Page 15 of Resolutions

The center line passes by like a clock's minute hand as I continue heading East. I've been asking myself the same questions over and over. My journalism mind breaking throughthe mind fog and endless tears. What was Michael's game? Why me? Has he always hated us? Was the Whitaker house really wired? Who are they? Where and what is this warehouse? Are Mom and my aunt really safe? What am I going to do? How can I prove any of this? The questions roll through my head as fast as my tires put miles between me and my loved ones.

After another sixty miles and at least three hundred attempted phone calls, exhaustion hits like a wall. I pull off, making my way into the small town, searching for anywhere I can park and breathe. A mom-and-pop motel appears. It's the older style where the doors open to the parking lot. I drove by once then circled back around, seeing there was only one other car in the lot.

The older woman at the desk has kind eyes, crow's feet that speak of a lifetime of smiles. Her gaze immediately looks me over. Our eyes meet and understanding floods her features.

“Hel-lo, wel-come to de Road-Side Inn,” she says carefully, her accent thick. Her hands move expressively as she speaks. She slides a card marked registration and mimes writing, then sleeping, making her meaning clear. “Uno?”

I nod and hand over my credit card, wishing I spoke Spanish. That might be the saddest question I've ever been asked. Uno, one, just me. I push out my breath and wipe away a tear. Looking up, I see she's surveying my face with grandmother's eyes, gesturing asking if I'm okay. The kindness in her expression nearly breaks me. Her own well-worn wedding ring catches the light as she reaches for the registration card.

“Sorry,” I manage, my voice cracking. “Just need somewhere to think.” I rub my empty ring finger unconsciously, and she nods with deep understanding.

She touches my hand, her finger pausing where my own ring should be. Gently she passes me the registration card, then taps the signature line. “Ja-ne Doe,” she says softly, her meaningclear even through the language barrier. She's done this before, helped other women running from something or someone. But I doubt she's ever helped someone running from a monster like Michael.

I nod gratefully. “Thank you.” I then remember Moses. “Oh, I have a cat.” I mime whiskers and meow, hoping she'll understand.

Her smile broadens as she makes a gentle pawing motion. “Mow ok-ay.”

“Thank you.” I turn away before she can see fresh tears, her kindness more than I can bear right now. Behind me, I hear her making soft clucking sounds of concern, the universal language of women, mothers, and grandmothers who know when something's very wrong. If she only knew how wrong of a situation I was in.

Chapter 6

Melanie

The room key feels heavy in my trembling hands as I find my assigned room near the end of the row. Inside, yellow wallpaper peels at the corners and the bedspread's faded floral pattern speaks of decades past. The TV could have come straight from The Brady Bunch. But it's a shelter, and right now that's all that matters.

After unloading the car, I watch Moses explore his new territory. He sniffs each corner methodically, tail twitching as he maps the space that's suddenly become our home. The normalcy of his routine makes my throat tight.

“Damn, what do we do about a litter box for you? I didn't even think to grab anything.” The realization hits hard, another piece of normal life I have to recreate from scratch.

The convenience store at the block's end becomes my lifeline. Inside, I grab a small bag of litter, Diet Coke, water, family-size Doritos, chocolate donuts, and beef jerky. The clerk's eyes movefrom my strange collection to my face. I force a smile, pretending I'm just another customer with odd cravings instead of a woman whose world has imploded. In my experience, Doritos and chocolate can't fix everything, but they help you think while you figure out how to try.

Back in the room, Moses perches on the bathroom counter like he owns it. “Mew,” he announces, jumping down to investigate the bags.

“Problem solved.” I empty my purchases, understanding now why the clerk gave me that look. Normal people don't buy stress-eating supplies and cat litter. Normal people go to Walmart or Target or a grocery store. But normal people aren't physically and emotionally drained. Nor are normal people fleeing them and a warehouse.

Using the garbage can bag as a makeshift litter box liner, I create a temporary solution. “Not quite like home, but it'll do.” Moses shows more interest in the jerky bag, batting at it persistently. I tear off a piece for him, watching as he executes a perfect somersault onto it, rubbing his face against his prize. Even now, he can make me smile.

The box from earlier sits in my tote, heavy with Michael's threats. I spread its contents across the bed - newspapers promising destruction, the dead iPad that had a full battery just hours before. It had shown me my family's vulnerability, but now, like everything else, it's black. The screen reflects my disheveled appearance and life. My hands shake as I grab paper from the nightstand drawer and a pen from my bag, along with my provisions. The Dorito-donut sandwich is pure stress eating, but I need the sugar and salt to think.

“How did Michael get this picture?” I ask Moses as I stare at the photo of sheet-covered bodies. My faithful companion offers no insights, content with his jerky. “Clearly, he had to havepeople to do it. When could he have gotten five people in the house undetected?”

At least I was asking better questions. Score one for Doritos and donuts.

Memories flood in unbidden - Cameron's eyes crinkling when he laughs. The silk of his hair between my fingers, the perfect way his swimmer's body fits against mine. How he can be so gentle yet knows exactly when I need him to take control. My hand moves toward my phone before I catch myself.

I can't call him. Not yet. Not until I understand Michael's game. Cameron would try to help, and that's exactly what Michael wants. He's spent years cultivating Cameron's loyalty, becoming the friend who needs saving. The brothers saw it, we all did. Michael has always been brilliant at getting someone else to take the blame or talking his way out of trouble, leaving others to clean up his messes.

This time, I'm the mess he wants cleaned up. The tears start falling as helplessness threatens to overwhelm me.

Moses appears beside my chair, kneading the bedspread before jumping up. He tucks his head under my chin, his purr rumbling against my chest. His paw rubs my chin. The comfort only makes me cry harder. He's been my constant since Cameron gave him to me. Another piece of the life Michael is trying to force me to abandon. I clutch Moses closer, his warm weight anchoring me as my world spins out of control.

My inner voice rallies: You have to fight. You can't let Michael win. But how? How do I fight someone who holds all the cards? We're smart too. We'll figure it out. We have to.

Exhaustion finally wins. I lay back on the pillows, Moses on my chest. As sleep pulls me under, Cameron's face fills my mind - those blue eyes I love so much, now clouded with confusion, and hurt. He's my last thought as consciousness fades, and I pray he'll understand someday.

Chapter 7

Cameron

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