Sorrow Road (Bell Elkins #5) - Julia Keller Page 0,35

hear so well. People who’ll repeat themselves. Go off on tangents. Pause a lot.”

“Sure.”

“You still think you’re right for this?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I know the area.”

“So does everybody else who’s applied.”

“Yeah, but I know it from both sides.” Carla had not thought about this before, but now that she had said it, she realized she actually believed it. “That’s what sets me apart. I’ve lived here, yes—but I’ve lived away from here, too. It’ll make a difference. To how I do the job.”

She felt the sweat inching down the center of her back, gluing her sweater to the metal folding chair. She was perspiring not because she was nervous—well, not only because she was nervous—but also because this was winter. That was the thing about the season: You were freezing cold, but you had to wear so many damned layers that you were also burning hot and sweaty-gross under your clothes.

She really, really wanted this job. She had been cavalier about it until just a few minutes ago—it had sounded like a nice stopgap, a way to pass the time while she hid out from the complications of her life back in D.C.—but now she realized just how intensely she wanted it. She wanted to talk to people about how they had done it: How they had handled their lives. How they had made decisions and then stuck to those decisions. And it had to be strangers. She could not talk to her mom about it. Or her dad. Because they loved her. That tainted everything they said.

Carla leaned forward. “I can handle this, Mrs. McArdle. Better than anybody else. I’ve done some canvassing for nonprofit groups in D.C., so I know how to engage people. Get them to talk. And I know how to listen. I’m really good with computers, too—I worked for a year and a half in Web design—and so when I’m not out in the field, I can also be a sort of informal tech support for the computer over there in the corner. When people have problems.” She saw the gleam in McArdle’s eye. Patrons were always having problems with the computer, Carla knew, and when they did, they clogged up the area around the circulation desk with their agitated inquiries about control-alt-delete and all the rest of what Sally McArdle considered to be rank nonsense. A No. 2 pencil, a fresh notebook, and a 1968 edition of The World Book Encyclopedia were still the best research tools around: Carla had heard the old woman make that point on numerous occasions. Things that had happened after 1968 were just variations on a theme.

“That,” McArdle said mildly, and Carla could tell she did not want to betray her delight at the idea of somebody else handling computer issues, “would be a big help.”

Now McArdle frowned. She worked her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She stared hard at her, as if Carla was the last line on the eye chart. “I need to know something,” McArdle said. “You left. Now you’re back. Why? I mean, you went through a rough time four years ago. We all know that. That horrible man who kidnapped you—it must have been terrifying. Everybody understood why you wanted to go away. But here you are. And I need an explanation. Because I can’t hire you and then have you change your mind and leave again. I have to make sure you will finish the project.”

Carla had assumed this question would be coming. It was a natural one. It was a fair one. She wasn’t ready to talk about the extent of her struggles—if she were, she would have confided in her mother. But Sally McArdle deserved at least a partial explanation. A few broad strokes. She was an intelligent woman, Carla knew, despite her aversion to new technologies, and she would be able to fill in around those details on her own.

“When I first left,” Carla said, “I wasn’t thinking about what happened that night. I couldn’t. I just blocked it out. It was the only way I could function. And it worked. For years.”

McArdle nodded. Unlike most people, she did not smile encouragingly and get all warm and gushy when Carla alluded to the kidnapping, or to the reality that she had witnessed the violent death of her best friend. McArdle remained silent. She continued to look at Carla without blinking. It felt like a compliment.

“Anyway,” Carla went on, “they’re sort of bothering me again. The memories, I mean. I guess I’m