“Sara called her and they made up and they’re going to spend today at a spa. Together. Talking about old times.”
“I guess that really means that Aunt Sara is in the back seat waiting for us, and you called Melissa to flirt with her so she’d tell Tayla that I’d be gone.”
Jack tried to repress his laughter but didn’t succeed. “Exactly right. Can you imagine them suddenly being best friends? Hey, you want tacos? It’s on the way and I’m driving.”
“Think they have salads?”
“Ones with no calories at all. It’s a miracle.”
“Laugh all you want, but if you keep sitting and eating barrels of food, you won’t keep that flat belly.” She walked past him, her head high.
“Glad you noticed that I have one.”
They locked the house and got in Sara’s MINI, leaving Kate’s car in the driveway.
On the long drive south through big, bad Miami, Kate described the houses she’d seen and Jack told the history of some of them. Sara knew a few of the families and their backgrounds.
They sat in the parking lot to eat tacos—with Jack eating the fried tortillas that the women wouldn’t touch.
“So how did you find her?” Kate asked. “And what has she done with her life?”
Sara spoke. “Heather emailed us. Get this. Gena married Dane Olsen just out of high school and their baby was born six months later.”
“Cheryl was right that Gena was trying to get knocked up to catch a man,” Kate said.
“Cheryl was right about most things,” Jack said. “Are you gonna eat that sour cream?”
With a pointed look at his midsection, Kate handed him the little cup. “Did they live happily ever after?”
“Dane left her before their child turned one,” Sara said. “Five years later, he was arrested for dealing cocaine and spent three years in prison. After that, he wisely seems to have disappeared.”
“And Gena?” Kate asked.
“At least three marriages. Takes any job she can get. Never stays with one for long. She had only the one child and he’s nineteen now. He seems to like to steal cars.”
In silence, they tossed their wrappers and Jack pulled onto the road.
He left the highway and drove into a neighborhood that needed work. The houses were small, close together and neglected. They made the Morris house in Lachlan look almost palatial.
Jack parked on the street. “Hope the hubcaps are here when we get back.” When the women were silent, he stepped between them and put an arm across each set of shoulders. “You need to remember that whatever she says happened a long time ago. It’s over and done with, and the pain was buried under a poinciana tree.” Pausing, he looked from one to the other. “Let’s stay polite. No anger. We’ll get more out of her that way. And let’s try to get leads of where to go next. Understood?”
The women nodded, then followed Jack up the weedy driveway. He knocked on the metal door. There was no answer.
“Did you call to make sure she was here?” Kate asked.
“And send her packing?” Jack said. “No, we didn’t.” He knocked again. Still no answer.
They were about to turn away when the door was opened by a woman who looked enough like the school photos that they knew she was Gena Upton. It was hard to believe she was under forty years old. Her bleached hair was dry to the point of cracking, and her skin was an illustration for how sun could damage a person’s skin.
She looked like she’d been sleeping. There was black makeup smudged under her eyes and a bit of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. “You.” She was looking at Jack and her voice was hoarse. “I’ve been expecting you.” She gave a brief glance at Sara and Kate. “Looks like you still live in a circle of women.”
Sara started to say something, but Jack put himself in front of her.
“Mind if we come in? We’d like to talk to you.”
“I bet you would.” She stepped back and they went inside. The furniture was old and worn. But what permeated the place was years of cigarette smoke.
Gena sat down in a wood-framed chair, while Kate, Jack and Sara took the couch. Gena lit a cigarette, took a deep draw, then said, “I saw on TV what happened. I figured it wouldn’t be long before somebody came to me. I was never quiet about what I thought of Cheryl Morris. It’s the innocent ones like me who always get blamed.”