The Grid Read Free Page A

forming there. Somehow, her face is speckled with Rocky’s blood. Her hair is, too, even though it had been covered by the wig.
    She closes her eyes, and this time instead of hearing her grandfather’s words of strength, her father appears, drunk, standing on the balcony of the house in Bowie County. He’s looking out over the field where the cotton used to grow. He is waiting for Sarah’s grandfather to return, an unpleasant meeting.
    Sarah feels small and helpless at the memory.
    It’s the 1980s, and her father has lost more money than most people will ever see in a lifetime, the old man’s money, gone in a swirl of headlines as the oil bust and savings-and-loan crisis in Texas deepened.
    Two things her grandfather hated more than anything: losing money and headlines.
    Sarah opens her eyes. Steam fills the bathroom.
    Make that three. The old man hated her father, his only son. Thought him weak and ineffectual, a simpering drunk. Which he was, up until the day he died in an alley behind that gay bar in Dallas.
    Sarah realizes the stench filling her nostrils now is from her own body—sweat and fear and more sweat. She shuts off the hot water in the sink and turns on both taps in the bath. Then she removes what’s left of her clothes and takes a hurried shower, scrubbing herself raw with soap, shampooing her hair.
    Four minutes later, she’s putting on her jeans and blouse, underwear balled up in her purse. The blouse won’t fasten, so she finds a lightweight plastic jacket in her handbag, an oversized, shapeless raincoat type of thing you can buy at a dollar store, something that folds to a compact size and is kept for emergencies.
    Sarah always has one handy in case she needs to change her appearance after an encounter with a horndog. She puts the coat on, zips it up to just below her throat.
    The garment reaches to her thighs and completely hides her shape. She could be anorexic or morbidly obese.
    Satisfied with her appearance, she wipes down the sink and counter with toilet paper and flushes the sodden ball. Then she gingerly steps into the bedroom, avoiding Rocky’s blood and her vomit.
    Outside, the sound of car doors slamming, people talking.
    The wig has been torn somehow. She jams it in the purse and removes a Dallas Cowboys ball cap. With the cap on her wet hair, oversized sunglasses, and the jacket, she’s unidentifiable, unless a close friend is doing the looking, which is highly unlikely since SarahSmiles doesn’t have many of those.
    There’s nothing she can do about the mess she’s leaving behind, though.
    The thought gives her pause, but only for a moment.
    More movement from the hallway.
    She takes a deep breath, stares at the door, wonders what’s on the other side.
    Are the police waiting for her?
    A lungful of air catches in her throat, makes her gasp. Fear paralyzes her limbs.
    Her grandfather’s words reverberate in her head: Don’t be like your daddy, Sarah. Don’t be a fucking pussy.

- CHAPTER FOUR -
    I parked my squad car by the front entrance of the TravelTimes Inn, underneath the porte cochere. The deputy’s pickup was in the back, along with a half-dozen other vehicles. A slow day at the inn.
    My phone dinged with a text message at the same time as the car’s two-way radio squawked. Both communications were about the power outage, which apparently had involved several counties, a pretty big swath of Central Texas in the dead of summer.
    Fortunately that was someone else’s problem.
    I got out, left the car and AC running, and went inside.
    A clerk stood behind the front desk, watching me as I crossed the lobby.
    He was short and scrawny. His skin was the color of cinnamon, and he wore a name tag that read, I RVING P ATEL, A SSISTANT M ANAGER .
    I stand a little over six feet, about ten inches taller than he was. A Stetson rested on my head, mirrored Ray-Bans perched on my nose, a pistol on my hip.
    Irving Patel smiled. “What may I do for you, officer?” He spoke with a