The Planck Factor

“Just tell me!” I was ready to scream, but added, “Please.” To be polite.

She sighed and shook her head. “He cares about you, Jess. Really cares and you . . . well, you’ve never cared back.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, he’s never brought it up.”

“He’s tried, but . . . .you never let him.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You shut him out. Fred says you’re cordial, but never open with him. You hold him at arm’s length and never let him get close.”

I didn’t want to have this discussion. Not now and not with Cyn. I needed to find out who killed Fred and whether that person would be gunning for me next.

“Cyn, I never picked up that kind of vibe from Fred, okay? I know he’s a caring guy and all. He’s helped me a lot. Maybe if he’d said something to me . . . .” My voice trailed off. Could that be what he’d wanted to meet about? It felt sad, not only because I’d never felt more than friendship toward Fred, but knowing that conversation would be impossible now.

Cyn leaned toward me. “The guy would die for you, Jess.” She relaxed back in her chair and studied the menu again, shaking her head. “Love like that doesn’t come along every day.”

Her words knocked the breath right out of me. Could Fred have been killed because of me? I felt sick.

“Excuse me a moment.” I pulled myself to my feet and searched for the restrooms.

Cyn glanced up, then did a second take. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I’m fine. I jus

t need to . . . to use the bathroom. Be right back.”

I stumbled through the maze of tables toward the short hallway with the little hand-carved wooden sign marked “Restrooms,” pointing the way with an ornate arrow. I could feel Flattop follow my progress.

I pushed through the ladies’ room door and launched myself at the row of sinks. The wave of nausea that had threatened to overcome me began to subside but not completely. Turning one of the taps, I splashed cold water on my face, drenching my shirt collar.

Snatching a couple of paper towels from the holder, I dried myself off. Okay, now what?

I had a crazy thought. What would Alexis do in this situation?

“Great,” I muttered. “I’m asking my own fictional characters for advice.”

A cursory scan of the bathroom revealed a small window. Small, but not too small to squeeze through.

Do it now. Cynthia might eventually wonder if I fell in and check up on me. Plus I still needed to shake Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee.

So I hurried to the window—a pair of tall, rectangular panes latched shut by an aging lock with a long, curved handle. I grabbed the handle and tried to pull it up. It was stuck in place.

I smacked it repeatedly with the heel of my hand. At first, I thought I was getting nothing but a bruised hand. Finally, the latch gave, but only a fraction of an inch.

Next I sat on the floor, leaned back on my forearms (ugh!), placed my foot under the handle and kicked as hard as I could. It moved! I kicked it again and again until the latch gave way.

I pushed the window open with a rusty squeal, threaded one leg after the other through and shimmied out into an alley.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jessica

The fact that Alexis and Swede ended up crawling out a bathroom window in order to escape the strange people in the van parked outside their motel room, was an irony not lost on me. After I fled down the alley and made my way back to my car, I went straight home and threw a few essentials into a small bag.

I wanted to get as far out of town as possible. I’d have to dip into my small savings and rely on Visa for the rest, but I had to get away from those men. The police couldn’t act as my personal bodyguards, and Fred was dead—beyond anyone’s help now. I considered my parents, who lived in the Bay Area, but I didn’t want to go running home, possibly bringing trouble with me. And San Francisco didn’t seem far enough away.

My sister, on the other hand, was across the country in Washington, D.C. She was a lawyer, so trouble was her business. However, it had been nearly a year since I’d last spoken to Liz. She and our parents weren’t on the best of terms. I could only hope she wouldn’t perceive my visit to her as an imposition. After mulling my other options (which didn’t take long, as there were none), I called Liz, tapping my fingers as her phone rang. “C’mon, c’mon . . . pick up.”