Chapter 5

The next morning, I pushed Bozack into a rented black Escalade and paused before turning the key. We were headed toward heaven or hell, depending on my mood, which changed with the minutes.

“Should be a fun trip,” I said.

Bozack had no response. Smart dog.

The only time I’d ever seen a long road was at the end of a Gus Van Sant film. As I headed south on I-95 and the miles stretched out before me, it helped to think of my vacation as an adventure waiting to be scripted. I wanted a thrill.

Just me and my dog on the open road.

Within moments, I was annoyed and in need of my cell phone. Too bad I left it at home. A radio show in Jersey clamored for topics and I had the perfect one: a bizarre car-culture on our nations’ highways. Who were those people with religious bumper stickers and how did they wind up in front of me going fifty in a sixty-five mile zone? Did they realize they’d reduced their spiritual beliefs to fad status? The Lord and I weren’t even on speaking terms, but I still found it offensive to put “God is my Co-Pilot” next to “Impeach Hillary”. And what about the escalating war between cars who had Jesus inside a fish symbol and those who preferred Darwin? Some even had Jesus eating Darwin. The whole thing seemed strange and I longed to discuss it with someone other than my dog.

Later that day, I pulled into the Fredericksburg Holiday Inn since there were no Ritz Carltons or Hyatts in that part of the country. While walking through the lobby, the hotel’s manager approached me. She wore a nametag, “Della”, and a button proudly proclaiming, “I’m No Lady”. She explained through braces and a thick southern accent that dawgs weren’t allowed. I tried to explain about pedigrees and the lonliness of the open road, but she just picked her teeth and glared at me. I began to wonder where mood stabilizers could be found. Instead of reasoning with her, I threw two hundred dollars on the counter and looked at her like she was an assignment. Della didn’t bother us again.

I soaked in the tub that night and my thoughts, once again, drifted back in time. I remembered the last time my girls and I were together.


They waited in a room with one-way mirrors and an armed guard at the door. I found out later they were searched upon entering the facility, Sarah’s first and last time getting felt up. When I entered the room, everyone was waiting quietly, listening to the inmates screaming.

I wore blue overalls, trying to look hopeful even though my lawyer already warned me not to look too pleased. The girls jumped up and hugged me. I hugged them back. They couldn’t hold in their tears and I handed them tissue. Sarah’s parents wouldn’t leave her side while Julia’s dad and Rebekah’s parents were sitting off in a corner, giving us space to talk.

“How are you doing?” Sarah asked.

“I’m okay,” I replied.

Lots of crazy kids lived in that center and some of them were frightening. Three girls had already threatened to knife me for looking too hard and too long at one of them. I felt like a character in Rumble Fish without Matt Dillon to make it a worthwhile story. However, I tried not to worry. When word got out that I’d killed my own father, the crazy kids would back off.

“Why do you have a scarf around your head and sunglasses on?” I asked Rebekah.

Rebekah took off her sunglasses and put them away.

“Hot Stuff didn’t want to be photographed coming in here,” Julia said, rolling her eyes. “As if anyone knows who she is anyway!”

“My mother said it may hurt my modeling career,” Rebekah replied.

“What career?” Julia snapped.

“You look like a young Jackie Onassis,” I said.

“Really?” Rebekah asked, impressed.

I glanced at the adults. Julia’s dad was in his lecturing pose while the others appeared quiet and subdued, as if they were attending a funeral. An aura of guilt floated through the room and I wondered if they blamed themselves. My friends’ parents, like so many in that social circle, internalized everything; events made sense only if they could be featured in supporting roles. They gave themselves more credit than they deserved.

I fought the urge to tell them there was nothing they could have done to prevent my actions. Inviting me to more dinners, more movies, sitting down for heart-to-hearts. Nothing would have saved my father, my mother, or myself.

“Do you have legal representation?” Julia’s dad asked.

“The court appointed a public defender because Sally isn’t able to hire a lawyer for me.”

“You’re kidding,” Sarah whispered.

“Sally’s attorney came to see me the day after the shooting,” I explained. “With dramatic gestures and hidden agendas, she told me that Sally had suffered a nervous breakdown after the ‘unfortunate incident’ and left for a psychiatric ‘spa’ in Gainesville. Some sympathetic judge declared her mentally unstable so they made me a ward of the state.”

“That’s ridiculous,” someone said.

The other parents nodded.

“We’ll get a good lawyer for you, Liv. Don’t worry about that,” Rebekah’s mom said.

I wasn’t worried, but thanked them anyway. Sarah’s parents walked off to strategize with the other adults. I turned back toward my friends.

“The trial’s going to be great no matter who represents me,” I told them. “Finally, all of our secrets will come out: the alcoholism, miscarriages, beatings, and lies. The press will eat it up and Sally Foster will finally make the society section.”

I can kill her without risking further legal action, I thought.

“Then the jury apologizes for my trauma and allows me to live with one of you,” I said.

“It sounds like As The World Turns,” Julia said.

More like a pipe dream. Within days, the DA declared me incompetent and unaccountable for my actions. No trial or hearing, just evaluations with a shrink before sending me away for my own protection. Who says a girl can’t kill her father and feel fine afterward? Why do adults feel the need to rationalize by suggesting a chemical imbalance?

I wasn’t crazy, just self-assured.

They transferred me to Creek Home in Tallahassee, a hospital for disturbed girls, until the day after I turned eighteen.

What about my God-given right to exploit a personal tragedy? Where was my day in court, my book deal? As an American, wasn’t I entitled to something? I wrote letters to the judge and my attorney, but never heard back. They no longer cared.

A year after I arrived in Tallahassee, my mother returned home and committed suicide.

Sarah, Rebekah, and Julia each wrote to me about it. Sarah’s letter called for inner peace and forgiveness. Rebekah’s letter talked about the gossip and stares that drove Sally to suicide. Julia sent newspaper clippings for my scrapbook. Even without a trial, I had humiliated and scorned Sally into ending her life.


Back on the road and heading toward Florida, South of the Border signs assaulted my sense of good taste. Dr. Laura should be raging against that instead of unwed mothers.

“Chili today, Hot Tamale: South of the Border,” I read one aloud.

Who was paid to come up with that? I almost pulled over at the tacky roadside attraction to tell them a thing or two about advertising when a Ford Explorer distracted me. It tried to stay hidden behind two cars but after several miles I knew it was trailing me.

At first, my paranoia worked overtime.

“Deep breaths, Olivia,” I whispered. “Deep breaths.”

Avery always preached patience, telling me to calm down and remember that not everyone knows or cares what I do for a living.

Later, when I pulled into the South Carolina Welcome Center and the Explorer was still behind me, I got ready for a confrontation. The rest area filled with weary vacationers, I grabbed my gun anyway. Bozack whined for a walk and I made sure to keep the Explorer in my sights. No one got out of the vehicle as we walked for over forty-five minutes.

Patience worked both ways.

Tying Bozack to the nearest pole, I went into the bathroom to freshen up and took my time reading graffiti about Maggie Kane spreading venereal warts all over Rowland.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom and saw him.

Max feigned interest in South Carolina brochures, yet his mind was on something else. I could tell by the way he glanced at people, alert and serious. He looked at everyone except me.

My favorite FBI agent. Of course.

Either in a crowd or behind the wheel of an Explorer, it was impossible not to notice Max. His red hair and striking blue eyes, walking around with his head up and shoulders back, smiling at babies and helping an old lady walk through the door. He looked like a normal guy on vacation, wearing a Red Sox T-shirt and jeans, whistling softly with his hands in his pockets. I slowly walked by and pretended not to know him. It wasn’t easy. My hands were shaking and I thought everyone could tell.

Get it together, Olivia.

I spotted another man. He seemed to be in his late thirties with dark brown hair and intense eyes that bore into mine when we faced each other. Wearing a suit, he looked horribly out of place. I found it surprising that he didn’t smile. He didn’t seem like a charming man; rather someone who’d want to bury me in his back yard. That’s when I realized he was Max’s new partner. We locked eyes for a moment and I winked at him. Annoyed, he turned away.

Without looking back, I untied Bozack and walked toward my car. Bozack stopped and sniffed in Max’s direction. When I sucked in my breath and tugged at the leash, Bozack understood and trotted toward the car, excited to get back on the road.

I got behind the wheel and looked into the mirror underneath my visor.

“Now what?” I asked myself.