Chapter Forty
chapter forty
■■■
CHARLIE
I won the showdown.
Four cups of coffee and two pieces of apple pie later, I watched the black sedan pull out of the parking lot and head left. He likely figured out that I was on to him. There’s a good chance he’s waiting in a nearby parking lot for my truck to pull out, so I watch the window for another two hours, until my eyes are heavy and I’m seriously debating curling up on the bench.
But I can’t, because I still have too much to do, including the first unselfish thing I’ve done since the day I walked into Penny’s. As soon as the plump middle-aged waitress comes back from her smoke break, I politely ask her for a pen and some paper.
■■■
I hug my knapsack to my body. There’s fifty thousand dollars packed into it, so, naturally, I feel like a sitting duck with a sign over my head that reads “rob me of all that I have.” It is all that I have, along with some basic supplies and a few articles of clothing that I picked up at the twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart while waiting for the bank to open.
It took ten minutes to clear out my safety deposit box and my bank account. When I went to sell my car to the dealership, they told me it would take a few days to cut me a check. I flirted, I yelled, I groveled. I pulled out all my best acting skills. Finally I asked them what it would cost to get them to take it immediately.
I walked out of there with ten grand in cash, knowing I had been cheated.
Not caring.
Now, as I sit on a bench, waiting for my bus out of Miami, there’s only one thing left to do. Well, two things.
I’m not sure which is harder.
My burner phone rings. “Hello, little mouse. Feeling normal again today?”
Normal. What is normal? My quiet acceptance of all that Sam has trained me to be? Of his tainted love, with all the ugliness that comes with it?
I had an entire speech planned, about how he had taken advantage of me, how you don’t put those you love in danger. How I don’t think I can ever forgive him. But I’m tired and it just feels unnecessary. There are only two words I need to say.
They may come out wobbly, but they are unyielding. “Goodbye, Sam.”
Shutting the burner phone off, I toss it in the trash as a wave of relief washes over me.
I am done with Sam.
That was the easy part.
Not wasting any time, I pick up my real phone. I take a deep, calming breath. And hit “send” on the text that I’ve struggled to type out for an entire hour. I know he called me last night—I see the notification of a message—and yet I can’t bear to listen to whatever he said. Just hearing his voice might crack my resolve, which would be catastrophic. I’ve already set too many wheels in motion this morning. I need a clean break.
Cain gave me that last night.
The only reason I’m texting him now is because of that voice in the back of my conscience that says I don’t want him to worry about me. Because, despite what he may think of me right now, he might grow concerned when I don’t come to pick up my things, when no one hears from me again.
I wait for the indication that the message has been delivered, and then I quickly shut the power off, strip it of its memory chip, and toss it into the trash.
I wrap my arms around my knapsack and bury my face so no one sees the tears that begin pouring.
Waiting for the second wave of relief.
The one that never comes.