Page 2 of All Yours

“Because you sent her to live in my attached apartment. And it hasn’t been that long. We’re friendly, enough.”

“You still haven’t told her?”

I let out a slow sigh. “She hasn’t asked. And besides, I like not having to explain it all. It lets me pretend that none of that ever happened. I can be a normal person.”

“You are a normal woman. Isn’t it better to tell those close to you? Just in case. It’s your call.”

“We’re following her across the state for something we know very little about. What’s the difference?”

Lauren adjusted in the seat. “We have no idea what we’re going into here.”

“We’re dropping off a car. That’s it.” I glanced into my rearview mirror. “You’re just paranoid after everything you’ve been through. It’s understandable.”

“I’m not paranoid,” Lauren said. “I’m still wearing a walking boot from two ripped tendons in my foot. It’s not paranoia.” She gestured toward the floorboard and her foot.

She’d left out the part about almost getting barbequed alive by her psychotic ex-husband hell bent on her destruction like some comic book villain. And I’d let her. Who wanted to reminisce about that?

“You come across as the paranoid one,” she added. “Always scared someone will find out who you were. Does it even matter anymore?”

“Alright, I hit a nerve, jeez. Sorry. You’ve never experienced such a public fall from grace.”

“I know what it’s like for the entire town to pity me and my family. So, there’s that.”

“Fine. It’s not pity. You’re being romanced by Camden. That’s jealousy.” I grinned.

She laughed. “Oh, I doubt that. Hopefully, they get that new building up soon, and we can put all this mess behind us.”

“See,” I said, taking the interstate exit following Eden. “That’s how I feel about my past. I want to leave it there where it belongs, in the bowels of history.”

“Bowels?”

“That’s where the shit is, right?”

Lauren tipped her ball cap and smiled. “You have a way with words.”

I laughed. “Sure do.” That’s why they’re pouring from me into my manuscript. I sighed to myself. My characters didn’t have any chemistry. That was part of the problem. How could I write a romance novel with people that weren’t attracted to each other?

“You could always ask Eden yourself,” I said.

Lauren grimaced. “But I don’t want to appear too nosey.”

My phone dinged with an incoming text message.

“What does it say?” I asked Lauren.

She stared at the screen. “It just says call me. But it’s from a number not listed in your contacts.”

“It’s weird. I’ve gotten that same message a few days ago. It must be a wrong number.”

“You should call it and see who it is.”

“No way. I’m ignoring it.”

After a brief stopover for gas and junk food, we were back on the road to rendezvous with Eden’s old friend at a truck stop halfway to Alabama. Eden was from Alabama, that much she’d told me, but the rest of how Eden ended up in Hart Valley was a mystery. The theory Lauren and I came up with was that she’d run away from a man. We weren’t sure, but it seemed likely. Beyond that, the particulars were a conundrum.

I steered the car into the lot alongside a row of parked semi-trucks and drove around to the front of a bustling convenience store. Automobiles zipped past in all directions, with license plates from many of the surrounding states and some from across the country. I pulled up to a pump and planned to top off while Eden handed over the keys, then joined us for the drive back. We’d grab some dinner on the way and be home by bedtime—not the most exciting Saturday ever, but maybe getting out would spark my creativity.

Eden parked along the front of the convenience store. She exited the car and greeted a young woman with a messy blond bun atop her head.

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