She had to stop her. But how?
“I’ve got to go now, Miranda. You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure they know where you are.”
“Wait!” Miranda cried, grasping for a way to stall her. “I have to know—were you trying to set me up? Is that why you planted the news clipping and the water bottle?”
“No!” Her voice shook. “My plan was never to have you take the fall for this. I wanted you personally involved, because I wanted you to be on my side. I needed your help bringing the truth to light. I knew you wouldn’t back down until that happened. Even if I was caught or died before I made them all pay … you would keep on until everyone knew the whole truth.”
She paused a moment. When she went on, her voice vibrated with emotion. “And you didn’t know about Stark, that it was him.… You deserved to know.”
“You’re the one who put his strongbox on my porch.”
“Yes. I saw it in his closet.”
“How did you know what was in it? It must have been locked.”
“It was. I didn’t know but I suspected … no, I hoped, so I took it. And when the time was right, I got it to you.”
She fell silent a moment before continuing. “What was in it, Miranda? I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were right. Everything he needed to escape and start a new life.”
“And Cadwell did nothing? That son of a bitch.”
Summer never opened the box. That meant Miranda had been wrong about one thing. “You didn’t plant the button.”
“What button?”
“The one from the shirt I was wearing that night.” Her voice shook. “It was in the strongbox. He saved it all those years.”
Why’d he keep it? Miranda felt sick to her stomach. Did he look at it, touch it? In those moments, did he wonder what his life would have been like if she hadn’t escaped? Did he regret going for food and leaving them alone? Did he long to finish what he’d begun?
Summer broke into her thoughts. “At the bar today, I heard that Ian Stark’s planning a memorial garden for his fallen son, with a statue and everything. And what do we get?” Her voice hardened. “You know what, that’s just not going to happen. I’m going to make sure it doesn’t.”
“Wheeler,” Miranda said quickly. “How did you manage to surprise him that way?”
“That was no surprise. Old Clint used to come around the bar. I befriended him. In fact, I took to bringing him by a cold six-pack now and then.”
Delivery day, Miranda remembered. When she talked to Summer the day Wheeler died, that’s what she had called it.
“You brought him the beer, then shot him in the back of the head.”
“Yup. I’m not going to be as subtle with President Stark and Chief Cadwell. They need to know how much we suffered.”
“Don’t do this, Summer! We’ll go together … to the Sheriff’s Office, we’ll tell them everything and this time they’ll believe us!”
“We already talked about this. No. I have other plans.”
“It’s different now. We’re different. Please … Cathy, listen to me! They’ll lose everything!”
“The way we lost everything?” Her voice turned cold and hard. “I listened then, I’m not going to now. Good-bye, Miranda.”
“No! Wait … Summer!” She pounded on the door. “If we step forward other women will, too! They’ll know they’re not alone!” She pounded again. “There’s power in the truth! I believe that.… Please … please, don’t do this!”
But Summer was already gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
7:40 P.M.
She had to find a way out, and she had to do it quickly. Miranda tried the door again, jiggling the knob, assessing the strength of the lock. Deadbolt, newly installed by the look of the hardware.
She moved her gaze over the door. Four panel. She thumped her fist on the wood. Solid, not hollow core.
Still, she had to try. She reared back and in the way she was trained to do, kicked it. She landed a good blow; pain shot up her leg. The wood didn’t give. She tried again, same place. Again, nothing but pain.
Her legs would give out before the door did.
She turned to the room’s single window. Break it and climb out. Miranda crossed to it, knowing it wouldn’t be that simple. She lifted the shade. Overgrown shrubbery blocking the view out—and in. Window nailed shut, burglar bars. Dammit.
She wasn’t getting out, but she could call for help.
She crossed to the dresser, removed a drawer, dumping its few contents on the bed, then returned with it to the window. She hoisted the drawer and with a mighty swing, connected with the glass. It cracked but didn’t give. She swung again and this time the window exploded, pieces of glass flying in every direction.
The night air wafted in, with it the pungent smell of weed. Miranda froze, her mind tumbling back in time.
Headlights slicing across the road. Her, jumping up and down, waving her arms, praying the driver would stop.
He did, pulling to a stop at the side of the road. He lowered his window; the smell of pot rushed over her in a cloud.
She saw his face clearly now, a young Richard Stark.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
She shook her head, forcing back the memory, holding on to the here and now and her predicament. Someone—or several someones, were out there, having themselves a little party. She had to get them to come to the window.
“Help!” she called. “Please, somebody … I need help!”
A moment ticked past, then several more. She tried again. “Please, I just need your help. I’m trapped in here and can’t get out!”
Miranda waited. Nothing, absolute quiet. Even the smell of the marijuana seemed to evaporate. She wanted to cry. She was too late, too far behind Summer to hope to stop her.
Then a rustling came from the bushes, a mumbled curse followed by a face peering through branches. A young man with unruly hair and bloodshot eyes. He looked to be about twenty and wore a Pink Floyd T-shirt.
“Thank God you heard me.”
He shimmied free of the branches. “Yo,” he said. “What’s up?”
Miranda wanted to laugh; she wanted to cry. “I’m locked in here and can’t get out. Can you help me? It’s an emergency.”
He stared at her a moment as if looking at some form of alien life. This is your brain on drugs, she thought. “Go around to the front door. My friend Summer, she’s sure to have a key hidden somewhere.”
He cocked his head, eyes drooping. “That’s messed up.”
“No … no, it’s not. It’s—”
He grabbed the burglar bars and tugged. They popped right out of the masonry, obviously rusted out.
Miranda stared in disbelief. Leave it to a stoner to find the no-brainer solution. “Oh, my God, thank you! You saved my life!”
“Cool.” He wobbled slightly. “Gotta bounce.”
“Wait! Can I borrow your phone real quick?”
In a different situation, his perplexed expression would have made her laugh out loud.
He dug in his pocket, then held it out. “FYI, it’s out of juice.”
“What?”
“Juice,” he repeated slowly, as if she was the one operating on a different plane. “You can still borrow it, if you want.”