Rachel taped the bottom of a cardboard wardrobe box with a loud, tearing screech that made the empty apartment kitchen ring. She wrapped her keys, which hung from a bright purple wrist lanyard, around her palm to keep them from clattering against the cardboard as she worked.
“They have private security patrols in Cedar Hollow, Clara,” Rachel said, setting the tape gun down on the counter. “A blue seventy-two Chevy with a rusted quarter panel is going to stand out like an oil spot on a white sheet.”
“It runs perfectly well,” I said, though my fingers immediately went to the silver wristwatch my father had given me, turning the band twice around my wrist. “Dad took care of the engine, and the transmission is solid.”
