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on the accident scene to wonder if there had been someone else in the car and the police might come looking for him.
    Who’s gonna tell? Not me .
    The hit-and-run driver wasn’t likely to come forward, either. Paolo felt a queasy sensation as he realized—he and Meredith’s killer were now in this together. If one of them were to come forward, it would immediately trigger a hunt for the other.
    It was a pretty solid bet that the driver wouldn’t be the one to come forward. But what if the guy got a sudden attack of conscience? Or realized that he might get caught and decided not to risk getting charged with a more serious crime, like trying to get away with it?
    There could be no relaxing about this. Paolo had to do everything in his power to avoid being linked to Meredith’s death.
    To his left, Paolo could hear the nearby creek trickling, an anemic sound compared to the heartier gurgle higher up the gulley. From over the rolling peaks in the east, a dazzle of moonlight now lit up a whole sector of sky. He looked up hopefully. Maybe soon he’d have enough light to be able to see a road. He was pretty sure he’d spotted the occasional red taillights streaking past, a long way ahead. Paolo stepped out with confidence, determined and optimistic.
    His footstep landed on the sandy ground but didn’t rebound. Instead, it sank farther, broke the apparently drysurface, and gave way beneath him. The momentum of his walk carried his second foot inexorably into the same position. Both his feet were immobilized, one just below the surface, the foot completely submerged. Paolo felt panic clutch at his chest. He cried out. Terror swept through him as he struggled to understand what was happening. It only took him a few seconds to figure it out, yet those seconds passed slowly, vague thoughts infiltrating his mind.
    I’m stuck. I’m stuck in quicksand.
    Moments after he’d felt that first foot slump underneath him, Paolo began to realize that he was sinking deeper. He pulled hard at each foot, twisting this way and that. With every movement he sank a little more. Now he was submerged to the knees. The deeper he went, the more he panicked. The dual sensations of being trapped and of sinking were simply overwhelming. Any minute now he’d be in up to his waist. Then he’d have no hope, none whatsoever. The slowness of it all only added to the horror. It was like witnessing his own demise in slow motion.
    With a flash of good sense, Paolo reached into his pants pocket for his phone and transferred it to the slim, tight pocket of his polo shirt. His right hand then dropped to the surface of the quicksand, which was dry and crumbly. He stared hard at the area around him. The surface of the gloopy mud gave absolutely no indication of what lay beneath. Experimentally, he stuck three fingers into the quicksand and quickly pulled them out. They were coated in thick mud the consistency of whipped heavy cream.
    The mud now reached the top of his thighs. Paolo looked around. There was nothing for him to do but yell for help. Even that wasn’t likely to bring anyone. And if he were found, how would they even get him out? He might be stuck for days.
    I might be on the point of death by then.
    Paramedics would be involved, the cops, too, most likely. Questions would follow. Where had he come from, what was he doing here?
    It dawned on Paolo with a burst of clarity—the only way out was to get someone to come for him. He’d have to contact John-Michael. Even if it meant risking the phone.
    For the next few minutes, in the darkness and silence, Paolo weighed the risks. Dying of dehydration under the California sun. Immediate exposure to the cops, with questions sure to follow about Meredith. The phone was a far lesser risk, he could see that. Yet, who really knew what they could tell from cell phone data? Paranoid libertarian types were always bleating about how the NSA could figure out what