After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 93

“What’s this?”

“An earring. Like the one the nurse was wearing the night she came into the room or appeared or whatever you want to call it. But ghosts don’t leave jewelry behind, nor do people in nightmares.”

He picked up the bauble and examined it.

Cassie felt bands around her lungs tighten. Would he believe her? Or write her off as a mental case, a conspiracy theorist, or worse? She explained about her research on the earring and he listened, all the while studying the tiny cross and frowning, the wheels in his mind turning.

“You’d better keep it,” he finally said, then picked up the tab and paid for both their meals over her protests. “Don’t worry, you don’t owe me anything,” he added as he handed the bored-looking waitress his credit card.

Cassie stopped fighting him and when he offered to drive, she handed over the keys. Despite the jolt of caffeine from her Coke, she was exhausted, the ongoing nights of restless sleep having finally caught up with her. She’d thought she’d be on edge the whole time with Trent in the car, nervous around him, the anxiety keeping her awake, but as the miles of California had disappeared under the Honda’s wheels so had her wariness. The idea of maneuvering the car through the winding turns of the mountains in Southern Oregon then onto the long, monotonous stretch of freeway to Portland and beyond wasn’t something she looked forward to. Yep, let him drive.

After finding a blanket tucked under her bag in the backseat, she drew it around her body and curled up against the passenger window. Her eyes at half-mast, she observed Trent in the muted lights from the dash.

Did she trust him?

No. Well, at least not completely.

Was she still angry with him?

Yes, but not as violently so. Of course the jury was still out on her emotions and she had the right to change her mind.

Time will tell, she thought. As he drove steadily, keeping the Honda just above the speed limit, she drifted off somewhere near the Oregon border. Her sleep was never deep. At some level she was aware of the sounds of the journey; the radio stations fading in and out, the steady whine of the engine and outside the rumble of trucks passing, or the rush of the wind. All in all, though, she let slumber envelop her. Though she was loath to admit it, the fact that Trent was driving gave her a sense of security, no matter how false it might be.

She was vaguely aware of another filling station, lights along the overhang bright enough to rouse her a bit, the sounds of the pump being activated, the rush of fuel into the tank. Her eyes fluttered open, but she closed them quickly, then rotated her neck before slumber caught up with her again.

Only when the car began to bounce a little, the ride becoming rougher, did she start to surface. “Where are we?” she said around a yawn, stretching her arms as she peered through the windshield. Beams from the headlights splashed upon a rutted lane guarded by fence posts. Raindrops drizzled down the glass, the wipers rhythmically scraping water from the windshield.

“Home.”

“Home?”

“My place.”

She was instantly awake and trying to shake the cobwebs from her mind. They were in Oregon? In Falls Crossing? At his ranch? “No.”

He slid her a glance. “Where else would we go?”

“I can’t stay here!” She was squinting into the night as the beams caught a farmhouse with a wide, wraparound porch.

“Who invited you?”

She swung her head around to stare at him.

“It’s your car, but I need to be here.” He seemed amused at her befuddlement. “I don’t recall asking you to stay.”

“Oh. Right.” Of course!

“But, you could stay over if you wanted.”

“No, thanks.”

He pulled up to the garage and cut the engine, then handed the keys to her. “If you’re going to crash with Jenna, you might want to call and give her a heads-up.”

“What time is it?”

“Four thirty.”

She groaned. Originally, she’d planned to find a local hotel, sleep for however long she needed to, shower, and show up at her mother’s house only to start looking for a place to stay, probably finding a hotel or temporary apartment closer to Portland until she figured out what she was going to do with her life. Falls Crossing was sixty miles east of the city, though with WiFi and the Internet and cell phones, for her job, location wasn’t critical. Research and information were a laptop keystroke away. Connections with experts—a call or live chat or instant message, at the very least e-mail—were now nearly instantaneous.