Page 19 of Resolutions

Okay, what do I need to figure out first? Do I stay here another night? I need time to think, to sort all of this mess out. Michael's face flashes in my mind: “I love a chase.” I push the memory away.

“I know, you bastard, but I'm not a fucking gazelle running through a field of grass. I need time to process all of this bullshit.”

Second - check messages. Mom and my aunt were expecting to watch the ceremony on FaceTime. My throat tightens, thinking of them waiting, wondering. Michael's threat echoes: “They'll be dead within four days.” But it can't hurt to just listen.

Third - get real food starting with much better coffee. The Doritos and donuts were pure panic eating and I can feel that today. I scold myself, stay hydrated, better food, vitamins. You need to take care of yourself. Who knows how long it's going to take to fight this lunatic.

A movement outside makes me jump, the kind older lady from check-in is walking past my window. A knock follows. When I open the door, she's smiling, holding out a steaming container.

“Huevos Rancheros,” she says, pressing it into my hands.

The rich smell makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. “Muchas gracias,” I manage, closing my eyes and inhaling the aroma. “Could I stay another night?” I point at myself, then the hotel room, hoping she'll understand what I mean.

“Si, si. I do.” She pats my hand with grandmotherly affection. “Comer,” she touches her scrunched hand to her mouth and makes like she's chewing. Then shuffles away, leaving me fighting tears at her kindness.

Back inside, I devour the food in minutes. The warm, homemade meal fills more than just my stomach - it's the first hint of normal since everything fell apart. And confirms that I need to maintain myself for when the chase ends. If I allow it to end.

I shake my head - smaller tasks first. The shower calls to me. Hot water cascades down my back as I try to wash away yesterday's terror. But memories ambush me - Cameron's hands massaging shampoo into my hair, his laugh echoing off shower walls, the way he'd pull me close under the spray, pushing himself into me. It all seems like a lifetime ago. The sadness of missing him and what's happening drives me to my knees.

Should I have called Michael's bluff? Should I have stood up to him? Told someone? Gone to the Sheriff? The image of my mom and aunt on that iPad screen with those men in their house. Mom holding the giraffe that Michael gave her. They both looked so vulnerable, so frail. I sit on my knees, crying.

Bawling at the thought of them not being able to do anything to defend themselves as they flopped in the water. The realization hitting my aunt that she was going to die. Mom... being totally helpless, not being able to swim... I can't. How could I? The tears stream down my face faster than the shower.

What kind of monster would do something like that?

Michael. That's who. He had the men there. He called the shots. He planned this. He orchestrated everything. What are two helpless elderly ladies against him?

My head screams YOU ARE WHAT THEY WANT! Who wants me? What do they want with me?

The water begins to run cold, and I force myself to stand up and finish the shower. Shivering and tired, I wrap in a thin towel and manage underwear and jeans before collapsing. Sitting on the floor against the bed, knees pulled up, arms crossed, resting on my knees, I zone out completely. Time becomes meaningless. I don't know how long I sit there. Not thinking, not processing. Just numb.

Moses appears, placing his front paws on my legs. He ducks his head under my arm as his purr kicks into overdrive. The tears start again.

“I shouldn't have brought you. What happens to you if Michael catches me?” Moses wiggles under my arms until they're resting on him and not my knees. “I don't know what he'll do with you.” I pull Moses in for a hug. “I can't have him hurt you.” I sob until the soaked Moses pulls away from me. The idea of Michael hurting or abandoning Moses makes my skin crawl.

“What is it with helpless things? Does that make you a big man?” I ask no one. Putting my chin on my recrossed arms, I give way and allow the thoughts to flood me.

When I've finally had enough, my protesting muscles tell me hours have passed. I stand looking at the nightstand radio clock. Nearly noon - I've lost the whole morning to grief.

“I guess I better put a shirt on, huh?” I tell Moses as he grooms himself after his tear bath. I quickly finish dressing and tidy the room, securing Michael's threatening materials in their box. No need for housekeeping to see those. Grabbing my phone and keys, I steel myself to face the world.

“I'll be back,” I tell the still-grooming cat while pressing the power button on my phone. It comes alive with a barrage of notifications; the binging seems to last for an hour. Three hundred sixty-seven texts, two hundred twenty-nine missed calls. My stomach clenches. Later. I'll deal with those later. With the box under one arm and my purse, sunglasses, and car keys in the other, I leave the motel.

Walmart's only ten minutes away. Less than an hour later, I'm done shopping. I'm proud of myself - I stocked up on necessities: microwave meals, fresh food, proper cat supplies. A detective-style magnifying glass catches my eye - might help examine those newspapers Michael left. Plus, a three-section notebook, pens, sticky notes and highlighters. Loading the car, my phone chimes with three new texts. One from Cameron. One from his mom. And one number I don't recognize, but the first line catches my attention.

My grandmother asked me to text you.

It is not safe; a bad men are here.

Park in back of the hotel by the black pickup.

She will meet you there.

Bad men?I text back, holding my breath:Please describe the men.

The response brings panic:Shorter, black hair, lots of money, very demanding. The other man is very scary, knives on face.

Michael. Terror claws at my throat.

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