“Oh my God,” says Dad at last, and his voice sounds a little faint. “Rebecca.”

“Oh my God,” comes an abrasive-sounding voice from behind Rebecca. “Princess girl.”

From: [email protected]

To: Brandon, Rebecca

Subject: Re: Massive, MASSIVE request

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

I received your email an hour ago and was taken by its “urgent” tone. I do not quite understand how “lives can be hanging in the balance” over such a matter, but I do perceive your anxiety and, as you reminded me, I did indeed “offer to help.”

I therefore set out immediately, with a small packed supper and my Thermos. I am writing now from a service station on the A27.

I hope to reach my destination before too long and will keep you abreast of “developments.”

Yours sincerely,

Derek Smeath

FOURTEEN

OK, there are officially too many Rebeccas in this gathering.

There’s me, Becky.

There’s Rebecca.

And there’s “Becca,” who is Brent and Rebecca’s daughter. She’s the one I met at the trailer park, the one who calls me “princess girl,” which is getting quite annoying.

It’s about half an hour later. Dad’s ordered more food and drinks (we don’t really want them, but it gives us something to do), and we’re all trying to get to know the two new additions. But it’s not the most relaxed group, I must say. Mum keeps eyeing Rebecca with deep suspicion, especially her outfit. Mum has views on how ladies of a certain age should dress, and they involve not having lots of cleavage showing, or henna tattoos, or a nose ring. (I only just noticed it. It’s teeny.)

Becca is sitting next to me, and I can smell some really strong fabric conditioner on her T-shirt. She’s wearing cutoff jeans and is sitting with her legs sprawled, unlike her mother, who looks like an elegant witch perched on her broomstick.

It turns out that Becca is on her way to a new job at a hotel in Santa Fe but has stopped off here for a night. I asked about her little dog, Scooter—I met him at the trailer park—and she told me she can’t have a pet at her new job and she had to give him away. And then glared at me like it’s all my fault.

She’s so unfriendly, and I can’t understand it at all. What you’d think is that the two of them would marvel at Dad’s plan to help Brent and would offer assistance. Instead, Becca answers every question with a defensive monosyllable. She doesn’t know where her dad is right now. He’ll be in touch when he’s ready. She doesn’t see how Dad can right the wrong that was done Brent. No, she doesn’t have any ideas. No, she doesn’t want to brainstorm.

Meanwhile, Rebecca just wants to tell us about the amazing “spirit-cleansing” hikes we can do in the area. When Dad brings her back to the subject of Brent, she starts reminiscing about the time they all met a shaman at a reservation.