Zig pulled out his phone to send Waggs a text. Instead, he saw a text from his wife. Call me. I’m on M’s case, Charmaine wrote, using the single initial they always used for their daughter.
It’d have to wait. Swiping back to Waggs’s question—Any Nola sighting?—Zig sent a final text. She’s gotta be close. He then started the car and put it in drive. Roddy was still in the minimart, grabbing his ice cream sandwiches.
“It’s the right call,” Elijah said as they pulled out of the gas station.
Picking up speed and veering toward the turnpike, Zig kept glancing in the rearview, the minimart shrinking behind them, a pinprick in the darkness.
He was already second-guessing himself—but he didn’t slow down.
84
Six minutes ago
“They slowing down?” Reagan asked, glancing over at the handheld GPS that Seabass was clutching in the passenger seat. A half hour ago, onscreen, a small red triangle weaved down Shoemaker Boulevard, leaving Elijah’s craft beer bar and heading for the turnpike. Zig and Roddy were on the move—but now, finally, they were pumping the brakes, pulling into a rest stop, by the looks of it.
“Gas break,” Reagan realized.
Seabass agreed, studying the map. They weren’t far. Time to close the gap.
Tugging the steering wheel and veering into the turnpike’s right lane, Reagan punched the gas, blowing past a stubborn Mazda with a bumper sticker that read: I was an Honor Student—I don’t know what happened!
They both read the sticker; they both glanced at each other. Seabass’s eyes curled into a grin, the baseball-sized gauze shifting on his cheek.
“Sebby, don’t laugh at dumb jokes like that. If you do, we get more of—”
A phone buzzed, both of them now eyeing the cheap silver flip phone vibrating in the cup holder. Caller ID showed a number they’d never seen before—but they knew who it was.
The first time he called, they ignored it. Second time, too. This was the third, all within a few minutes.
Seabass shot her a look. Maybe he knows where they’re headed.
The phone rang again.
Reagan rolled her eyes. “Ellis Jewelers,” she answered.
“I call you three times, and you don’t pick up!?” Mr. Vess exploded. “Are you forgetting who you work f—！?”
Reagan hung up, tossing the phone back in the cup holder.
Is that really helpful? Seabass said with a head shake.
Vvvtttttttt, the phone buzzed again. She let it ring once more. Just to teach Vess a lesson.
“Have you learned to speak like an adult?” she finally answered, putting him on speaker.
“Do not pick a fight with me,” Vess warned. “This is for your benefit. You’re about to have a problem.”
“Not until you tell me about this number. Where’re you calling from?”
“Elberton General.”
“The hospital? Why would y—？”
“BECAUSE I GOT SHOT IN THE FUCKING LEG! And my toe! I lost my . . . she shot off my toe!”
“Slow down. Who’s she?”
“You think she left a business card? Skinny bitch. Silver and black hair. Eyes deader than yours, Reagan. The way she was talking . . . she said you know her brother . . . some cop. Roddy something.”
“Roddy LaPointe,” Reagan said, now curious as Seabass turned her way. “What’d she say about him?”