Chapter 36 Cara
THIRTY-SIX
CARA
I encourage Cara Campbell to turn herself in. Her best chance of exoneration is through legal means, and I plan to help her every step of the way.
—Roy Abel, Esq., speaking to Fox News
They had been hiking in the dark for hours, aiming for a distant cluster of lights, when Fisk abruptly led Cara and their animal companions out of a wooded area onto a paved street.
The homes were mostly one-story with big yards, some with barns and others with garages larger than the houses themselves.
One had a semi cab parked in front. Dotted among the older, modest properties were a few incongruously large, modern structures with late-model SUVs crowding the driveway.
Cara thought they looked like Airbnbs. Had Fisk brought her to the outskirts of Yosemite?
Maybelline began to trot, and the other livestock followed suit. Cara and Fisk jogged along with them until the donkey stopped abruptly at a one-story cinderblock house with dark green shutters and brayed loudly.
Cara tried to shush her, but Fisk seemed unconcerned as he swung open a weatherworn, waist-high gate.
“No one pays much attention to domesticated animals around here.”
Before they reached the painted wooden front door, it creaked open and a woman with long, purplish-black hair appeared in the doorway. She wore red pajamas that clashed with her zebra-print slippers.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said affectionately.
“There she is, my number one cutie-wootie.” Fisk wrapped her in his arms and they shared a lingering smooch that ended only when Maybelline snorted and stamped a hoof.
“Come here, you big, jealous jenny!” The woman kissed the donkey on the nose and then hugged Lucretia, Ruth, and Joannie.
“Rae, this is Cara,” Fisk said. “She needs to crash here tonight.”
“Cara,” Rae repeated with a nod.
Was Cara more surprised that Fisk really did have a woman in his life, or that he’d brought Cara home to meet her?
“Hi,” she said, meekly, wondering if Rae recognized her. Either way, Fisk’s boo seemed surprisingly unconcerned that he had appeared in the dead of the night with another woman in tow. Maybe Cara wasn’t the first stray he’d brought home.
“Well, come on in,” said Rae. “But you both smell worse than Maybel. Billy, take the girls to the barn and use the outdoor shower while I show Cara to the bathroom.”
Cara followed Billy Fisk’s partner into her cramped living room.
The small house was filled with gems, crystals, and decorative rocks hanging in windows, displayed on shelves, and in the case of several expensive-looking geodes, resting on decorative stands.
Rocks were even arranged around the computer desk wedged into a corner.
“I used to own a rock shop,” Rae explained, patting the brown microfiber sectional that took up most of the living room floor. “There’s no guest bedroom, but the couch is comfy.”
“I appreciate it,” Cara said.
She tagged along as Rae went into a bedroom with a king-sized bed and matching oak nightstands.
On the dresser, next to a bowl of multicolored polished stones, was a framed photo of Rae and Fisk holding hands.
She looked radiant, with long, coal black hair, a beaming smile, and a multicolored sundress.
Fisk’s hair was blond, and he was clean-shaven, revealing charming dimples.
“That was from when we were young, pretty, and thin,” said Rae, opening a drawer and looking through her clothes. “Billy’s still pretty slim. I’ve been saving these, thinking I might actually get on a diet and squeeze back into ’em at some point.”
The clothes she put in Cara’s hands were a Florida Is for Lovers tank top, a sports bra, and lavender leggings.
“Thank you.”
Rae pointed to a bathroom across the hall. “There are towels in the linen closet, and I’m sure there’s a new toothbrush in one of the drawers.”
In the brown-and-tan tiled bathroom, Cara dropped her filthy clothes on the curled linoleum floor and stepped into the shower stall.
Hot water needled every cut, scrape, and bruise, and the Irish Spring bar soap added a sharp secondary sting.
As a kid, Cara’s mother always kept the same brand on hand for Martin, the man who was going to be her stepdad but never quite left his actual wife.
Cara had to shampoo and rinse three times to clean her hair and get the soap’s scent off her skin.
When she looked down at her body, she was amazed to see that, despite her injuries, her muscles were more defined than they’d ever been.
Scarily, being on the run was the best fitness plan she’d ever had.
Thank God, she was out of the wilderness.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she found a folded blanket and a pillow on the couch. Fisk—scrubbed clean and wearing a fresh T-shirt and shorts—was seated next to Rae at the dining-room table, attacking a plate of hot dogs and tater tots. A similar plate was waiting at an empty chair.
“Sit. Eat,” Fisk said, through a mouthful of hot dog.
“You must be hungry,” Rae added flatly.
Judging by her cooler expression and body language, Fisk had filled her in. If she hadn’t known Cara’s last name was Campbell, she did now.
Cara sat down. “Rae, I swear on my life—although I realize it’s not worth much right now—I’m innocent.”
“Billy says there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance.”
“More like sixty-forty,” he corrected, popping his last two tater tots into his mouth.
“I need to go back to LA. I haven’t figured out how, or exactly what I’ll do when I get there, but I have to find out who killed my husband and why.”
“Any idea how you’ll accomplish that?”
“At the end of the trial, a forensic accountant testified that Karl was having money problems.”
“Shouldn’t you have known? You’re the gold-digger lady.”
“Honestly? Money just showed up in my account on the first of every month, and I never questioned it.”
Fisk flashed Rae a look that said, I told you so.
“Yes, I was a fool, which is why I have to figure out was going on. It was a bombshell, at least to me, and that’s the only lead that wasn’t looked into.” Cara met Rae’s gaze. “So, I’m going to follow it.”
“Too bad it took all this for you to pay attention to your personal finances.”
“The irony is not lost on me, believe me.”
“I’ve never had enough money to lose track of,” Rae said, but with a conciliatory tone.
Relieved, Cara started eating. She hadn’t had tater tots since she was a kid, and they tasted exactly the same now: crispy and slightly frost-bitten.
“Do you have anyone who can help you?” Rae asked.
“Karl’s aunt still stands by me, but she lives in a nursing home. My best friend, Stephanie, will probably help. I’m thinking I’ll contact my lawyer first.”
“We don’t trust lawyers as far as we can throw them,” Rae said. “Do we, Fisk?”
Fisk shook his head.
“And yours failed you,” Rae pointed out.
“He did, but he also promised me it wasn’t over. I can’t imagine me escaping was what he meant by that. He at least owes me more information from the forensic accountant—he clearly wasn’t ready for what the guy said in court.”
“Isn’t your lawyer obligated to tell the police you contacted him?” Rae asked.
“I’m just going to talk to him, not tell him where I am.”
“You should run my wig theory by him,” Fisk said.
“What’s that?” Rae asked.
Cara sighed. “My husband’s killer had long, blond hair. Fisk thinks it might not have been real.”
Fisk yawned and pushed back from the table. “You ladies can keep working through this, but it’s time for me to brush my teeth and hit the hay.”
“Nose trimmers are in the top drawer,” Rae told him, giving him a tender pat on the behind.
“Yes, dear.”
Rae stood up as he went into the other room. “I better go with him. He needs his ears done, too.”
Cara was left alone at the table, her heart aching for Karl and their own everyday moments, forever extinguished. As she leaned forward to pluck a worn cloth napkin out of an agate napkin holder, the glowing power light from the computer in the front room caught her eye.
Beckoning her.
During the trial, she’d avoided social media and press coverage. But now she wanted to know everything.
While electric toothbrushes whirred behind the closed bathroom door, she crossed the room to the computer and jiggled the mouse. The screen illuminated the room, revealing a piece of paper with all of Rae’s passwords taped to the desk by the mouse pad.
Fisk playfully protested in the next room—it sounded as though Rae had begun grooming him in earnest—as Cara logged in and googled her name.
The search results went on for innumerable pages, but the accident, her escape, and the intensifying search were top stories.
So, too, were the fires hampering efforts to find her.
According to the Modesto Bee, a tip line was already inundated with calls.
There was video of a press conference given by Sheriff Jordan Burke she couldn’t watch without turning up the sound and a link to Dylan Danvers’s latest episode on Spotify she definitely did want to hear.
“Jesus, Rae!” Fisk hooted. “Are you trying to kill me?”
It had been six months since Cara logged into Instagram and there were now thousands of unread DMs. She was about to open one from a user called @TotesTeamCara when the commotion in the bathroom stopped.
She logged out, rushed back to the table, and popped a tater tot into her mouth.
The computer screen went dark just as the door opened. Fisk walked across the hall into the bedroom. Rae appeared in the doorway holding a box of Nice’n Easy hair color.
“That talk of wigs gave me an idea,” she said.