Chapter 1
Jovie
Clover, Kansas.
The Forgotten Paradise.
I pass the sign on the highway and think to perform a full U-turn to go back where I came from. I don’t, though. I’d just be delaying the inevitable if I did and I honestly don’t think I could stomach going through with this twice. It’s hard enough already.
I didn’t want to come back home. I promised myself I never would but here I am.
My car jolts and the forward inertia pulls backward. Smoke begins to seep out of the hood and I groan loudly. Good travel instincts take over. I look into every mirror to make sure I’m not in danger of colliding with any other cars in the pitch darkness but the road is completely deserted. Not surprised. I’m pretty sure the last person to leave Clover was me.
I pull onto the shoulder as the car continues to slow down and I start to wonder if I’ll make it out of the lane in time before it stalls out completely.
I reach down, carelessly searching for the lever by my foot to pop the hood before getting out. A biting chill clings to my bare legs. Come back to Kansas in a skirt. In January. Good thinking, Jovie…
I round the car and throw open the hood, stepping back quickly to avoid the puff of smoke before it burns my eyes.
Well, shit.
I glance around the highway and spot the gas station about a quarter mile down the road. For a second, I pause, feeling my stomach churn and I think to once again haul ass out of town. Not that I could anymore, of course. My damn car is busted. I don’t own a phone, either. Guess I’m jaywalking into the night.
I slink back in the driver’s seat, embracing the warmth while it lasts as I fish my wallet out and lock the doors behind me.
The attendant glances up at me from behind the counter as I step inside. He’s a young kid, just barely out of his teens if I were to guess, meaning he probably doesn’t know who I am. My face, anyway. He might know my name if he’s a local but I won’t risk it.
His back straightens with each step I make toward the counter and he twitches awkwardly as if I’m about rob his ass.
“May I use your phone?” I ask.
He blinks out of it and fumbles beneath the counter for the landline phone hidden under it. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Here.”
“Thank you.”
I open my wallet to find the card I used to keep with emergency numbers listed on it. Haven’t seen it or needed it in years, so it might have crumbled to pieces by now.
It’s there, crushed beneath an empty chewing gum wrapper and a business card for a bar in Seattle I once temporarily called home.
“Highway patrol…” I mutter, picking up the phone and dialing the faded number on the card.
I hold the phone to my ear, listening to the dull ringing and glancing up at the kid again. He’s backed off and pretends to read the latest gossip magazine at the other end of the counter.
“Kansas Highway Patrol,” a man answers.
“Yeah, hi. I’m in need of a tow truck. My car stalled on me.”
“What’s your location?”
“I’m heading east on 70,” I say, clearing my throat. “About five miles outside of Clover near the gas station.”
“Clover, eh?” he asks, amused.
“Yeah, unfortunately.”
“Make and model of your vehicle?”
“Uhh…” I chuckle. “It’s a 2002, powder blue… POS.”