Tolliver and I followed Hollis back outside. The sky was gray, and the trees around the motel were beginning to whip in the wind. I was cold without my coat, but I wasn’t going back in to put it on. Tolliver put his arm around me. Hollis opened the passenger door of his truck, began thrusting his fingers in the crack at the back of the seat, and in about ten seconds he came up with the bank envelope, still fat with money.

He stared at it in his hand, flushed red, and then went white. After a moment or two, he met our eyes. “You told Harvey the truth,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“There now,” I said. “Are we all clear about this?”

He nodded.

“Okay, then,” I said. I spun and walked into my room. Tolliver stayed outside for a bit. Then he came in, too.

We finished our game of Scrabble. I won.

We drove to a little town just five miles away to eat supper. Tolliver didn’t seem keen on going back to the motel diner, and I didn’t tease him about the waitress. We had country-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and lima beans at a near-duplicated Kountry Good Eats, and it was actually very tasty. The ambience was familiar: Formica-topped tables, cracked linoleum floor, two tired waitresses, and a man behind the counter, the manager. The iced tea was good, too.

“You know someone followed us here,” Tolliver said, as the waitress took our plates and strode toward the kitchen. He fished out his wallet to pay our tab.

“A girl,” I said. “In a Honda.”

“Yeah. I guess she’s a deputy, too? She looks awful young. Or maybe they just deputized her for this.”

“She’s probably cold sitting out there in that little Honda.”

“Well, that’s her job.”

We paid, tipped, and left. The threatened rain was finally upon us, and Tolliver and I ran to the car. He’d clicked it unlocked as we left the restaurant, and I dove inside as fast as I could. I hate being wet. I hate storms. I won’t talk on the phone when it’s raining hard.

At least there was no thunder this time.

“I don’t understand,” Tolliver had said once, exasperated at not being able to call me when he was a few miles away. “Why? The worst has already happened. You’ve already been hit by lightning. What are the odds of that happening twice?”

“What were the odds of it happening once?” I countered, though my real reasons were probably not what he supposed.

We drove slowly, and the red Honda stuck with us. The roads around Sarne were narrow and flanked by some steep terrain, and there was the ever-present possibility a deer would dash across the road.