Susan was used to that. When you kept as much crap in your car as she did, you got accustomed to some shifting. Half-empty Snapple bottles rolled under the seat. Books and glossy magazines slid around. Plastic water bottles knocked together. She had rubber boots in her car, extra jackets, two canvas camp chairs, about twenty reusable grocery store bags, old notebooks, pens and pencils, used paper coffee cups, tubes of lipstick in a rainbow of colors, and probably a hundred dollars in change.

But the last thing he told her was

Frankie, you know I love you

Why? Honey why did you —

The music stopped.

“Breaking news,” an announcer cut in briskly. “The Oregon Herald is reporting that escaped serial killer Gretchen Lowell was spotted in Lake Oswego late last night. Police officials say they are investigating but do not have any public comment at this time.”

The car jerked and then let out a slow, mournful whine.

“No,” Susan said out loud. “No, no, no.”

A red light was blinking on the dash readout. That light had never come on before. She didn’t know what it meant. What did it mean?

The car was coughing to a stop, the radio announcer’s voice coming in and out. “Dangerous.” “Escaped.” “Precautions.” Susan steered it to the side of the street, just as the Saab’s engine gave one last death rattle and died. As it did, all the lights—dash lights, headlights—went off, too, and the radio went deathly silent. It was suddenly very dark and very quiet.

She pulled her purse onto her lap and started digging for her phone. Her hand found a box of gum, a compact, a notebook. Why did she have so much stuff that was the same size as a cell phone? Then her hand tightened around her iPhone. She pulled it out. It lit up under her touch, and she wanted to cry at the sight of that comforting retina display glow. She touched the telephone icon and the number keys appeared. She touched one key.

There was a knock on her window.

Susan looked up, and a paralyzing terror gripped her by the throat.

Chapter 34

CHAPTER

34