever. No strings. So are you.”
Cat shook her head and spoke softly, bringing reality into fantasy. “No, I’m not. I have a kid.”
“So bring him with you.”
“He doesn’t belong to me. He’s with the Olsons. Even so, I’d never go away and leave him behind.”
“Well, like I said, bring him with you. He’s still your kid, not anybody else’s.”
Cat frowned as she drank more tequila. “I don’t like this conversation anymore.”
“Sorry. I was just having fun.”
Cat turned up the volume on the television, because she didn’t want to talk for a while. The TV was tuned to a news channel broadcasting from inside the DECC. Hundreds of people filled the ballroom, and a countdown clock showed twenty minutes until the beginning of the event. A photograph of Devin Card filled a corner of the screen, and a message scrolled across the bottom: “Anonymous Accuser Promises Appearance at Town Hall.”
“Wow, I’d love to see that,” Cat murmured.
“What?”
“The woman Devin Card raped. Everybody says she’s going to come forward tonight. She’s going to confront him.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. That takes guts, huh? To stand up in front of all those people? I’d love to be there. I want to see him skewered. Men like that, they think they can get away with anything.”
“So let’s do it,” Colleen said.
“What?”
“Let’s go over there. I mean, it’s five minutes away. Let’s do it.”
“Stride wants me to stay home. Wyatt’s still out there.”
“Oh come on, Cat. Look at all those people. Look at all the cops. It doesn’t get much safer than that. Brayden can come along with us, so Stride can’t complain. We can take my car.”
Cat hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“We’ll watch the fireworks as she comes forward. And then afterward, who knows? Maybe you’ll change your mind about going someplace else.”
Cat switched off the television. When the house was silent again, she could hear the thump of the driving rain not letting up. More lightning lit up the windows, and a drumbeat of thunder followed. Colleen was right. She felt trapped, and she wanted to be free.
“Sure, what the hell?” Cat said. “Let’s go.”
32
Maggie found Adam Halka throwing darts at a Superior Street bar a block from his motel. She shook the rain off her coat and waited while the man finished his game. He had a peculiar sidearm style, but he was good, landing all but one of the darts within an inch or so of the sweet spot in the center. A few of the drunk patrons gave a little cheer when he was done, and Halka took an exaggerated bow with his tall, stooped frame. Maggie got the feeling that Halka’s proficiency at darts was one of the few highlights of his life.
The man sat down at a table behind a tall mug of beer and grabbed a handful of popcorn from a large basket. He ate it a kernel at a time. The gruff look on his wrinkled face didn’t change. He wore what he had the first time she’d seen him, the same Twins shirt and jeans, both in need of a wash. A waitress came and planted a kiss on his cheek and put a burger in front of him. This was definitely his hangout place. In here, he was a star.
Maggie pushed a chair close enough to Halka that she didn’t have to shout over the noise in the bar. Eighties rock music blared from the jukebox, but the television was on, too. On the screen, she saw the ballroom at the DECC and the impatient crowd waiting for Devin Card to approach the microphone and take questions. Halka showed no interest in the television.
“Seems like you’ve been busy, Mr. Halka,” Maggie told him.
Halka adorned his burger with ketchup like a thick bloodstain. “Yeah? Busy doing what?”
“Trying to extort money out of Peter Stanhope.”
The motel owner shrugged and didn’t look concerned by the accusation. “Oh, that. He told you about that? Pete’s exaggerating. I was blowing smoke up his ass, that’s all. If you think you can make a thing out of it, arrest me, but I doubt ’ol Pete really wants this to go anywhere. It’s not the kind of thing he wants to see in the papers.”
“I’m not here to arrest you for extortion,” Maggie said, putting a spin on the last word.
Halka’s eyes narrowed as he took a big bite of his burger. He heard the hidden message in her voice. “Yeah?” he replied as he swallowed. “You got the idea I’ve done something else?”
“You tell me. Rape. Murder.”
Halka put down the burger and wiped his mouth. “What the hell are you talking about? Do I need a lawyer or something?”
“That’s up to you. You’re not under arrest. You want to go? Go. You want me to go? Just say the word. I want to clear a few things up, but that’s entirely up to you.”