Page 12 of Fire and Bones

I took I-85 to I-95 and made good time. Was near Stafford, maybe an hour from the capital, when two things happened.

The storm broke.

Traffic ground to a halt.

Noting the sea of red taillights ahead, I braked.

Waited.

Nothing moved.

I waited some more.

Cursed.

I am also not a patient driver.

Irritated, I shifted into park and leaned back, resigned to the delay.

Rain slammed the windshield and drummed a million tiny bullets against my hood and roof. The wind gusted, swirling the deluge and occasionally yielding glimpses of the world outside my little bubble. During those brief intervals, vehicles emerged and took shape before vanishing back into the gray void.

As with most thunderstorms, this one passed quickly, and traffic began to crawl. In ten-foot bursts. Accelerate. Brake. Accelerate. Brake. I spent the next hour lurching my way forward.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have a temper. Always have had. My grandmother attributed this character flaw to my Irish genes. But Gran credited everything, good or bad, to that same Gaelic DNA.

As a kid I wasn’t great at keeping my temper in check. It had a high trigger point but once tripped, I’d spew venom on anyone and anything within range.

As an adult I’ve developed techniques to catch myself in that split second before I detonate and let loose. Sometimes I count. Sometimes I do yogic breathing. Sometimes I run through the lyrics of a song in my head.

The shattered plans for Savannah. The cranky cat. The long drive. The unforgiving traffic. The grim task ahead.

Alone in the car, I didn’t even try restraint. Letting the disappointment and frustration blast free, I cursed and wished pestilence on the unseen drivers in the vehicles around me.

The internalized tantrum helped. If not with the clogged artery that was I-395, then at least with my frazzled nerves. When the private outburst had played itself out, I asked my cell phone to dial Thacker’s number. She answered on the first ring.

I reported that my navigation app was putting me at forty minutes away. She commiserated about the traffic and said she’d meet me at the hotel.

With its stacked windows and lighted overhang projecting above glass front doors, the Hyatt Place looked like a thousand other high-rise inns in America. One corner of the building was all glass and steel. Flags flew from poles on the roof. Signs identified the brand in enormous vertical and horizontal letters.

It was almost seven when I pulled up to the entrance. A doorman with chocolate skin and smoke-yellowed teeth queried my intent. His name tag said T. Valentine.

I told T. Valentine I was checking in. Accepting my car keys, he offered help with my luggage. I thanked him and said I’d prefer to pull the bag myself.

The lobby was spacious and done in what the designer might have labeled cubist modern. Rectangular sofas and desks. Square footstools. Oblong slashes on the carpet. Lots of gray and yellow.

I looked around. Saw no one I thought could be Jada Thacker.

Why did I find the woman’s absence surprising? Nothing else was going as expected.

I crossed to one of the desk clerks, an Asian man so small his chin barely cleared the top of the counter. His tag said H. Cho.

I told H. Cho that a reservation had been made in my name. He beamed and asked for ID.

After a quick glance at my license and my face, H. Cho typed my name into the system. His smile held as he studied the screen. Faltered as his fingers again flew over the keyboard.

“I’m sorry, madam. Could the reservation be under a different name?”

“Perhaps Jada Thacker?”

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