Bo, my sister welcomes enthusiasm. Demands it, even.
“Is it true? Is it really true?” Lexi’s familiar voice, the same gravelly one that used to give boys all over Hawkins County wet dreams. “Did my do-gooder little sister finally come home from Lord knows where?”
“It’s true that I’m here, yes. But nowadays, home is in Kenya.”
“Well, laa-tee-daa.” She stretches out her words, loads them up with an extra serving of Tennessee twang. “Don’t that sound fancy.”
I snort at what I know to be a joke. Lexi is no dummy. She has a master’s in finance from Stanford, runs a local chain of banks and could kick even Alex Trebek’s ass at Jeopardy. Not only is she aware of my latest whereabouts, she knows Dadaab is pretty much the polar opposite of fancy. My chest seizes with a wave of sudden affection for my sister, who I haven’t hugged in...six years? Has it really been that long?
“Where are you?” I say, switching gears. “Because I’m coming there right after I lock up the house.”
“I’m going to need a little more time than that.” Her tone takes a serious turn, matching mine, and her voice and vowels soften into the more generic timbre she perfected in college. Less country hick, more Southern belle. Unlike me, Lexi can turn her accent on and off like a faucet. “I’m about to head into a staff meeting, but I could meet you after for a late dinner. Say, seven-thirty?”
I check my watch. Three and a half hours I can fill with a nap and a shower, in that order. “Perfect. So where’s the place to be on a Wednesday night these days?”
“It’s Thursday, actually, not that it matters. And there’s only one place to be every night, and that’s the Roadkill Bar and Grill in town.”
Roadkill? I make a face. “Do I have to bring my own rodent, or do they run it down for me?”
She laughs, a throaty, musical sound that makes me wish I’d called more often. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your roots, young lady.”
“I haven’t forgotten. My palate has just evolved to more refined creatures, like stray animals. And last month in the Philippines I tried this thing called balut, a fertilized duck embryo that’s boiled alive and eaten shell and all.”
Lexi makes a retching sound. “I think I’d rather starve to death.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Though I’ve always been adventurous with food and my sister the pickiest eater in Appalachia, Lexi does have a point. Balut tastes just as bad the first time as it does the second, on its way back up.
“A girl’s got to eat. And besides, my rule wherever I travel is to eat or drink whatever is offered to me, even if it does end up turning my insides to gurgling water. Sharing a meal, no matter how vile, fosters trust between my team and the people we’re there to help.”
“Good Lord. Your job sucks worse than mine.”
“Mostly, my job is pretty awesome, especially for a wanderer like me. I’ve flown around the globe more times than anybody on my team, and been to more than a hundred and twenty-five countries. The consulate has had to add pages to my passport now, twice.”
“I thought your job was to make the world a better place.”
“Well, duh. That goes without saying.”
Lexi covers the receiver with a hand, muffling her voice when she tells a colleague she’s on the phone, but will be right there.
“You’ve got to go?” I ask.
“Sorry. We’ll catch up on all the rest tonight, okay?”
“Okay. And, Lex?” She pauses, but I hear papers shuffling around her desk, and even though I know I’ve probably already lost her, I say it anyway: “I’ve missed you.”
“Same here. See you at seven-thirty.” And then she’s gone.
I plunk the phone on the counter by my mug and head outside to retrieve my suitcase, still in the trunk of my rental. In the past hour, the temperature plummeted and the air turned metallic, thick with invisible frost and crystals. I cast a glance at the darkening sky. No clouds yet, but I know what that scent means. I inhale enough of it to give my lungs freezer burn. God, how I’ve missed the smell of promised snow.
Up at the street, a silver Escort slows, tires crunching in the dirt and gravel on the side of the road. Any other day, any other place, and I probably wouldn’t have paid the car a bit of attention. But I lived on Maple Street long enough to know strangers don’t typically happen down this way by accident. I keep it in my periphery as I make my way up the concrete drive.
The car pulls to a sudden stop with a piercing squeal of brakes, and I freeze, gaze glued to the passenger side window. It whirrs and lowers to reveal a dark-haired man about my age. He leans across the seat, ducking his head to get a clear view through the window.
And though he may be wearing a friendly smile, I’m not.
“Sorry to bother you.” His bangs flop over an eye, and he pushes them back with a palm. “But can you tell me where the closest gas station is?”
The breath I’d been holding makes a thick cloud before it dissipates into the air. I take two steps across the frozen grass to his car, keeping a careful distance, pointing him in the opposite direction. “You’ve got to go back toward town, but it’s not far. Only two miles or so.”
“Two miles?” He draws out the last word, stretching his mouth wide to fit the vowels. I get this a lot in the field, people trying to imitate my Tennessee drawl as if there’s something funny or quaint about an accent. But their teasing only comes across as condescension, or at the very best, surprise that I’m not as dumb as I sound.
Which is why I lay it on thick now. “Two miles, yeah. Take a left at the four-way stop, and then it’ll be on your right. You can’t miss it.”
“There wouldn’t happen to be a decent hotel near there, too, would there?”
I take in his longish hair and battered leather jacket. Scruffy chic or penny-pincher? I can’t tell. “There’s the Hale Springs Inn in town, but it’s pretty swanky. Take the highway either way, though, and you’ll find some more affordable places a little farther out.”
He gives me a smile of thanks, but I detect something more to it—there’s something more than just fuel and shelter he’s looking for. A chill that has nothing to do with the February air brushes my shoulders, and I think of my cell, lying useless inside on the kitchen counter. I glance behind me, eyeing the distance to the front door, my senses on high alert.
He points over my shoulder. “Nice place. You live here?”
“Only temporari—” I swallow the last syllable, realizing a second too late I shouldn’t have admitted to living in a semi-deserted house at the end of a semi-deserted street.
He stretches his neck to get a better look, and then his gaze returns to mine. He smiles again, and I back up a step. “You’re Gia Andrews, right?”
Something like relief that he’s not a rapist or armed robber washes over me, quickly replaced by fury. A journalist. A goddamn journalist. You’d think after all my interactions with them in the field, I would have recognized him as one immediately.
I turn and stalk to my car. “I don’t talk to journalists.”
“Fine by me, because I’m not a journalist.” I don’t slow, and he bolts out of the Escort, his voice booming over its hood. “I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about America’s most shocking wrongful convictions.”
His words are electric, shooting a paralyzing current from my crown to the tips of my toes and melding my sneakers to the icy pavement. Wrongful conviction? I pivot my head to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”
He bites off a mitten and digs around in a coat pocket, then crosses