When they arrived in the Richmond airport, they collected their luggage and found the rental car Jack had requested waiting in the lot outside. Although their flight was only two hours, Sam became quickly sedated by the thick humidity and relaxed atmosphere of the Southern state, and fell asleep in the car as soon as Jack pulled out of the lot. She didn't see Jack's sideways glances as they drove the four hours north to Winchester, nor did she see him tune the radio to a quiet, cackling folk station that, although he despised, he knew she loved.
Her dreams were brief and blurred together in a mess of cryptic images and scenes that her mind was too weary to interpret. When Samantha's eyes fluttered open, it was dark and the headlights illuminated a solitary road and looming trees that reached for her on both sides. Her ears recognized the soft, acoustic guitar thrumming from the speakers and, smilingand looking up at the unbelievable amount of stars in the sky, realized that she certainly wasn't in New York any more.
Jack saw her stretch out of the corner of his eye and pointed to a mug of coffee in her cup holder.
"Coffee?"
"God, yes." Sam's mouth stretched wide in a yawn before she took a deep sip. "When did we stop?"
"About a half-hour ago. We're about fifteen minutes or so away from the B-&-B."
"B-&-B?"
"Yeah, the nearest hotel was about twenty minutes away from St. Joseph's, so I got something closer." Jack sighed and stared blankly at the road. "It was all I could get a hold of."
"No, it's fine. I can't remember the last time I was in a bed and breakfast…" she murmured without thinking. Jack dropped into silence and the air inside the car grew thick and stale. Her lips froze on the mug and she shut her eyes. Yes, she could remember the last time. It was a month or so ago when they drove upstate for the weekend while Marie was in Chicago with the kids. It felt like thirty years ago instead of thirty days, but the wound was still open and she had bluntly ripped at the scab once again.
"I hate this, Jack."
And as usual he said nothing. She wondered if he would say anything at all when she would tell him about the pregnancy. When she would tell him. God, she was going to have to do it soon. When? Later. How much later? Later is the best I can do right now.
So, instead, Samantha delved into the neutral security of work. She flipped open her case file and quickly read over the two daughters' profiles before flipping to Mrs. Romero. Six month stay at St. Joseph House of Rest. Daughters temporarily placed in custody of aunt. Released in December to transfer to the New York City Rehabilitation Facility. Samantha underlined "custody of aunt" for further investigation, and then scanned down the rest of the case summary. Her eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Mrs. Romero's record is clean?" Jack stirred out of the expressionless stupor he'd sunken into and nodded.
"I know, it surprised me too," he mumbled. "Technically, she's never been arrested. No possession, no nothing. The worst she's got is one unpaid illegal parking ticket."
"Then how was she forced into St. Joseph's? It says 'involuntary admission.'" Jack's jaw clenched for a moment before he spoke.
"Her eldest daughter found her passed out on the floor when she over-dosed one night. She called St. Joseph's and drove her mother there herself. Mrs. Romero was still unconscious when her daughter checked her in, so it was recorded as 'involuntary.'"
Sam stared at the picture of the smiling forty-ish woman bitterly, feeling her respect for the woman drop.
"There has to be more incentive besides the discretion of the New York rehab center that would make Mrs. Romero pick up her family and just leave home." Samantha said into her coffee, taking another sip.
"That's what I'm hoping we find out." Jack turned off the highway and onto a smaller road that curved through a patch of woods. The tall trees blocking the moonlight cast long silhouettes on the road and she turned off the handheld light she used to read.
Samantha was quiet as they pulled into the confines of a small, antique village and gazed at the rows and rows of historic buildings that glowed warm from within. Lampposts every block or so barely lit the empty streets, so they drove slowly through the quaint neighborhood. Jack turned onto a side-street and parked the car beside a tall, two story brick building that had to be at least two-hundred years old. A white sign illuminated by two spotlights on the ground was decorated in reminiscent lettering and displayed the words "Starke's Tavern. Circa 1802."
"I didn't think places like this exist anymore," Sam whispered incredibly, and Jack laughed while he unloaded their luggage. "People live here? In these houses?" She glanced at him for confirmation, and he nodded. "It's like I'm walking through a Jane Austen novel!"
"And just think: a junkie and her dealer lived less than a block down the road," Jack whispered cynically in her ear. She closed her half-open mouth and fell hard back to reality. "Makes you reconsider what exactly 'places like this' are."
He climbed the brick steps to the walkway without another word and knocked on the front door. Samantha stood by the car, struck with the impact of his words or at least the impact of the impermeable humidity that caused a sheen of sweat to cover her skin even in early March.