Page 11 of Reclaiming Adelaide

Between the guy who tried to kidnap me, some bizarre note that showed up at my parent’s home, and Jake, I’d decided it was probably best I left. I couldn’t put my parents in any more danger. If something happened to them, I’d never forgive myself.

And because of that, I’d sat in this dingy motel room, taking small hacking jobs that paid for the room—A senior wanting to change his final grade and a girl wanting to see if her boyfriend had cheated on her.

Simple tasks that paid well and took little concentration. Because my ability to sit on a task for long had gone out the window—along with the mini bar and two boxes of Saltines. It was the only thing I could stomach.

The stress burned my insides with nausea until it forced me to make several trips to the bathroom. I guessed the liquor didn’t help matters much either. Of course, I was out of that now, too, so that left me dealing with my feelings stone-cold sober, which was just unacceptable.

I peeked out the window that overlooked the parking lot. Pushing aside the shabby flower curtain that hadn’t been cleaned since the early two thousands, I confirmed the regulars were here. No stragglers or anyone sitting by and watching.

It had taken me three hours to get to this motel because I’d taken two buses, five separate taxis, and an Uber after hiding in an alleyway for thirty minutes.

Logging into my Uber app, I requested a ride, telling him to park on the street, not in the parking lot, then gathered my dirty clothes around the room. I tossed every scrap of clothing I had into my bag, which wasn’t much, and zipped it up, then waited.

Ten minutes passed, then another five, until the small blue four-door sedan I’d reserved pulled into a space close to my room.

Why can’t anyone listen to instructions these days?

I sighed and snagged the old-fashioned key off the little entertainment center—if it could be called that—then hyped myself up.

It wouldn’t be long. I’d just go inside, drop off my clothes, then pick up new ones.

Peeking my head out of the door, I peered left, then right.

Clear.

Slipping a thin piece of thread between the door frame and the door, I shut it. It was a neat little trick I’d picked up from all my spare time. It assured me that if anyone were to walk into my motel room, I’d know about it.

I rushed to the Uber, keeping my face down, and slid into the back seat, my backpack held tight against my chest like a teddy bear.

“All set?”

“Yes,” I said to the brown-haired man as I clicked my seatbelt into place.

He drove off as I stared at the window, wishing I had the guts to tell him off for not listening. But what purpose would that serve? It would just create more waves in this ocean I was drowning in. And what was that saying? ‘Don’t bite the hand?’ The last thing I needed was for him to leave me on the side of the road and at the mercy of those people.

Whoever those people were.

I’d watched the police department handle this case with bumbling hands and no interviews. They had gotten nowhere in the investigation, which grated on my nerves.

So I did a little investigating of my own, searching for black trucks registered in this county. I got a hit of over sixty-thousand matching that description with nothing to narrow it down.

“Just drop me off on the corner, and I’ll walk the rest of the way,” I said as he crept up to the stop sign. He paused, waiting some untold amount of time, then turned right. “This will do. Right here.” I pointed to the curb, and he pulled over. “Thank you.”

“Have a good day.”

I snorted. Yeah. I haven’t had a good day in a long while. Not since…

He was too painful to think about.

It wasn’t love.

He was just a guy who made me feel good.

That’s what I kept telling myself because I’d fucked things up, and there was no going back.

“Can you wait for me? I won’t be long, but I need a ride back.”

He nodded. “You’ll get charged per minute.”

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