U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

Carolyn talked on, her tone indifferent, as though she were speaking of matters unrelated to him. “She was nineteen years old. She was on spring break, her sophomore year at UCST. She’d driven to San Francisco to spend the weekend with friends. She told her mother she wanted to avoid the late-afternoon traffic, so she left the city Monday morning at nine. At four-twenty she came over the hill on the 154, just three miles from home. She was halfway down the pass when you crossed the center line and struck her Karmann Ghia head-on. She never had a chance.” Carolyn closed her mouth, her lips forming a tight line while she got control of herself.

He shook his head. “Carolyn, I swear to god, I don’t remember any of this.”

“Oh, really,” she said, all cynicism. “You don’t remember going into the sports bar at State and La Cuesta Monday afternoon?”

“I didn’t even know there was one.”

“Bullshit. The Whizz Inn? We’ve passed it a hundred times and you always make a joke about the name. You were drunk when you got there Monday afternoon, loud and obnoxious. You insisted on service, but the bartender refused and when he asked you to leave, you were belligerent. He ended up calling the police the minute you were out the door. A motorist saw you getting on the 101, weaving all over the place, but by the time he got to a gas station and called it in, you’d taken the 154 off-ramp and you were heading up the pass.”

“That’s not right. That can’t be.”

“There were three other witnesses—two joggers and a guy in a pickup truck you barely missed. He ended up going off the road. He’s lucky he didn’t end up dead as well.”

“I’m drawing a blank.”

“That’s called an alcoholic blackout in case you haven’t figured it out. Forget what went on and you absolve yourself of blame. What better way to sidestep guilt than to blot it out of your mind?”

“You think I did this on purpose? You know me better than that. When have I ever—”

Carolyn rode right over him. “You know what’s odd? We saw her—the girl you killed. The kids and I must have left San Francisco the same time she did. I didn’t realize who she was until I came across her picture in this morning’s paper. We’d stopped at that Applebee’s near Floral Beach. The kids were cranky and hungry and needed a break. She was sitting in the first booth eating a burger and fries as we walked in. We sat in the booth next to hers and the kids were being silly, peeping at her over the top of the banquette. You know how they do. She started making faces at them, which delighted them no end. She finished her meal before ours arrived and she waved from the door as she went out. She was so fresh and so pretty. I remember hoping Linnie would be as sweet to little kids when she was the same age . . .”

Carolyn’s face crumpled and she put a hand over her mouth, sobbing like a child, rocking back and forth. She held herself at the waist, as though she had a stomachache.

He wanted to reach out, but he was aware that any gesture he made would seem woefully inadequate. Had someone really died because of him? Carolyn’s anguish was contagious and he felt tears spill from his own eyes, his weeping as automatic as yawning in the presence of someone who’s just yawned. At the same time, in the most detached and clinical part of his brain, he was hoping she’d catch sight of his tears and feel sorry for him. She was capable of mood swings and emotional shifts, being outraged one minute and forgiving the next. He needed her on his side; not an enemy, but his ally.

“Baby, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” he whispered. His voice cracked and he could feel the tension in his chest as he choked back a sound. “I can’t believe it. I’m sick about it.”

Her face snapped up, her tone incredulous. “You’re sick about it? You’re sick? You were drunk on your ass. How could you do that? How COULD you?”

“Carolyn, please. You have every right to be furious, but I didn’t mean to do it. You have to believe me.” He knew he was sounding too rational. This wasn’t a time to try persuading her. She was too upset. But how could he survive if she turned on him? All their friends loved Carolyn. They’d take their cue from her. Everyone said she was an angel; considerate, warm, loyal, kind. Her compassion was boundless—unless or until she felt betrayed. Then she was merciless. She’d often accused him of being cold, but at the core of her being, she was the one with a stony heart, not him.

He said, “I’m not asking for sympathy. This is something I’ll have to live with the rest of my life.” Inwardly, he winced because the tone was off. He sounded petulant when he meant to sound remorseful.