right or as all right as he could ever be. She thought she could talk to him; she had to talk to him. “I want to let Sheriff Henderson know we found the jacket. I want him to know what you suspect. It could mean Lindsey’s alive, Hank.” She repeated what she had tried to tell him earlier, before he put his fist through the window.
He thought about it. “I guess, yeah. She’d have to be.”
“It would mean they’re fugitives, is that what you’re saying?” It sounded preposterous—it was preposterous. Still, Abby’s mind skipped past reason, seizing on the possibility. Thoughts crowded her brain: that she would immediately begin her search for Lindsey and never give up. If it took the rest of her life, she would find her daughter. But even as hope shimmered, a cooler sensibility prevailed, that she had no real idea what finding the jacket meant. Abby stowed her phone.
She had tossed the jacket into the backseat, and she felt its presence there, world-shattering, incendiary. Evidence at the very least of Nick’s infidelity and betrayal. But was it also evidence of embezzlement and abduction? Could he and Sondra have helped Adam steal the missing settlement money? Could Nick have taken their daughter, basically kidnapped her, and involved her in some horrible scheme? The questions careened around the walls of Abby’s brain. All of it and none of it seemed plausible.
Suppose Nick had taken Lindsey, where were they? Living it up with Sondra and Adam on some tropical island? Lindsey would never go along with that. Was Nick holding her prisoner?
Could he have involved himself in such a bizarre scheme, one that was so heartless and cruel? If something had happened to her daughter because of Nick, Abby thought, she would—
What? Kill him?
She stared out the window at a narrow ribbon of silver light on the southern horizon that was all that remained of the day. Her stomach growled, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten anything substantial since last night, other than the cheese and crackers she’d shared with Hank. But it was peculiar, wasn’t it? Vaguely sickening, how the body could go on no matter what, demanding food, sleep, a hot bath. Comfort. It was like a machine—
“Abby? Abby!”
She turned blankly toward Hank, who regarded her with some impatience “That’s your cell phone, isn’t it?”
The tinny chords of Ode to Joy came from her purse on the floorboard. Abby could see the Caller ID. Jake. Her heart fell, and she shrank against the car door, not wanting to answer, to have to confess where she was and the terrible possibility that had surfaced as a result. Why hadn’t she walked out on Hank while they were still in Houston, when she’d had the chance? Why had she started this to begin with?
Hank repeated her name. Abby retrieved her phone.
“Jake?” she said, “I’m in the Hill Country, but I’m on my way home now. Can you meet me there? We need to talk.”
“No, Mom! You aren’t going to believe this!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
Abby darted a glance at Hank and found him staring at her.
“They think they found the car, Mom! Some old man found your Cherokee.”
For one dizzying moment, the world stopped. Abby felt it recede. Even the air was gone. Her hand rose to her chest. “Where?” she managed to ask. “What old man?”
“A creek somewhere south of the Guadalupe. The guy was fishing.”
“Lindsey?” Abby pressed the back of her hand over her mouth, afraid of herself, that she would lose it.
“No one’s gotten close enough yet to see inside. The car’s jammed up in some rocks. The old guy wouldn’t have noticed except—”
“How did you find out?”
“Sheriff Henderson called me. He said you weren’t answering your phone.”
“I was—”
“I know. Gramma told me.”
Hank pulled over onto the highway shoulder.
“They found my car,” she told him.
His eyes widened; he said something Abby didn’t catch. Jake talked in her other ear. She couldn’t pay attention. Even sitting still was an effort. She wanted to open the car door and run. Anywhere. Just go. And the sense of her urgency mystified her. For seven months she had wanted nothing more than the truth; she had asked for it, begged to know it, but now, rather than confront it, she wanted nothing more than to run away from it. She thought of Nick’s jacket. If she threw it away, she would still have to tell Jake about finding it. If she lit it on fire, reduced it to cinders, he would