“Shit,” I said, and turned the key.
The cab was heading back into downtown Promise Falls and came to a stop outside the bus terminal. I pulled to the curb and watched as Sarita got out, handed the driver some cash, then waited for him to haul her bag out of the trunk. Dragging it behind her, she entered the terminal.
I got out of the car and ran.
The Promise Falls bus terminal is hardly Grand Central. Inside, it’s about the size of a school classroom, with two ticket windows at one end and an electronic schedule board overhead. The rest is filled with the kind of chairs you’d find in a hospital emergency room.
The woman I’d followed was at the ticket booth. I went and stood behind her, looking like the next in line, close enough to hear the conversation.
“I want to buy a ticket to New York,” she said.
The man behind the glass said she could buy the entire ticket now, but she would have to change buses in Albany.
“Okay,” she said. “When does the bus leave for Albany?”
The man glanced at a computer monitor angled off to one side. “Thirty-five minutes,” he told her.
She handed over some more cash, took her ticket. When she turned around she jumped, evidently unaware someone was behind her.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. I let her wheel her bag past my toes, then stepped up to the window.
“Help ya?” the ticket agent said.
I paused, then said, “Never mind.”
I turned around and spotted the woman, sitting in the far corner of the room, as if trying to make herself invisible, which was not easy, since there were only half a dozen people here waiting to catch a bus.
I walked over and took a seat two over from her, leaving the one between us empty. I took out my phone, leaned over, my elbows rested on my knees, and opened up an app at random.
Without looking in her direction, I said, “You must be Sarita.”
I sensed her stir suddenly. “What did you say?”
This time I turned, sitting up at the same time. I could see fear in her eyes. “I said, you must be Sarita. Sarita Gomez.”
Her eyes darted about the room. I could guess what she was thinking. Who was I? Was I alone? Was I a cop? Should she try to run?
I said, “I’m not with the police. My name’s David. David Harwood.”
“You are wrong,” she said. “I am not whoever you said. My name is Carla.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re Sarita. I think you worked for the Gaynors. And I think you’ve been hiding out with Marshall Kemper the last couple of days, and are now looking to get out of Dodge.”
“Dodge?” she said.
“You want to disappear.”
“I told you, I am not that person.”
“I’m Marla Pickens’s cousin. I don’t know if that name means anything to you, but the Gaynors’ baby was left on her doorstep two days ago. The police think she stole the baby, and probably killed Rosemary Gaynor in the process.”
“She did it before,” the woman whispered.
I leaned in. “She never killed anyone.”
“But she took a baby,” she said quietly. “At the hospital.”
“You know about that.”
The woman nodded. She was glancing at the door.
“You are Sarita.”
Her eyes landed on mine. “I am Sarita,” she said.
“Would you like to tell me what you know, or would you like me to call the police?”
“Please do not call the police. They’ll either send me home, or find a reason to put me in jail.”
“Then why don’t we talk,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling you may be able to explain a lot of things.”
“Quickly,” she said. “I will tell you quickly, so I do not miss my bus.”
I shook my head sadly. “You’re not making that bus, Sarita. It’s just not going to happen.”
FIFTY-THREE
ARLENE Harwood had decided on pork chops for dinner and wondered whether Don would like rice or mashed potatoes with them. She even had some sweet potatoes in the fridge, which Don was not all that crazy about, but would tolerate once in a while, just so long as she put enough butter on them, and maybe even a sprinkling of brown sugar. She was pretty sure Ethan didn’t like sweet potatoes, but she could do up a baked potato for him, or throw some frozen french fries into the oven.
It was nice having all these men around. She knew David wanted to move out as soon as he could, and take Ethan with him, of course. It was the right thing to do. But she was enjoying having them here in the meantime.
She went into the living room, thinking her husband might have fallen asleep in the recliner, but he wasn’t there. Her leg was really hurting today after her stumble on the stairs the day before, so she didn’t want to have to trek up to the second floor to search for him. So she went to the foot of the stairs and shouted his name, speculating that he was in the bathroom, extending his stay because he’d found something interesting to read in National Geographic.
No answer.