“Stay warm,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Lydia. “I got my ways for that.” Taking hold of the little girl’s wrist and pulling her toward the car.

Patty went after them. Bent to get eye-level with the kid as Lydia handed the suitcase off to the cabbie. “Nice to meet you, little Tanya.”

That sounded awkward. What did she know about kids?

Tanya bit her lip, chewed hard.

Now here it was, thirteen months later, a hot night in June, the air stinking of Patty didn’t know what, and the kid was back at her door, tiny as ever, wearing saggy jeans and a frayed white top, her hair curlier, more yellow than white.

Biting and gnawing exactly the same way. Holding a stuffed orca that was coming apart at the seams.

This time, she stared straight up at Patty.

A rumbling red Firebird was parked exactly where the cab had been. One of those souped-up numbers with a spoiler and fat tires and wire dealies clamping down the hood. The hood thumped like a fibrillating heart.

As Patty hurried toward the car the Firebird peeled out, Lydia ’s platinum shag barely visible through the tinted glass on the passenger side.

Patty thought her sister had waved, but she was never really sure.

The kid hadn’t moved.

When Patty got back to her, Tanya reached in a pocket and held out a note.

Cheap white paper, red letterhead from the Crazy Eight Motor Hotel, Holcomb, Nevada.

Below that, Lydia’s handwriting, way too pretty for someone with only junior high. Lydia had never put any effort into learning penmanship or anything else during those nine years but things came easy to her.

The kid started to whimper.