“You’re one to talk about screwing someone else’s boyfriend,” Ro snapped back.
“He was my boyfriend first. I loved him. I still do. You don’t give a damn about him.”
“On the contrary, I do give a damn . . . a little damn, but I still care—”
“I hate you!” She stamped her foot. “You’re selfish, egotistical, horrible, and a lousy cheerleader—”
“Now, that one really hurts!”
“Fuck you!” She marched off.
Ro wanted to laugh, but just couldn’t. Thinking about her words . . .
He was frantic! I felt bad for him.
She put on sunglasses and, holding her head up high, she walked to her car. There was only so much self-loathing a person could take without cracking. She was at the tipping point, but wasn’t yet ready to fall over the edge.
TGIF. As usual, Griff refused to talk to her. They walked inside the house and he went straight to his room, making a point of slamming the door. Mom was on the couch crocheting and jumped at the sound. “What is wrong with him?”
Ro shrugged innocently. “I quit cheerleading.”
“You did?” Mom put her hook down. Her face registered shock. “Why?”
“Because it’s silly. Because I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Ro, what’s going on? Why is Griffen so moody?”
“Nothing’s going on. It’s the same old, same old. Life sucks.” Ro kissed her mother’s cheek. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll all work out. And if it doesn’t, so what?” Her mother’s eyes were moist. “Mom, let’s wake up early and have breakfast together tomorrow. Just the two of us.”
“Is there something you need to tell me?” She took her daughter’s hand. “If you need to say something to me, don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not pregnant. I just want to spend some time with you.” The woman was visibly relieved. God, even her mom thought her a skank. “Tomorrow morning, we’ve got a date. Mark it down.”
Ro went to her room and closed the door. She opened her laptop and began looking for any scientific conventions around the time of Ellen Vicksburg’s abduction, no matter where they were. After thirty minutes of finding basically nothing, she stopped trying.
She was now out of Vicks’s life. Which meant he was probably at his computer continuing where he had left off, mining the same fields that she was. Anyone could type in names and dates and occupations and try to find a link. This guy—this monster—was crafty. Vicks had called him a fly on the wall—a sneaky bastard who had gotten away with at least three murders, probably four.
If Ro was going to make any headway, she needed to do some divergent thinking.
Her dad worked for the government all his life. And he traveled a lot. He was a suit-and-tie guy, a prominent man, and his hotel of choice—or rather, what the government would pay for—was usually some kind of business establishment like a Marriott or Hilton.
If a scientist was traveling on the government’s dime, Ro figured that maybe his place would be a step below a Marriott. One of those Executive Inn–type chains, but even those varied from city to city.
She turned back to her laptop. Ten minutes later, she had printed out a list of motels and hotels in the area, opting for places with two and a half stars or better, with room service, and within ten miles of the labs.
Then she picked up her cell and began to punch in numbers. When someone at the desk answered, Ro said, “Hi, this is Wanda Crumb. I’m calling for Dr. Kesley’s lab in Berkeley, California. He’s coming to the area and he was wondering if you give a professional discount to scientists who work at Los Alamos . . . no? . . . thank you very much.”
Cross one off the list.
“Hi, this is Belinda Littlebee. I’m calling on behalf of Dr. Marina’s lab in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. She’s coming into the area and she was wondering if you give a professional discount to scientists working at Los Alamos . . . okay, thank you.”
Number two was nixed.
So were three through six and then seven and then eight. That took care of all those Executive Inn types of motels. Her next decision was whether to go up or down in price. Up was easier because those places were more accessible. She tried the Marriott.
“Hi, this is Samantha Dooling. I’m calling for Dr. Outbottle’s laboratory in Brookhaven, New York. He’s coming into the area and he was wondering if you give a professional discount to scientists working at Los Ala—okay, thank you.”
She crossed off the Marriott, then the Hyatt, and then the Hilton, which left Ro with the big tourist hotels that the government wouldn’t pay for, and small inns that were out of the way. After she eliminated all of those, there was nothing left except seedy motels on a high-crime strip and one independent hotel called the Jackson Lodge. It was outside River Remez, about fifteen miles from Los Alamos, but freeway close. In a last-ditch effort, she called up the front desk.
“Hi, this is Nambia Allenson. I’m calling for Dr. Tony Beetle’s lab in Chicago at the Fermi Institute. Dr. Beetle was invited to speak at Los Alamos and he’s wondering if you give any professional discounts to scientist—oh, you do?” Ro was shocked. “Uh, great. How much? Thirty percent . . . great. Thank you . . . no, I can’t make a reservation until I run this by my boss. Have to get clearance by the brass and all that kind of stuff, you know. So I’ll have to get back to you.”
She hung up, her heart beating out of her chest. Now what?
Eighteen was the magic age for so many things. Unfortunately, her birthday was still three weeks away. And there wasn’t a whole lot of time left. Each day was crucial. She sat on her bed and thought for a long time. She wasn’t proud of her solution, but it was a solution.
After Gretchen died, her room, like Ellen Vicksburg’s room, had become a shrine: completely untouched, from the junk in her desk drawer to the out-of-date fashions in her closet. When the family was uprooted to New Mexico, Ro didn’t want to leave Gretchen behind. So she took pieces of her—a birth certificate, a Social Security card, a picture student ID, a library card—stuff she knew her mother wouldn’t miss, because after Gretchen’s death their mom never went into her room. Often, Ro had looked at her sister’s ID. When she did, it was as if Gretchen was talking to her.
Yes, at one time I did exist.
Ro put the birth certificate, the Social Security card, and the picture ID in her purse. Their stats were basically the same—blond hair, blue eyes, five six, and around a hundred and twenty pounds. Although Ro was prettier, they did resemble each other. Her friends used to joke that Gretchen looked like Ro on a bad day.
After she died, they didn’t joke anymore.
She took off her ratty pajamas and donned a soft, gray sweater with a deep V in the front. She wiggled into a black pencil skirt. Out came her four-inch heels. She took time with her makeup and appraised herself in the mirror.