“Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Rodarte closed his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat, cursing his culpability. Had Burkett sent him on a wild-goose chase? Given him some busywork to keep him occupied while he and his ladylove got away?

He pulled his car to the shoulder of the freeway, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. He kept the motor idling while he considered his options.

“Itasca,” Laura repeated. “Ever heard of it?”

“No, but I’ll find it.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Great work. Thanks.” He moved toward the door. “Switch out the light till I’m gone. And remember not to turn any lights on unless the door to this room is closed.”

“You’re going now?”

“Right now. I just hope Rodarte doesn’t have too much of a lead.”

“But we don’t know if that’s it, Griff. And even if it is, Manuelo may be long gone.”

“I’ve gotta try. He’s my last hope.”

“I’m coming, too,” she said decisively.

“Un-huh. No way. I don’t know what I-”

“I’m coming with you.” She stood up, but when she did, a strange look came over her face and she pushed her hands between her thighs.

“What’s the matter?”

She just stood there, looking at him with alarm. Then her face crumpled, and she groaned, “Oh, no.”

CHAPTER 35

EVEN WHEN HE SAW THE BLOOD ON HER HANDS, SAW THE streaks of it on the legs of her tracksuit, Griff didn’t comprehend what was happening until he looked into her eyes and saw the anguish in them. “Oh, Jesus.”

In a keening voice she said, “My baby.”

He reached for her, but she backed away. “Laura, I gotta get you to a hospital.”

“There’s nothing to be done.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s lost.”

“No, no, we’ll stop it. We can. We will.”

She looked around frantically. “Where’s the bathroom?”

He got to the door ahead of her and reached inside to switch on the light. She slipped around him and closed the door behind her.

“Laura?”

“Don’t come in.”

He placed both palms on the door and, leaning into it, ground his forehead hard against the wood, never in his life having felt so useless. Miscarriage. He’d heard the word, knew what it meant, but had never realized that it entailed that much blood, or caused this much despair. He felt pointless, superfluous, and helpless. The laws of nature had emasculated him.

He stood outside the bathroom door for what seemed forever. Several times he knocked, asked how she was doing, asked if there was something he could do. She replied in monosyllabic mumbles that told him nothing.

The toilet flushed numerous times. Water ran in the sink. Eventually he heard the shower. Shortly after it stopped running, she opened the door. She was wrapped in a towel. His eyes moved over her from the top of her wet hair to her toes and back up, stopping on her eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.

“Is it hopeless?”

She nodded.

He assimilated that, marveled at the anguish it caused him. “Does it hurt?”

“A little. Like really bad cramps.”

“Um-hmm,” he said, as though he had any idea what menstrual cramps felt like.

“I need something to put on.”

He looked beyond her. Her tracksuit was in a sodden heap on the floor of the shower. “I’ll find something.”

“Do you think Mrs. Miller has some pads?”

Pads? His mind scrambled. Pads. Right. Ask him about Tiger Balm or jock itch remedies and he was conversant. Athlete’s foot? On it. But he’d never even walked down the feminine hygiene aisle of a supermarket. Not on purpose anyway. He’d never bought a product for a girlfriend, wife, daughter. His knowledge of such things was limited to the box of tampons his mother had kept beneath the bathroom sink. He knew they were necessary, but that’s all.

“I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t even think about the lights he was turning on as he went banging through the house, bumping into walls, flinging open doors he’d left closed the last few days. In the Millers’ bedroom he opened the closet they shared. Coach’s clothes hung on one side, Ellie’s on the other, shoes lined up neatly beneath.

He yanked a robe off a hanger, then began rifling bureau drawers until he found her underwear. Not the skimpier, lacier kind he’d seen Laura in, but what he came up with would do.

Pads. Wouldn’t Ellie be past menopause? Hell if he knew. He searched their bathroom but didn’t find any personal products in any of the cabinets. The guest bath? Ellie had nieces who came to visit occasionally. Maybe…

In the guest bath closet he found extra toilet tissue, toothpaste and soap, disposable razors, even cellophane-wrapped toothbrushes. Pads and tampons. Thank God for Ellie. He grabbed the box of pads.

Laura was sitting on the lid of the toilet, hugging her waistline, staring into near space, rocking back and forth. He set the items on the counter, then crouched in front of her. She was still wrapped in the towel. He saw the goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

“You didn’t. It’s all right.”

“You’re cold.” He placed the thick robe around her shoulders. “Put your arms in.” He guided her arms into the sleeves, then pulled the robe together over her chest, towel and all.

“Thank you.”

“What else can I do?”

“Nothing.”

He remained squatted down in front of her, staring into her face. “Are you sure…Maybe…” She shook her head, cutting him off, severing his hope.

Fresh tears spilled over her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. “There was a lot. Too much for it to be a false alarm.”

“You should go to the hospital. Call your doctor at least.”

“In a day or so, I’ll go to the doctor. I know they have to make sure that it all came out.” She swallowed hard, he thought probably to hold back sobs. “I’ll be okay. I have to get through this part. It’s not pleasant, but…” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “This happens all the time. One out of every ten pregnancies. Something like that.”

But it doesn’t happen to you. And not to me. This was a sorrow they shared. He touched her cheek, but she yanked her head back and stood up. “I need privacy now.”

“Can’t I-”

“No. There’s nothing you can do. Just…” She motioned for him to leave.

Her rejection made him feel like he had fangs and claws. His merest touch was a violation to her tender, feminine flesh. His size and sex suddenly felt incriminatory. He didn’t know why that was, but he felt burly and awkward and blameworthy as he stood up and backed into the open doorway. He went out and pulled the door closed behind himself.

When she came out, Griff was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers making tunnels through his hair.

Hearing her, he looked up, his expression bleak. She felt self-conscious, wrapped from chin to ankles in the pink terry-cloth robe that belonged to a woman she’d never met. He’d found underwear for her. Sanitary pads. Even with her husband, she’d never shared moments as personal as the last few she’d shared with Griff Burkett.

He said, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Your fault?”

He came to his feet. “In the hotel, I was rough with you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was. I manhandled you. Then I forced you to run, made you crawl through a wall on your belly, dragged you-”

“It wasn’t your fault, Griff.”

“Like hell! It wouldn’t have happened if I’d left you alone. You’d still have your baby if you were safe inside your hotel room, not on this damn fool’s mission of mine.”

“Listen,” she said softly, hoping to calm him. “I’ve been feeling twinges for several days. I was spotting on the morning of Foster’s funeral. That’s normal during early pregnancy. I thought it was caused by stress, the shock of his death. I ignored it. But the cramps and spotting were signals. It would have happened no matter what, Griff.” She could tell by his expression that she hadn’t persuaded him.