Her tongue wet cracked, dry lips. “I’ll…try,” she said, and groaned as she closed her eyes.
“Try. She’ll try,” Presley muttered to herself, and hoped to hell trying would be enough.
When she returned to collect Mr. Crouch, she found him sitting patiently on the porch in the old kitchen chair she used to smoke. He picked up his briefcase and stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his slacks before following her inside.
“If your mother is as sick as you say, I’m sorry to intrude,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Her heart was in her throat. She shut the door and waved for him to cross the living room.
He trailed after her, glancing around, taking note of everything he saw. She hoped she hadn’t missed some detail that would give her away, but she couldn’t imagine what that might be. It’d been at least twenty-seven years since the picture he’d shown her was taken. Chances were he could run right into Cheyenne and not recognize her.
When Presley ushered him into Anita’s room, he frowned to find her every bit as badly off as he’d been told. This type of illness could not be faked. Anita was so pale, so feeble, Presley wondered if he saw any similarity to the woman he’d been looking for, especially now that she had no teeth.
“Mom, this is Mr. Crouch, that P.I. I told you about.”
Anita opened her eyes but didn’t speak. Presley hoped she’d been saving her strength—and that she hadn’t already forgotten what she was supposed to say.
Clutching his briefcase with both hands, Mr. Crouch approached her bed. “Ms. Christensen?”
Again, Anita gave no response, but she didn’t deny her own name, and he must’ve recognized her, because there was a hint of satisfaction in his demeanor.
“I’ve been searching for you for a long, long time,” he said.
She showed no surprise.
“You’ve already guessed why,” he added.
Anita nodded.
“Where is she?”
“Gone.” Her mother’s voice, when she finally used it, shocked even Presley, it was so weak.
He froze. “Gone where?”
Presley dug her fingernails into her palms. There wasn’t much she could do now—except trust her mother to lie as well as she always had.
Anita struggled for breath. “Who can…say?”
Sensing Mr. Crouch’s disappointment, Presley almost applauded. Her mother deserved an Oscar for this performance.
“What happened to her?” he pressed. “Where I can find Jewel?”
Anita pulled the blankets higher. “I don’t…know.”
Shoulders slumping, he set his briefcase on the chair by the bed. “Why not?”
“She…ran away. Haven’t…heard from her since.”
Presley feigned distress. “Mom, what are you talking about? It was Connie who ran away just before we moved here, when we were in Bakersfield. Connie, remember? Not someone named Jewel.” She turned to him. “I’m afraid she’s not making any sense. My sister ran away. My mother must be confused. The meds do that sometimes.”
“No.” He gripped his forehead, rubbing his temples. “I don’t think she’s confused.”
Presley stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He opened his mouth, then hesitated. The compassion that flickered in his eyes made her feel bad for misleading him. With her mother dying, he didn’t want to tell her that the person she’d always believed to be her sister really wasn’t.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “If you could just…tell me the name she was using when she left. Was it Connie Christensen?”
Anita spoke up. “Who knows? She had a—” gasp, rattle, breath “—boyfriend. A no-good loser named Ben. Ben Sumner. For all we know—” gasp, rattle, breath “—she married him. Or she picked a name out of a hat…so we wouldn’t…be able to find her.”
His lips thinned. “That’s unfortunate.”
When they didn’t comment, he tried asking a few more questions—the names of the cities where they’d been living before “Connie” left, if they had any idea where she might have gone, if she had any tattoos or piercings that could help identify her. He even asked about dental work and broken bones, as if he planned to check the morgues for every Jane Doe.
This guy was nothing if not thorough. But telling him part of the truth was making him believe they were telling him the whole of it. Presley knew from her mother’s example that it was the best way to lie.
They said she had a mermaid tattoo covering most of her midsection, and a scar on one arm from falling into a tub of scalding water when she was six. They said she’d pierced her nose and dyed her hair black, creating an image about as far from the real Cheyenne as they could get. And when he was finally satisfied that he’d obtained all the information he could, they lied again by accepting his card and promising to call if they ever heard from her.
* * *
Cheyenne didn’t answer her phone. It was Joe. Again. This was his second attempt in the past thirty minutes. According to his earlier message, he wanted to apologize for his inexplicable behavior yesterday. But she’d ignored his first call and intended to ignore this one. She had her own inexplicable behavior to worry about, preferred to forget that they’d ever played cards or shopped for a Christmas tree. She’d drifted into dangerous waters there, but now that she had her wits about her, she was going to be very careful not to make any more mistakes.
She waited until the call transferred to voice mail, then checked to see if he’d left another message.
Chey, Joe again. Listen, like I said before, I’m really sorry about yesterday. That guy…I didn’t explain but…my ex-wife and he…well, you’ve probably guessed the situation by now. He was part of the reason for my divorce. But that’s my problem, not yours. Please forgive me and say you’ll let me make it up to you. I’d like to take you to that Victorian Christmas event going on this week.
She imagined wandering through the streets with him, enjoying the lights and music and the various foods sold by street vendors. There’d be roasted chestnuts and spiced apple cider and smoked turkey legs. Artists and crafters would be selling their wares. She looked forward to A Victorian Christmas every year. The celebration started in Sutter Creek, then moved to a new town in Gold Country every night before ending in Whiskey Creek.
She would love nothing more than to go with him, but…