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looking at the mountains. The mountains pulled at her; she did not know why.
    It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock, and if he’d told Patsy Orr the truth about the appointments, he’d be back in another hour or so. But, dear God, why was he taking such a chance? While he was gone she could so easily have told someone, asked for help from Patsy Orr, gone to the police, asked for a doctor, a hospital—someone. Why did he think she’d stay? Why wouldn’t she run? Why hadn’t she?
    She tried to think about what she’d been like in Idaho, if Idaho really was home. She might have been interesting, an interesting person. Then she wondered why she would have wanted to be that instead of popular or beautiful or plain smart. Annette. Arleen. Why couldn’t she remember? After putting on her down jacket, she positioned the backpack so that it was more comfortable. The lightweight thermal blanket wouldn’t go in the backpack; she’d rolled it into the sleeping bag. She picked that up now and stood looking around the room. Anything else? She’d already taken the soap and small bottles from the bathroom, together with a washcloth and towel.
    Over the back of the straight chair hung his jacket. It made her shiver, but she picked it up. At some point, the police, whoever, might be able to trace him from one of his belongings. She might need something else, another coat. (It had been very cold on the short walk from the casita to the main house.) If worse came to worst, she could wear it underneath the parka.
    It would have to be “worst,” wouldn’t it? The idea of putting on something that belonged to him. . . . She’d get over it; she’d already got over a lot of it, the part she could do nothing about. If he’d kidnapped her, he’d kidnapped her. If he’d raped her, he’d raped her. It made that icy sweat stand out on her forehead, and she wiped it away. There’s nothing you can do about that part was what she’d told herself.
    Yes, she could certainly ask Mrs. Orr to get her a doctor. But why? It would keep her here until he came back and then he would probably lie his way—their way—out of it. Out of whatever had happened. She had a feeling, just a feeling, that this man could talk his way out of anything.
    The backpack, loaded down with the blanket and the bedroll, would be a lot to carry, but if she changed her mind about where she was going, she could always dispose of some stuff. She was glad she had eaten; it might have to last her for a time. She had found a crumpled ten-dollar bill in her backpack. That wouldn’t go far.
    As she folded the jacket, she felt something in an inside pocket, a pocket sewn into the silk lining. She reached in and pulled out several bills. At first she thought they were one-dollar bills, and then she looked again. A one-dollar bill on top, but underneath, there were one hundreds. Six of them. Six hundred-dollar bills! She could not remember ever having seen a hundred-dollar bill—but then, she couldn’t remember much else, could she? She laughed and clasped the money to her chest.
    Shouldering the sleeping bag, she left the room again and walked to the main house.
    Patsy Orr wasn’t around. All that she could hear was the longcase clock ticking into emptiness. The guest register lay closed on the desk. She opened it and found yesterday’s date written in. C. R. Crick and daughter. No name, just “daughter.” C. R. She frowned because there was something familiar about it. Did the R stand for Robert? Bobby. She shivered. Was that the name he’d used with her? Bobby Crick. It was like a splinter of light, the tiniest sliver showing through a crack. She closed her eyes against it and thought of the last name—Crick—but her memory was blunted. It wouldn’t have been his real name anyway. The address written in was Idaho City, Idaho. Then she looked around the