Chapter 3
Chapter Three
LOLA
"Where ya heading, Missy?" the burly truck driver asks me as he pulls away from the side of the road.
I stare out the window, resisting the urge to pull down the cap I've got on. I'm now a little way from the little seaside town and from Harry's Diner.
Oh, I'm sure Enzo's already got my phone tracked, which is now sitting in the pocket of a homeless girl I met on the edge of Brooklyn. I didn't have money, but I had the phone, and it took me precious minutes to hand it to her, cleared of my data, and her face now logged on to open it.
All I told her was I needed to get away, but it's got a working number and just don't answer the numbers I left in there.
Work.
Ruby.
Enzo.
Alex.
I left those to hopefully buy a few more minutes and to not worry Ruby.
Then I gave her a hundred bucks and said there were shelters and even hostels she could stay at, but there was a look in her eye that suggested she was good at circumventing the system.
I don't know what plan it's on, I didn't check to see if it was my cheap one or if Enzo upgraded it, but she should be able to work it out.
If she has a number and a place to stay, then she'll be able to find a job, disappear, start over.
And I know it's what I'm going to have to do. Pick up work where no one cares about ID or my name. Or social security number.
But the phone's traveling away from me now, and that little hitchhiking trip from the gas station took me to where I met the girl, and then I walked and met the truck driver.
And here I am.
Thinking of where I should go.
"Eventually, California. But I'm happy to go with the flow."
He snorts, picks up his Coke, and takes a sip, then reaches behind him and hands me a can.
"It's a little warm, but it'll do. I'm going to Texas.
You let ol' Bert know when you want out, and I'll do that.
I'm driving 'til I can't see straight, so we'll make a pit stop at a truck place in Kentucky or Tennessee. I can drop you before then. Okay?"
I let out a shaky breath.
I told Bert I'm Missy. And as far as I can get is good for me. I start to plot in my head about when to get out. Maybe I could go up to Canada—except I don't have ID.
So, maybe California's a good idea.
"Anyways," he says. "I meant your people?"
"Canada." I bite my tongue because I want to explain why I don't have a Canadian accent.
But I don't do it.
Because what's that rule about lying?
Less is more.
More is suspicious.
And close as possible to the real truth.
Well...I've been to Canada, and the only part of the rule I can stick to is less is more.
"Y'know, Missy, if you don't mind me saying, a pretty girl like you shouldn't be hitchhiking.
" He scratches his chest, and then he honks his horn at another truck.
"Of course, I shouldn't be picking up pretty girls.
My wife will kill me. Then again, she'd kill me if I left a little skinny thing like you out there by herself. "
"I don't have much money. But I can pitch in for gas. Or diesel."
"I don't want your money. I just want you to know hitchhiking isn't like it used to be. Try and stick to truck drivers with a known logo on the truck. And if you don't like the look of someone, don't get in. Cars with families...if they pick you up, are usually okay."
He's nice, fatherly, and it both cheers me and makes me ache inside.
Dad loved me, but in the last however many years before his death, he got deeper and deeper into his work, trying, I guess, to keep us afloat, to stay a step ahead, and to hide the things he was doing from dangerous people.
I honestly don't know why he owed so much money.
He made a lot. Yes, but he burned through a lot. And maybe it wasn't the money that got him into trouble. The robbing from one to pay the other, the secrets he knew...those were the dangerous things.
But then, I don't think it matters. He did something, killed himself, and then left me alone, not only to pick up the pieces but to deal with the fallout.
"Thanks," I say. "Got any kids?"
He gets all chuffed. "Got grandkids now. I'll tell you all about them..."
And as I listen to him, I find myself wishing his family I've never met was also mine.
Bert's probably in Tennessee by now, but I'm outside of Boston. It's not where he left me, I doubled back, closer to the Tri-State area, because if anyone might have seen me or asked Bert, then it looks like I'm heading to California.
Right now, in this cheap motel room I paid cash for, I've decided to go to New Mexico instead and take my time. Weaving a little across the country.
But I headed back, sort of in the direction I came because I figured Enzo would think I ran hard and fast.
I'm going to go slow and careful.
As careful as I can.
For now, though, I want to eat and then sleep.
Except fast food makes my stomach heave, and sleep has suddenly abandoned me.
I can't stop the vision of the gun. I can't escape the slam of the trunk as the man shoved Lyndall into it.
Over and over, it slams into me, and each time the guilt grows until I'm not sure I can stand it.
I lay on the bed in a T-shirt from the thrift shop, with shoes, socks, and jeans ready to be put on.
My bag is packed, the cap is shoved into it, and I'm sure it looks like I'm an amateur prepper.
Somehow, just the thought of it calms me enough to finally allow sleep, even through the tangle of repetitive thoughts.
It's early the next morning, my feet are restless. A dull pulse moves in my blood, urging me to grab the bag, hit the highway, and try to get a lift.
But I know I need a plan.
Well, I need answers too, but first, I need a plan.
The idea of zigzagging and just going with the flow to different places is all well and good, but picking a real final destination is the ultimate goal. I think I need a little method with that chaos.
So, hitting the library and checking out their maps is a good idea. I can spend a day looking at destinations, reading up on them, a day where I try to read over what's on that drive to see if I missed anything or if I can find an answer to Alex in there.
It doesn't matter I already know that answer.
I need it written down. Like a hammer bearing down on me, the nail.
Hell, I'd get started now, but I can't.
I only have the burner phone, no computer, so I have to wait until opening hours to go to the library in the small town.
At seven thirty, I take my bag, now in a cheap backpack that's worn and cost me a whole ten bucks at the thrift store, and head there right in time for eight a.m.
I really want to leap onto the computers, but first, I go to the maps and plot a chaotic road trip that cuts all over the place, up and down and even back the way I came in places.
For each section, I choose a name and destination—a loose back story. Easily remembered. The names I go with follow the alphabet: Amy, Betty, Cara, Doris. Names I can keep in my head.
I look at the places and areas I can be dropped off at. Some of them I could probably take a bus if needed. It'd be a last resort, but it's there.
Feeling somewhat better, I finally log onto one of the computers to see if there's anything I can use from the files I downloaded.
There's nothing.
Just the photos and things about me.
Dejected, I stare at the screen.
What if I've got it all wrong?
That's the other thought—other than to run—that pummeled me all night until I fell asleep at three.
And here it is again.
What if I got it all wrong?
Because not only does it make no sense that Enzo is Alex, but why would he do that when he took over the company to talk to me? Maybe I got it wrong.
Maybe Alex is real, and Enzo hurt him and took his phone.
Maybe...
But the "why" is there, blocking the way.
Why would he do that?
The "why" goes to the pretending and then to the idea that he hurt Alex.
Enzo wouldn't need to. Just like, why would Enzo lure me into an isolated, state-of-the-art house in the Rockaways if he wanted to hurt me? And why the hell would he bring his sister? From staging an attack to getting his friends involved in the abduction, it makes no sense.
He had me in his thrall.
Even if he was Alex, he had me in his thrall.
And as Enzo, he could have hurt me in his home. Sure, his sister turned up, but he could have waited.
As Alex, there are things he could have done to me in my home, in that construction site. And even the townhouse...
So, why do all that?
Maybe when my phone got dropped, the numbers somehow got jumbled?
It's a stupid lie to myself. One I see instantly.
It makes even less sense than the rest of it. But there's a na?ve part of me that desperately wants it to be true.
I want to believe Alex is innocent.
And I want to believe he's a separate person from Enzo.
But the thing is, right now I only have my yearnings to go with, not proof.
Just photos.
He might have wanted to protect me, and it went too far in terms of photos, or he might have wanted to stalk me.
I need proof, and I'm not near a computer with access...
My breath catches in my throat.
Logging into the work computer and checking emails is something I can do out of the office, just in case there's work to do.
And...
My heart starts to pound. I'm not meant to have access to Enzo's emails there, but I do. It's a simple password, and I've seen him type it in.
What's going to happen if I'm wrong? Barwon will explode?
I bite down on a laugh.
Nothing will happen. Best case, I'll get into the Barwon intranet.
Worst? Yeah, that big old nothing.
In fact, I'm betting it's going to be a dead end with perhaps a sprinkling of frustration and a side of annoyance.
I type it in.
Holy fuck, it works.
There's no access to the intranet, but the Barwon CEO email account does have files attached, things he can easily reach if he needs them.
My heart starts to speed up as I note there are thousands of emails. It's a lot in a short time. At least, I think it is.
Then again, what do I know? Maybe this is the state of a CEO's world at work. Or it's just Enzo doing things other than Barwon work, like the questionable things he had me do.
I check the files. Those things are there, but when I open them, they're now just gobbledygook or empty.
My heart returns to resting rate as I start going through emails.
It's all boring, like work stuff, a few bills for both personal and work items, bills that look good if anyone is snooping, and a couple of banal personal emails that make it all legit.
Shit.
After that, I start on the files.
Big fat nothing.
What was I expecting? Something that announced a big old secret or a file reading "criminal activities"? Or something stating "All Things You Want are Here"?
Nope. Nothing.
All of it is work stuff.
There isn't even a hint of suspiciousness.
And while I can access some of his other files that are in a folder called reports, they're all in order.
There is one called accounting reports, but it, too, is above board. As far as I can see, he's not fiddling the books, and he doesn't even have anything creepy there, like all the hot women who work for him in the form of their personal files.
Not that I expected that.
But there's not even a file on me.
Which makes me believe all that stuff is in personnel files on HR's computer, where it should be. And if he has something on me, then it's not accessible here.
I go through the emails again.
Then I catch it.
A cell phone bill.
I'd skipped that in my first pass, but it keeps drawing my eye, so I open it.
Unlimited, two phone lines, two numbers, and a huge data usage plan.
I almost dismiss it because most business people I know have two phones.
Except...this is just two numbers, and the second one looks familiar.
I open my phone.
I programmed both numbers in and...
Damn. Fuck.
It's Alex's number. And Enzo's.
It's proof of his duplicitous ways. Like I needed more.
Enzo answered the phone. Enzo has Alex's number. Enzo has all the photos.
I don't think he wants to harm me.
Now that the panic's gone, I just...
This doesn't add up.
But he still lied to me. Manipulated. Got me under false pretenses.
Maybe he didn't set out to fuck with me and to fuck me, but he did.
I log off the email account and then the computer.
And I sit back in the quiet of the library.
We always had a connection. I used to look up to him, have a crush on him.
And I'm angry...beyond angry.
But maybe, that connection means...
No. I can't let myself make excuses for him.
As far as I'm concerned, he's never, ever touching me again.