Sam would be there in the airport lobby, waiting. She pictured those awful boots, and remembered when he’d kissed her in his car after dinner, ramming his big, wet tongue into her mouth, the feeling of his scar against her lip, his large hand cupping her breast. She hadn’t even told anyone where she’d gone off to. What if something happened to her in Texas? What if Sam flew girls like her out here so he could murder them? He was a rancher; he was used to putting animals down. She’d read about a girl her age who’d been missing for months, and they could only identify her by a big pink curler that was still stuck in her hair after they’d dug her skeleton out of the dirt.

No, no, Sam was nothing like that. She told herself that this was just a date—a long, exotic date. She was nineteen years old now, a real grown-up, and she wasn’t even a virgin. So why couldn’t she unbuckle her seat belt? She thought of something her mother told her near the end of her life: “It might be hard to be responsible for other people, but it’s even harder to be responsible for yourself. You’ll see.”

She stared at the baggage handlers and air controllers out on the hot tarmac as the passengers walked past her. Maybe Sam would figure she’d decided against coming. If she delayed long enough he’d leave, and she’d be free to explore this strange, humid city all by her lonesome.

A stewardess asked her if she needed help. “I just feel woozy,” she said. “Woozy” was a word her mother had used when she first got sick. The attendant offered to walk her off the plane. When they entered the lobby, Sam was standing there in a suede jacket and tight jeans, waving. He was both shorter and fatter than Sherri had remembered. “See?” the attendant said. “Your dad’s here.”

Sam had a pleased grin on his face and a bouquet of red roses in his hand. Roses, Sherri thought, were for old ladies.

The air in Houston was so humid she could feel her curls grow tighter. Sam led her to his lemon-yellow Cutlass Supreme and drove her to a stately old building called the Rice Hotel. Not until she walked into the ornate lobby did she realize how accustomed she’d grown to the Playboy resort, which felt sexy and muted in a way that the Rice Hotel did not. With its wingback damask chairs and stiff couches, it was stuffy and formal.

“This is where John F. Kennedy spent the day before heading to Dallas,” Sam said. “We all know how that story ends.”

Sherri smiled weakly. Was she supposed to be horrified or impressed?