Did he recognize her? Would she read about her strange behavior in tomorrow’s papers? Was he even now snapping pictures of her surreptitiously with his cell phone, pictures that would wallpaper the Internet come morning? Mother of missing child Samantha Shipley has public breakdown in the middle of busy thoroughfare.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered, speeding up and switching into the right lane when Mission Boulevard morphed into La Jolla Boulevard, keeping an eye out for her exit. “I don’t believe it.”
What don’t I believe? she asked herself in the next breath. That Hunter had cheated on her? That was a laugh. Of course Hunter had cheated on her. Many times and with many different women. But with Rain? Had Hunter really cheated on her with a woman he’d dismissed as a lightweight, saying on more than one occasion that “a little of her went a long way”? How little? Caroline wondered now. Exactly how far had she gone?
“Clearly all the way,” she announced to her startled reflection in the rearview mirror. So she did believe Hunter could have slept with Rain. How could she not have suspected as much before? She thought back to that night in the garden restaurant of their hotel in Rosarito, remembering that Hunter and Rain had excused themselves from the dinner table at the same time, Rain ostensibly to get a sweater, Hunter to check on the kids. Her mind’s eye watched them go their separate ways at the entrance to the restaurant, although that deception could have been easily staged and just as easily remedied. She watched them return approximately fifteen minutes later and only moments apart, Hunter supposedly delayed because of a slow elevator, Rain because she’d had to unpack her entire suitcase to find her sweater.
Except Rain hadn’t been unpacking and Hunter hadn’t been checking on the kids. Instead they were together, going at it like a couple of horny teenagers while someone was entering Caroline’s suite and absconding with her baby. And Hunter hadn’t said a word. Not to the police. Not to her. Not then. Not for fifteen years. What else hadn’t he told her? “Damn you, Hunter! Damn you to hell!”
Caroline left La Jolla Boulevard at Torrey Pines Road, barely noticing La Jolla Natural Park as she sped past the leafy enclave. She didn’t see the police car sitting at the side of the road, didn’t register the officer’s presence until he was in full pursuit, didn’t realize the sirens blasting were meant for her until she saw the red lights flashing in her rearview mirror and watched the uniformed cop cut in front of her and wave her to a stop at the side of the road.
“Any idea how fast you were going?” he asked as Caroline lowered her window.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize…”
“License and registration,” he directed.
Caroline grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and fished inside it for her wallet, extending it toward the policeman, who looked shockingly young beneath his helmet.
“Take it out of your wallet, please.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She had trouble opening the wallet, and even more difficulty extricating her license, her trembling fingers refusing to cooperate. She took a deep breath, lowered the wallet to her lap, then tried again.
“You nervous about something?” the officer asked, his voice an accusation.
Caroline shook her head, apologized again. Ever since her experience with the Mexican authorities, when they’d all but accused her of being complicit in the disappearance of her daughter, she’d experienced terrible anxiety whenever she was around police officers. Her heart would pound, her hands would break into a sweat, her breath would escape in short, painful bursts. “Here,” she said, finally managing to free her license and registration from their plastic confines.
The officer checked her face against her photo, paused for a second over her name. “You’re Caroline Shipley?” he asked. Did you murder your child?
Caroline turned away, unable to respond.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, I’m Caroline Shipley.”
“You were going twenty miles over the limit,” he told her.
“Twenty miles,” she repeated numbly.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Drinking? No.” Would the officer insist she take a Breathalyzer test and would the tiny sip of champagne she’d taken earlier register on it? What would he say if she refused to comply? Would he haul her off to jail, as had happened with Michelle only months ago? She could see the headlines now: Mother of missing child Samantha Shipley arrested for driving drunk. Or worse: All in the Family: Mother and sister of missing child Samantha Shipley both face charges of driving under the influence.