“Frank,” Parker said and they embraced. The same cologne, after all these years. “This is Hannah. Mr. Villaine.”
His was a broad smile; the girl’s muted. No physical contact. Hannah was cautious. Understandable. He was a stranger and he towered. And, then too, their life had descended into nightmare.
“Come on in.” Frank picked up their bags and ushered theminside, looking out over the hundred-yard driveway that led here from an unpaved country road. His eye squinted slightly and this was probably the look he affected when scouting for game. His permanent residence was in Chicago. This was his getaway home and hunting lodge.
He closed and locked the door and directed them through a large living area and into the kitchen, which like in many homes seemed the heart of the place. He moved slowly by nature, not physical limitation. He’d been working and the island, of dark green marble, was strewn with engineering diagrams, charts, graphs, notes. Two computers sat open.
The interior of the house featured walls of bird’s-eye maple and plank floors and oak doors that swung on and latched with wrought iron fixtures. Wide windows, curtains open, looked out on rolling hills to the east and, opposite, the imposing forest that dominated this portion of the state.
Only now did she notice that a rifle sat muzzle-up behind the door.
He’d been fully apprised of the Jon Merritt situation.
“I don’t know what to say, Frank.” She sloughed her jacket and he took it and hung it on a peg by the back door. Hannah kept hers on—as if ready to make a fast exit. Parker continued, “I racked my brain to think of somebody Jon didn’t know... And somebody who’d be crazy enough to let us stay for a day or two.”
“As long as you like.”
“It won’t be long. Theyhaveto be close to catching him.”
Did Hannah glare at this? Possibly.
“I checked the news,” he said, “there’s nothing about it. And I didn’t call the police or prison to find out.”
She’d asked him not to, only to monitor the press. “Thank you. He’s still got his connections.”
She was afraid someone at the FPD or detention would see the number, trace it to Frank and eventually here.
“My lawyer’s monitoring it. I’ve called but he hasn’t gotten back to me.”
“I’ll show you your rooms.”
“Hannah and I can share.”
“I’m your Airbnb. Whatever you like.”
Hannah said, “Maybe if you’ve got, like, another one.” Her polite smile was utterly fake.
He glanced to Parker, who gave a shallow nod, deciding it was probably a good idea to give the girl some space. Good for herself too. Her fury about the selfie ebbed and flowed. Yes, she hadn’t been honest about the risk her father posed, but the girl had blatantly ignored her instructions. Not acceptable.
Carrying their bags and backpacks as if they were pillows, Frank led them down a long dark corridor.
“Here you go.” He nodded to two bedrooms, next to each other. They were spacious, each with its own bath. The sheets on the beds seemed new and at the feet rested neatly folded towels. Parker took the first one they came to, Hannah the next.
“Han,” Parker said, standing in the girl’s doorway, “take your jacket off. Wash up.”
The girl took her backpack from Frank and dropped it onto the bed, then pulled out her computer, opened the lid.
“Han?”
“I will.”
Frank set Parker’s bags inside her room. He said, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
A whispered “Thank you,” and a firm hug.
She stepped into her bathroom and scrubbed her hands and face. She looked pale and haggard and if anyone needed makeup, she did. But she didn’t bother. Then too most of the jars and bottles and tubes were on the floor of the Sunny Acres motel. Her hair was a mess. She finger-smoothed the curls, and let it go at that.
Returning to the kitchen, she found Frank at the back door, onceagain scanning slowly. His shoulders were raised slightly. It brought back a memory of a time they’d camped. A cold September in the mountains. One morning they’d both gazed out over a stunning dawn. She’d been swept away by the beauty of the light on dewy foliage. He had been entranced with a 10-point buck.