Free Unforgettable by Meryl Sawyer

“He’s in Honolulu. Comes back this afternoon.”
    Great, he thought. He could get the information he wanted without facing Cody. “What happened to the woman whose car went off the cliff?”
    “She’s over yonder”—he cocked his head to the side—“in jail.”
    Greg stormed out the door and around to the side of the building, Dodger trotting at his heels. “That lying son of a bitch! He put her in jail.”
    Evidently, no one had identified Lucky and posted her bail, or she wouldn’t still be here. It had been a week since the accident. Where was her family? Or her boyfriend? She was cheap-looking—definitely not his type—but he would bet anything there was at least one man in her life, probably more.
    A line of people two-deep led into the small jail. Christ! The place had exactly four cells, two for men and two for women. And a drunk tank. This was a lifetime’s worth of visitors.
    “ What’s going on? ” he asked the last person in line, a plump woman in a fuchsia muumuu.
    “We’re waiting to see Pele’s ghost,” she informed him.
    “What?” he asked, then it dawned on him. The legend about young women being found along the side of the road. They must be waiting to see Lucky.
    He barged through the door, ignoring the woman who was yelling for him to wait his turn. Inside, people were milling around, filling the reception area with a steady drone of noise and the rank odor of bodies that had been waiting too long in the tropical sun. He angled his shoulders sideways and strode through the crowd into the interrogation room.
    “Where’s the jailer?” he demanded.
    “On the other side of the door takin’ money,” a man answered.
    “Shit!” The island had more legends and goddamned superstitions than any place on earth, but this sideshow was unbelievable. So what if seeing Pele’s ghost was supposed to bring you good luck? How could anyone treat another human being like this? Greg worked his way to the door, set to let the jailer have it. He was a head taller than everyone else, so he could see over them into the cell block.
    Look at her! Christ! Lucky must have flipped out or something. She was pacing the tiny cell. Three steps and turn, three steps and turn, three steps and turn. Her wild mop of platinum hair swished across her shoulders, a stark contrast to her baggy orange prison jumpsuit.
    Her eyes stopped him cold. Even at this distance, they were astonishingly green. Striking. But her fixed stare chilled him. She looked exactly the way she had that night in the tent. Dozens of people were gazing at her as if she were a circus attraction, yet she apparently didn’t know they were there.
    “Ain’t she something?” the woman beside him said.
    Damn Cody. How could he let this happen? Everyone was making fun of Lucky, circling the cell and laughing like hyenas celebrating a fresh kill. To them she wasn’t a woman alone in the world with no one to help her. She was nothing more than a sideshow freak.
    “You should see her at night,” commented someone behind Greg. “She sleeps under the bed.”
    Under the cot? The thought of her huddled on the cold cement like an animal while people watched—for luck—did something to him. He shoved his way toward the man taking the money. He clenched his fists, then took a deep breath. It was all he could do not to take a swing at the jailer.
    Silence fell over the crowd, like the eerie hush between a blinding bolt of lightning and the roar of thunder sure to follow. He looked toward the tiny cell and saw that Lucky had dropped to her knees. Her tormented expression had been replaced by a smile. For Dodger. Somehow the dog had slipped through the crowd and stuck his head between the bars. Had he ever seen a woman that happy, that thrilled to see someone?
    Dodger’s tail was going a hundred miles an hour. Lucky reached out to pet him and he licked her hand. Amazing. Dodger had been bred to run and subjected to ruthless training. He simply had not