Page 7 of Riesling with My Roommate

“No.”

She lets that digest for a minute. “You don’t know my name.”

“That is correct.”

There’s a pause.

“What ifI’mthe murderer?”

I’m so surprised I cough, and she huffs indignantly behind me. “Women can be murderers.”

“I know.”

“And you aren’t worried about your own safety at all?”

I don’t know if it’s that she’s American or something else, but her no-holds-barred teasing is refreshing. It reminds me of the way the rest of the band and I are together. “Okay, let’s say you are a murderer. Maybe I should pull over and take a picture of your ID.”

“A little late for that.”

“True. I’m in a confined space with a murderer who refuses to tell me her name.”

She gasps, but a glance in the mirror shows that she’s fighting a smile. “I am not refusing; you never asked!”

“Okay.” I peer at her. “What’s your name?”

“That’s better. It’s Sara. Sara Wallace.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and press the voice-to-text icon, keeping my eyes on the road. I’ve barely seen a dozen cars since we left Sara’s place, but you never know with these dark roads. I speak slowly and enunciate. “If I die, look for Sara Wallace. She’s American, vegan, yogi, and on holiday.”

With a tap, I sent the message to our band manager, Marcus, and put my phone back in the center console.

“That should be enough for my friends to avenge my death,” I tell her.

The side of her mouth quirks up.

“So, Sara the vegan yoga instructor. How long have you been in Baden-Baden?”

“Just today,” she says, sighing and looking out the window.

She watches the forest roll by, and I let the silence fall over us. It’s dark, and we’ve made our way out of town now, the houses becoming sparse and the land wooded. Sara stifles a few yawns.

When I make the turn into the driveway, Sara sits up. The lights from the house shine brightly on her face, enough that I can see her eyes narrowing and focusing on the building.

“This is your place?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I can imagine what she’s thinking as we approach. The landscaping is uplit, the shades are all open, and the lights are on inside. It’s like a beacon in the Black Forest.

I pull into the covered entrance and park. When I look over at Sara, her mouth is open, eyes wide, taking everything in.

Wordlessly, she gets out and stares at the house. I unload the luggage, having a flashback to when I had to lug my own gear around with the band.

I wheel one of the bags over to her and offer her the handle.

“Sara?” I ask when she doesn’t notice.

She glances at me, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “You’re renting me a room in this house?” she repeats.

“Yes.”

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