Chapter 4 - Claire #2
"Wonderful!" Mrs. Walker stands up, coming around the desk. She's short and pleasantly round, wearing a cardigan despite the warm morning, with silver hair cut in a practical bob. "I'm Dorothy Walker. I run this place. And you must be Jackson."
Jackson nods shyly, suddenly uncertain now that he's face to face with a new person.
"Jackson really likes dinosaurs," Tom says, his voice easy. "I told him you had the best dinosaur collection in the county."
"Did you now?" Mrs. Walker's eyes twinkle. "Well, I don't know about the whole county, but we do have some excellent books. Would you like to see them?"
Jackson looks up at me, asking permission without words. I nod, and he takes a tentative step toward Mrs. Walker.
"Let's get your mama set up with the paperwork first," she says. "Then we'll go exploring. Tom, make yourself useful and show her what forms she needs."
Tom leads me to the desk while Mrs. Walker entertains Jackson with questions about his favorite dinosaurs. He pulls out two simple forms—one for me, one for Jackson.
"Just name, address, and phone number," he explains. "The motel address should work fine."
I hesitate, pen hovering over the paper. "What if someone looks me up? Can people search the library database?"
"No. Library records are confidential. Mrs. Walker takes that seriously. She fought the town council three years ago when they wanted access to checkout records for some investigation. She won. Your information is safe here."
I want to ask if it's that obvious that I'm running from something. But I don't. I just nod and fill out the forms, using the motel address and my prepaid cell number.
The handwriting looks shaky on the page.
Mrs. Walker returns with Jackson, both of them chattering about theropods versus sauropods. She takes my forms, runs them through a little machine, and within minutes, I'm holding a library card with my name on it.
Such a small thing. A piece of plastic with a barcode. But it feels significant somehow. Like proof that I exist here, that I'm real, that I'm building something.
Jackson gets his own card, and I've never seen him so proud. He clutches it like it's made of gold.
"Now," Mrs. Walker says. "Let's get you some books. We limit new patrons to three books at a time, just until we get to know you. After that, you can check out more."
She leads Jackson to a low bookshelf in the corner, pulling out books and showing him the pictures. Tom and I follow, standing back while they browse.
"She's good with kids," I observe.
"She was a teacher for forty years before she retired and took over the library. Has five grandkids of her own." Tom leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed. "She'll take good care of Jackson."
"I wasn't worried about—" I stop. That's a lie. I was worried. I'm always worried. "Thank you. For introducing us."
"Of course."
Jackson emerges with three books clutched to his chest, his face glowing. "Mommy, look! This one has a stegosaurus on the cover!"
"That's great, baby."
Mrs. Walker checks out the books, stamping due dates in the back, two weeks from today. "You come back anytime," she tells Jackson. "We have story time on Wednesdays at ten, if you're interested. Lots of kids your age."
Story time. Kids his age. Normal childhood things that Jackson hasn't had nearly enough of.
"Maybe," I say. The thought of bringing Jackson somewhere on a regular schedule, somewhere predictable, makes my skin prickle with anxiety. Routines are dangerous. Routines make you easy to find.
But Tom is already saying, "That's a great idea. Jackson would love that."
I shoot him a look, but he's not paying attention. He's crouched down next to Jackson again, looking at the books he picked.
"These are good choices. You'll have to tell me about them when you're done."
"I will!" Jackson promises.
We leave the library with our books and our cards, and Jackson talks nonstop about the pictures he saw, the facts he learned, the dinosaurs he wants to read about next. Tom listens attentively, asking questions, genuinely engaged in what a four-year-old has to say.
It's disarming. That's the only word for it. Every time I build up my defenses, every time I remind myself not to trust him, he does something like this. Something kind and genuine and completely unexpected.
"Murphy's is just up the street," Tom says.
"You really don't have to come with us," I try again. "I'm sure you have actual sheriff things to do."
"I do. But this is more important."
"How is this more important than your job?"
He looks at me, "Because you need help, and I'm in a position to give it. That's what being sheriff means to me. Taking care of people."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to respond to someone who seems to genuinely care about the welfare of a stranger. Derek would have laughed at that. Derek thought caring about anyone other than yourself was weakness.
We walk the rest of the way in silence, Jackson between us, still chattering about dinosaurs. Murphy's Grill sits on Main Street, a squat brick building with window boxes full of geraniums.
My stomach churns. I haven't had a job interview in five years.
Haven't worked since Jackson was born, since Derek decided I should stay home and focus on being a mother.
He said it sweetly at first, like he was giving me a gift.
By the time I realized it was about control, about making me financially dependent on him, it was too late.
Tom holds the door open, and we step inside. The restaurant smells like hamburgers, French fries and coffee. Country music plays softly from speakers mounted in the corners. The décor is pure small-town diner—red vinyl booths, checkered floors, pictures of the town's history on the walls.
A man behind the counter waves at us. He's big and broad with no hair on his head and a stained apron tied around his waist.
"Tom! And this must be Claire." He has the kind of voice that carries, warm and booming. "You're early. I like that."