“Rust told me you are somewhat of a . . .” He searches for the word and ends with, “virtuoso.”

I’ve never heard anyone use that word before, but I have a general idea of what it might mean. “I know a few things.” I feel the smirk touch my lips. Unlike Boone, I’m not one to brag. And because I have a friend like Boone, there’s no need. The guy does plenty of it for me. “I don’t know how long this will take. I mean, I can swing some evenings and weekends, but—”

“I want you to start right now.”

My fingertips scrape against my stubble—no time to shave this morning—as I ponder how to handle what is basically an order. “No offense, Mr. Petrova, but I can’t lose my full-time job because you want to fill your garage with expensive rides.”

His lips press together in a tight smile, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or sincerely amused. “Call me Viktor, please. Fair enough. After your regular hours. And weekends. Until you’re done.”

That won’t be exhausting at all.

“It’s not going to be cheap.” He said he’d make it worth my while but we have yet to talk actual figures, and if he’s going to demand my time, then he can pay for it. I’m no sucker.

His hands lift in the air, palms up, cigarette hanging between two fingers. “Does it look like I’m concerned?” The way he says that—with that condescending smile—should annoy me but it doesn’t, because it’s the truth. I expect him to say, “Name your price,” so I start crunching numbers in my head—how much I get paid at Rust’s times how many hours this may take me, plus travel and gas, plus overtime plus extra padding, just because.

Basically, how much I can tally up to earn enough for a decent ’69 Plymouth Barracuda, which is why I came in the first place.

“You put this car together for me and I will hand you the keys to your car.” He takes an extra-long haul of his cigarette, then leans down to butt it into the cement floor.

“You serious?”

Viktor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are two things I never joke about, Jesse: cars and my debts.”

“And all the papers to go with it?” The last place I want my dream car taking me is to jail for grand theft auto.

A frown zags across his forehead. “Of course.”

“And it’ll run?”

“Does it matter? You can fix anything, right?” He gestures ahead of us. “As you can see, I have plenty of tools, an engine hoist. I can get whatever you need for my expensive rides. I am not home much, so I will make sure that my wife is here to let you in.”

Mention of Alexandria has my eyes drifting to the steel door in the corner. I assume that leads into the house. Is she in there right now? Or did she take another car and go out? Tabbs had her BMW on the hoist this morning, affixing a new muffler that had miraculously appeared overnight.

“So? One Aston Martin for one Plymouth Barracuda?” Those cold blue eyes penetrate mine. Does he hope I’ll say yes? Or does he simply expect it?

Strolling over to the frame, I slide my hand over the hood. This hunk of metal in front of me was once a beautiful car that purred and raced. If I have any clue what I’m doing, it will be again. And I get the distinct impression that if I say yes to him, I sure as hell better know what I’m doing and fast.

“It’s a deal.”

“Good.” His dress shoes scrape against the concrete as he approaches my side, a smooth, manicured hand extended. He’s not one for dirty work; that much is obvious. I guess the manly garage is just for show. “So, you’ll be here tonight to take a better look.” It’s more a statement than a question. “I’m eager to drive this car.”

“Viktor!” his friend calls from the doorway. It’s followed by something in Russian, the words sounding quick and harsh.

“If you will excuse me now, Jesse. I need to be on my way.” He stands by the door, his arm gesturing out. Clearly sending me a message to hit the road.

“I guess I’ll see you tonight, then.” I could argue with him, reject the timing. I’m good at negotiating. I’ve had years of experience doing it with a dad who thinks the world should bend to his will because he’s the almighty sheriff. But Viktor’s dangling something that I’m willing to jump through hoops for and he knows it.

I throw my shitty-ass car—I can’t wait to park this ball-less hunk of metal for the last time—into reverse to follow the Hummer out when something catches the corner of my eye. Alexandria, leaning against the window next to the door.

Watching me.

I check my rearview mirror to see the Hummer’s brake lights by the end of the drive, waiting for the gate to open. So I wave at her. Not really a wave. More like four fingers lifting into the air, my thumb still hooked on the steering wheel. I hold my hand there, wondering what she’ll do.

At first I think she’s not going to acknowledge me. But then her own hand lifts to press against the glass. She keeps it there as I roll away.

TWELVE

Jane Doe

now

Dr. Alwood’s black sedan chugs along the bustling main street of Sisters.

My new hometown.

It’s only twenty-one miles northwest of Bend, but it already feels like a lifetime away from the only other place in the world that I remember.

Dr. Alwood sighs, coming to a dead stop in front of a hair salon as someone up ahead waits to make a left turn. The sight makes me reach up and touch my own hair, now colored a nice golden blond and cut to my shoulders. We just left the stylist in Bend. She showed me how to set the part so the patch where they had to shave my head is covered.

“If the town would just build a bypass for the highway, we could avoid this daily traffic jam,” Dr. Alwood murmurs.

“I don’t mind the traffic.” With the sun beating down on us and the windows rolled open, the warm spring air carries with it the hum of life. My eyes skim the pedestrians and the storefronts along both sides, many of which appear to be galleries. “A lot of people like art around here, don’t they?”

Dr. Alwood nods. “The town has become something of a tourist destination. That’s the intention, anyway. They did some major restorations, trying to bring the old frontier-town feel back to it.”

“Frontier. Yes . . .” The boxy buildings with angular faces do remind me of an old black-and-white western movie I watched the other night in my hospital room, when entertainment options were slim. While western films don’t seem to be my thing, I like the feel of this place. It seems small.

Safe.

“How many people live here?”

“About two thousand. Just the way Gabe and I like it. After a stressful day at work, it’s nice to come back to something more simple.”

I press up against the window to see the top of a tall, narrow tree on the corner, its needled branches like pipe cleaners.

“That’s called a ponderosa pine,” Dr. Alwood explains. “We’re known in these parts for them. You’ll see them all over Ginny’s ranch. Our place, too.”

“Dr. Alwood—”

“Please, call me Meredith,” she interrupts me. “You’re no longer in the hospital. Same with Gabe. I’d like to think we know each other well enough to use first names now.”

I nod and try it out for the first time. “Meredith—I want to get a job and earn money. What is there to do around here?”

Her brow pinches together. “We’ll think of something. Gabe’s family has lived in these parts for generations. I’m sure someone would be willing to help us out if we ask. Maybe a small retail store.” She points to one with a scrawling sign hanging at the front of it. A quilt dangles in the window, with swirls of blue and white in the background and the black skeleton of a tree standing prominently in the center. “That’s actually one of only a few original buildings that didn’t get burned down in the ’twenties. Still, Sisters has survived and thrived.”

Surviving and thriving. Maybe this town is perfect for a person like me. I have the first part down pat.

We continue the ride in relaxed silence, leaving the bustling town behind for a series of side roads, each one bumpier and more remote. Soon the houses disappear altogether. Ahead of us is nothing but wide-open straw-colored fields, peppered with those ponderosa pines. And looming like a curtained backdrop, three mountain peaks ahead.

“Those are the Three Sisters,” Meredith explains, noticing my riveted attention. “They’re actually volcanic peaks. Low risk, though.”

“They’re really high,” I murmur, taking in the white caps they still wear, even when everything below is a lush green.

“Yes. Over ten thousand feet.”

We make a left down a slightly narrower dirt road. “That’s our house, back in there.” We pass a long drive that disappears into a screen of tall trees. About a hundred yards over sits a rusted and dented blue mailbox that reads “Fitzgerald,” its flag raised. Meredith pulls the car up and empties it of a thick stack of flyers and envelopes. She hands them to me. “Can you sort these for me? Remove anything not addressed directly to Ginny or we’ll have to listen to a ten-minute rant about a government conspiracy.”

I filter through the pile, wondering yet again what I’ve gotten myself into. It took me a night of contemplation, lying in my dark, lonely hospital room, to realize that this is actually a great thing. One cranky old lady with a bucket of issues and my own space to live in is definitely preferable to a shelter full of nosy strangers and no privacy. Besides, the Welleses live next door, and they’re as close to family as I have right now.

Meredith’s car dips and bumps as we slowly make our way over the potholes. “As you can guess, getting trash to the curb on collection day can be a real pain. We’re about a quarter of a mile off the road. She has an old truck that she uses to take out the bags, but it’s still tough. Doing that and getting the mail are some things that you can do to help Ginny out, as long as you feel up to it physically. But you’ll just have to start doing it. She won’t ask. She’s stubborn like that.”

We round a bend of trees and I get my first look at the Fitzgerald ranch, complete with three mismatched buildings—a small white clapboard house to the far left, a brown two-door garage ahead, and a sturdy-looking red barn to the right. Wooden fences trail along the property as far as my eye can see, creating a maze of corrals. Some sit faded and falling apart, while others stand secure, lighter beams of wood telling me that they’ve seen some repair.

“Is that Amber?” I watch the rider atop a black-and-white horse gallop toward a striped wooden beam erected in between two stands. The horse sails over it with ease.

“Yes, that’s my Amber.” Meredith’s eyes gleam with joy. “She used to ride competitively. She retired a couple of years ago, but she keeps Ginny’s horses active. Back when Gabe was young, the Fitzgeralds had many horses on this ranch. They’ve died off over the years. There are only two left.” Meredith’s head nods toward the field where a second horse grazes in the distance, its brown-and-white coat shining in the sun.

“You said she’s lived here all her life?” I can believe it. The house looks old and in some need of mending, the shingles lifting, the siding stained by weather and dirt. But those details are less striking than the black iron bars on the first-story windows.

Meredith must see my frown. “Ginny likes to feel secure in her home. That’s all that is.”

We come to a stop in front of an oversized covered porch—judging by its newer and mismatched shingles and wood beams, clearly a later addition to the house—and I immediately spot the gray-haired figure sitting on a bench, her lap covered by a large quilt, needle in hand. A mottled brown dog of no identifiable breed lies on the worn wood floor next to her, its tail flopping up and down at a leisurely pace.

Meredith climbs out of her car with the ease of a woman who hasn’t touched a potato chip in ten years, bikes the old roads twice a week, and swims at the Y every Saturday morning that she’s not working. Once, when we were having a conversation about age—mine, in particular—she told me that she’s forty-eight. That after I guessed forty, tops, and she laughed at me.

“Hello, Ginny. How are you feeling today?” Meredith calls out.

Shrewd hazel eyes regard us. “Like you stole an organ from me a week ago.”

“A terrible organ, at that. Would you like it back?” The bitterness in Ginny’s voice seems to simply roll off Meredith.

Setting her quilt down next to her on the porch swing, Ginny slides off the bench and takes the three steps down to the grass slowly. The dog trails her like a shadow. By the white beard dusting its chin and the cloudy eyes directed my way as its nose twitches, I can see that it’s old. “So they’ve finally let you out of that godforsaken prison? That’s good.”