Page 27 of Resolutions

The hotel's complimentary breakfast area is crowded with kids in hockey jerseys. I weave around them, filling my travel mug and making a stuffed bacon sandwich. I shove an orange and apple into my sweatshirt pockets, then grab a small bowl of eggs since they're Moses' favorite. As I turn to head back down my hallway, everyone around me vanishes.

Michael stands just outside the lobby's double glass doors. Mr. Daggers leans against a black sedan while Michael converses with the mountain man from the video, the one who made Mom look like a child next to him. My hands go numb. I scan my surroundings. The lobby full of hockey players and parents becomes my salvation, there is just enough chaos for cover. Two teen boys laden with breakfast bowls step toward a table. I pull my hood up and slide in beside them, letting them shield me from the goon squad.

When they reach their table, I sidestep and keep my head down, half-running down the hall. “Don't draw attention to yourself,” I remind myself. The corridor stretches impossibly long, like something from The Shining. Each footfall seems to echo. Finally reaching my door, I force myself to slow down. Rushing will only draw attention to myself.

My hands shake so badly I can barely work the key. One last glance shows an empty hallway, but it won't stay that way long. Michael has money. He'll bribe his way to my room soon enough.

With the door finally open, I sprint across the parking lot, jabbing the truck's unlock button. Not drawing attention has gone out the window. I need to leave.

Moses launches himself from the dashboard onto my shoulder as I dive in, his claws digging into muscle as he makes a beeline for the bowl of eggs I'd salvaged. “Damn.” I set the bowl onthe passenger seat, not wanting to take the time to secure it. Rubbing my shoulder, I mutter, “Moses, that hurt.” A quick scan shows no pursuit yet.

“Time to go!”

I cautiously drive around the parking lot with my sweatshirt hood up, peering at the front of the hotel where Michael's car remains parked. He's nowhere in sight, nor are the others. That likely means they're in my room.

I wind my way through the connected parking lots of the nearby bank and strip mall, blessing whatever architect designed multiple escape routes from the hotel. Driving along the back of a dollar store, the dumpster behind the local chamber of commerce catches my eye.

“Bingo!” I park a short distance away. Grabbing my old phone and laptop, I position them carefully behind opposite wheels. “I'm sorry, Cameron. I'll do my best to return to you and our family,” I whisper before climbing back in.

The crunch of metal and plastic is both sad and satisfying. After several more passes to ensure complete destruction, I add my old suitcase full of hastily packed clothes, purse, shoes, coat, and Moses's items to the dumpster. The thunderous crash confirms its empty. Glancing around I see no witnesses to my rebirth.

I pause before climbing back in, Michael's burner phone and tablet heavy in my hands. Keeping them means he can always track me, but destroying them means losing my only connection to him. Do I risk it?

“Risk what?” I say aloud. “Being yelled at, threatened, kept wondering what he'll do to me?” The image of him standing outside the lobby doors decides me. “Tracking me, knowing where I am, that's not fair. Not only is he despicable, he's also a cheat. Let's even the playing field.” The phone and tablet join the wreckage with a satisfying shatter. “You wanted a chase,Michael dear? Fine. Now you can know what it's like without an advantage.”

Heading for an apartment listing I saw in Valley View, a quiet town near Whispering Pines, I feel almost proud. I'm still not sure throwing away Michael's phone was wise, but what's done is done. If he fights unfairly, so must I. I call the number for the listing, an eight-plex where the owner emphasizes privacy and working tenants who keep to themselves. When she asks why I need an apartment so soon, I decide on honesty and explain I've recently escaped an abusive relationship. Her voice softens with understanding, and she tells me she'll be home all day. The reality is, I think hiding in plain sight is the right plan. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Cameron and my life in Whispering Pines, at least not yet. My mind keeps repeating the phrase about keeping your friends close. I’m choosing to ignore the second half of the saying. Although, I think it applies too.

Driving the heavily forested areas, my mind drifts to Mom and Aunt as tree after tree pass by. My gut says they're safe for now. Michael will focus on finding me first. Then I think of the Whitakers. I worry they'll receive the brunt of my disobedience. I wish I could warn them somehow, tell them to go somewhere safe until this is over. But I can't risk it - Michael would have my new number instantly. I could try calling the church or hospital to reach someone, but he probably has those places bugged, too.

“Is not contacting them the right thing?” I glance at Moses, stretched out in the sun. “You're right, they'd do the same thing - keep the others safe.”

The apartment building sits on a quiet street where neighbors still notice strangers - exactly what I need. Mrs. Post greets me outside, a vision in clashing colors that somehow work: knee-highs rolled down to her shoes, bright orange skirt, chicken-embroidered apron over a white blouse, and the most eye-searing yellow beaded necklace I've ever seen. A floweredpurple housecoat completes the ensemble. Her appearance is so wonderfully, definitely normal that I have to smile.

“I am her. You must be Melanie.” She extends her hand, nails ruby red with white bows. “I still think people should shake hands. It's the polite thing to do.” When I take it, she pats my hand grandmotherly before producing hand sanitizer from her apron. “But it's also good to be cautious.” The wink she gives me suggests she understands more than she's saying.

The apartment is dated but clean, with a combined living room and kitchen divided by where carpet meets linoleum. The loveseat and recliner have seen better days, but they're serviceable. A small desk against one wall catches my eye - perfect for work. The round dining table with its mismatched chairs feels homey somehow.

“Going to need a Keurig,” I note, eyeing the ancient coffee pot. The bathroom is tiny, but spotless. The bedroom holds a full-size bed and dresser - I check the mattress thoroughly for unwanted residents but find only clean sheets.

“Well, can you live with it?” Mrs. Post asks as I emerge.

“It's perfect. Quiet is exactly what I need. I don't go out at night or party. The only thing is-”

A young boy with Down syndrome bursts in, his smile as bright as his blond hair, carrying cookies. “Hi, Mrs. Post! We baked! Momma said bring these to you. You weren't home, but I saw the door open. That's right, isn't it?” His earnestness is impossible not to love.

“Yes, David, that's exactly right. This is Melanie - she's moving in.”

“Mel-a-nie,” he sounds out carefully. “Did I say it right?”

“Perfect! But my friends call me Mel, and you can too.”

His face lights up. “Because we're neighbors, we're friends! I have to tell Momma I made a new friend!” He practically dances out the door.

Mrs. Post offers me a cookie, explaining about David and his mom. “Been here four years now. Dad left when he learned about David's condition.”

“That's horrible. How could anyone abandon their child?”

“Some men are cowards,” she says simply. “But David's a joy, and his mom's doing great. Warning though with the amount of baking they do, your waistline's in danger.” She takes a bite. “Now, what were you about to say?”

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