“Now he’s working again, so that’s good,” she went on. “The family is all pitching in and we’re finally getting back on our feet, but with everyone living in the same house, it’s a little too much, you know, family time. Actually, my oldest sister moved out years ago but my middle sister and I stayed. Apartments are pretty pricey in . . . Miami so living at home works OK.”
She took a breath. Teetering on the edge between fact and fiction was exhausting work. “Anyway, I felt like they could manage without me at the moment so it seemed like a good time to, well, make a break for it, I guess. You left your family once. That should make sense to you.”
So close, so very close to the truth. She was trying to make a break for it. She’d become a stylist by default, because her mother and sisters were absorbed in that world, but she’d never planned it that way for herself. She’d just . . . followed. Like she’d followed along with doing the reality show. She was doing it for her parents, not because she wanted the fame or the attention. She couldn’t tell him all of that, though. Not right now. Not knowing how he felt about the soulless masses of Los Angeles—because he’d think she was one of them.
Once Grant had helped her get that stupid bag back and she had her money and identification, she’d tell him everything. All of it. Even the awful stuff about Boyd, but until then, she needed his help. It was a weak justification, but she wasn’t prepared at the moment to deal with the emotional fallout of piling on the grittier details. They were stuck in this car together until they found Donna, after all, and telling him more about her situation would only serve to make this trip more awkward.
“So, you took all your money and moved to a new town.” He said it as a statement, as if to make sure he understood her.
“Yes.”
“Why the hell did you pick Bell Harbor? Especially now?”
She felt her cheeks heating up. “If I tell you, you’ll think it’s a frivolous reason.”
The look he cast her way said try me.
“I read an article in a travel magazine that said the dunes and beaches were really pretty. It showed a picture, a charming little picture of Bell Harbor, and I stared at that for days and days, and finally I thought, if I could imagine a perfect little town on a perfect little beach, it would look just like that. So . . . that’s how I picked Bell Harbor. How was I supposed to know this whole side of the country was going to have the worst weather event in modern history?”
Her aspersions must have offended the weather gods—because one second she was talking about beaches, and in the next second, their car was spinning wildly out of control, careening across the highway at sixty miles per hour. The phone went flying in one direction, the knitting from her lap went flying in another. Round and round they spun, like that awful teacup ride at Disneyland. Faster and faster.
“Hang on,” Grant shouted.
Still they spun, until Delaney couldn’t tell which direction they faced or if they were even on the road. A blur of lights flashed past as another car spun around and barely missed them. Grant’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he fought against the momentum of the spiral. On they flew, until the thunder of hard-packed snow crunched against the metal of the car as they plowed into the ditch. Scraping, metal crushing, followed by a bang, and at last, the car came to an abrupt and total stop. Her body flew forward, the seatbelt jerking her back and kicking the breath from her lungs.
How many seconds had passed? Ten? Ten thousand? Dazed, she looked over at Grant. His face was as white as the winter sky outside.
He looked back and reached over to clasp her arm. “Are you OK?”
She nodded. “I think so. Are you OK?”
“I think so.”
Their rapid breathing hung like fog in the car. Delaney looked past him, out his window, to see that they had stopped ten or twelve feet away from the side of the freeway, but it felt as if they could have spun around for miles. Her own window was nearly covered in snow because they’d plowed into a drift. The engine had cut when they collided. Taking a breath, Grant turned the key with an unsteady hand. The engine sputtered, but unbelievably, turned over and revved up.
“Do you seriously think you can drive us out of here?” She pointed at the snow out her window.
“No, but I’d like to know if we can keep the car warm until somebody rescues us.”
He felt around on the floor until he found his phone. She watched him dial 9-1-1 and press the speaker button.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“We just spun off the road on Interstate 94, just past the Portage exit. We’re on the side of the road, not the median, and we’re in a yellow Volkswagen.”
“Is anyone in the car injured?”
“No, we’re both fine, but there’s structural damage to the car and no way we’re driving out of this. We’re definitely stuck. We have about half a tank of gas.”
“All right. What’s your name, sir?”