“Yeah. Sometimes I think numbers are all I’ve got . . . but they go on forever, so it could be worse.”

“They go on for Infinity.” Bonnie replied wryly, waggling her eyebrows.

“Yeah. Just for me.”

They let the conversation die, and Bonnie resumed her pensive position, feet on the dash, knees hugged into her chest, thoughts inward. So her sudden outburst as they pulled into Cincinnati caught him by surprise.

“I remember Cincinnati. I was here about a month ago. See? Up there! Time to change the billboard, folks.” Bonnie said in a sing-song voice.

Just to the right, on a giant sign, Bonnie, blonde hair swirling, red lips parted, eyes beseeching, looked down onto the afternoon traffic flowing into Cincinnati, Ohio, reminding them all, belatedly, that she had been at the US Bank Arena on January 25th and making every man sorry he’d missed it.

Finn forgot to breathe, and if it hadn’t been for Bonnie’s shrill warning, he would have rear-ended the car in front of them.

“Fun venue,” was all she said. Finn swore and kept driving.

WE DIDN’T NEED to stop in Cincinnati. We could have kept going. It was only one o’clock when we settled on a motel. But Finn was still wearing his coffee-stained pants, and he was grubby from changing the tire. It had been an incredibly long twenty-four hours for both of us, and some regrouping was in order, so I didn’t argue. Plus, he was determined that I make that call.

I didn’t have a credit card, not counting Gran’s stolen, useless ones, and Finn was worried about using his, considering there was a bit of a man-hunt on. Finn said no decent establishment would want to rent us a room without a card, and if we insisted on paying cash it was going to draw attention.

So we opted for a less than decent establishment. One room, two beds, one night—$100 plus a $50 deposit in case we broke something that wasn’t nailed to the wall or to the floor, which left the mirror and each other, which could happen, I supposed. I was pretty sure Finn had fantasized about breaking me in half a few times since we’d thrown in together . . . or I’d thrown myself on him. At least he’d put us in the same room. If I was going to be sleeping in the shabbiest, scariest motel in Ohio, I wasn’t going to do it alone.

We walked into the room, threw our bags down, and Finn handed me his phone. I looked at it, the small black device laying on his long palm. But I didn’t take it.

“I’m not calling Gran,” I said quietly, sinking down on the bed.

“Bonnie!” Finn’s voice rose in warning.

“I’ll call Bear!” I said, offering up the solution I’d spent all morning stewing over. “I’ll tell him where I am and what I’m doing. I’ll tell him to call Gran off because you can bet she’s the one who’s got everyone stirred up. The Golden Goose has flown south . . . or west. Where we heading? What big city is next?”

“Indianapolis. But it’s less than two hundred miles away. We’ll be there in three hours, tops. I wasn’t going to stop in Indianapolis. I was going to go straight through to St. Louis, which is another four hours or so. Long day, but doable, if the weather holds.”

“What’s in St. Louis?” I asked, trying to distract him, trying to stall.

“My dad.”

That surprised me. Finn was going to stop and see his dad. The only things he’d mentioned about his dad were related to math—the childhood promptings, the fact that his parents divorced when he was seventeen.

“He’s head of the math department at Washington University.”

“I see. Well, maybe I could go to St. Louis too.” I had a sudden inspiration and hurried to share it. “I could call Bear, and he could overnight my things—my driver’s license and my credit cards—to your dad’s address. Then I won’t . . . need you . . . anymore. You can go your way and I’ll go mine. That’s an idea!” An idea that sounded very reasonable to me.

Finn sighed and sat down on the little table positioned in front of the large window that looked out onto a parking lot adorned with two very large dumpsters. He shook his head and leaned forward, holding my gaze.

“You have to call her, Bonnie. If you don’t, I’m calling the police. And you’re going to sit beside me and tell them every damn thing that’s gone down. Your choice.”

“That’s not much of a choice, Clyde.” I meant to sound flip, but the words stuck in my throat. I lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. The texture looked like oatmeal laid on thick and painted in white sparkle. I had the urge to jump up and down on the bed so I could reach it, so I could grab giant handfuls of the texture and fling it around the room. I wondered if our $50 deposit would cover it.

“I can’t talk to her, Finn,” I whispered. “I can’t do it yet.”

Clyde sighed and swore, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the crusty ceiling, willing him to let me be, just for now.

“Here’s what I’m going to do, Bonnie Rae. I’m going to take a shower. And when I get out, I’m calling the police. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll let you decide what you want to do.” He shoved up from the table, grabbed his duffle, and went into the closet-sized bathroom and shut the door. The shower started up a few minutes later.

Funny. Clyde said he would let me decide what I wanted to do.

So I decided.

But it wasn’t at all what I wanted.

I shot up from the bed and grabbed the keys to the Blazer. Clyde had left them next to the TV—dropped them like everybody does when they walk into a motel room. His wallet was beside the keys, along with his phone, like he’d emptied out his pockets when he’d set down his bags.