Chapter 1
Millie’s hand trembled as she steered her twenty-year-old Sentra down South Princeton Avenue. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror – honey-blonde hair escaping its neat twist, green eyes shadowed with exhaustion. At thirty-two, she still turned heads, but lately stress had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth, aging her beyond her years.
The setting sun cast long shadows across Fuller Park’s tired streets, transforming familiar landmarks into ominous silhouettes. Tony’s Pizza. The convenience store. The dry cleaners. Each one bringing her closer to home, closer to him.
She’d stayed late at the law firm deliberately, letting the going-away gathering stretch on until most had left. Only Matt and Catherine remained, hovering close, their concern palpable. Matt had pulled her aside, pressed five hundred dollars into her palm. “I hate losing the best paralegal I’ve ever had,” he’d whispered, “but your secret is safe with me. Forever.”
The pizza box on the passenger seat filled the car with the aroma of peppers and onions. Her stomach churned – not from hunger, but from the knowledge that Colton would already be home. He always was on Thursdays.
Two blocks from home, she saw his truck in the driveway. No lights shone in the windows of their fifty-year-old duplex. Her chest tightened. Darkness meant trouble.
Millie parked on the street, gathering her purse, computer bag, and the pizza box with deliberate slowness. The porch light should have been on. It was one of his rules, like dinner by 5:30, whether he was home or not. Like keeping Molly – sweet, twelve-year-old Molly – cooking and cleaning as if she were hired help instead of a child.
The wooden steps creaked under her feet as she climbed. She hadn’t seen him in the shadows until his gravelly voice cut through the December chill.
“About time you got home. Where’s Molly?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Colton sat in the porch swing, a dark outline against darker shadows. “Damn, you scared me to death,” she managed. “What’s up with the porch light?”
Wrong response. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth. Colton’s shape rose from the swing, unfolding to his full height. “I asked you where Molly is.” His voice dropped lower, a warning sign she’d learned too late. “How many times do I have to tell you I want my dinner no later than 5:30, hot and on the table whether you’re here or not?”
Last week’s bruises throbbed at his tone. Fourth assault in twelve months. Each one worse than the last. Each one pushing her closer to this moment, to the plans she’d started making, to the job waiting in New York City thanks to Matt. A thousand miles might be enough distance. Might be.
“She’s with a friend, studying for a big exam tomorrow.” The lie came easily – Molly was indeed with a friend, having her last sleepover with Alisha Maynard. Best friends since kindergarten, the girls were inseparable. Tomorrow will change that forever. “I tried calling you.” This part was true, though she knew Westrock didn’t allow personal calls during shifts. Thank God he hated cell phones.
Colton followed her inside, his footsteps heavy behind her. The cramped apartment felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker. “Something’s going on. I can smell it.”
Millie cleared breakfast dishes from the table, her movements careful, measured. Had she slipped somewhere? Given away her plans? The pizza box trembled slightly in her hands as she set it down. If she could just get him eating, he might calm down. For a while.
“Teachers don’t give big exams the last day before Christmas break.” His voice carried the smug certainty of a predator sensing weakness. “I know you’re lying.”
He was right, of course. Millie set down plates, weighing her options. Sometimes admitting to a small lie diffused his anger. “You’re correct about the exam,” she said softly. “I made the decision. Molly needs a break. She deserves a little fun every once in a while. We both know she never complains even though she does all the cooking, housekeeping, and laundry around here.”
Colton crammed half a slice of pizza in his mouth and stalked to the refrigerator. The beer can hissed as he popped it open. Millie’s muscles tensed, reading the signs: the rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled movements, the silence. She was already turning when he threw the can.
She tried to block it, but the aluminum edge caught her above the right eye. Sharp pain exploded through her skull as warm blood ran down her face. The room tilted. Through the fog of pain and nausea, she heard his familiar refrain.
“I’m sorry, but you need to remember the rules around here.”
Millie nodded, pressing a dishrag against the wound as she stumbled to the bathroom. In the mirror, blood dripped onto the sink as she examined the cut. Three inches long. Deep. The edge of the can had sliced clean, like a knife.
It was 11:30 before she returned from the Emergency Room, one hundred and fifty dollars poorer and twenty-three stitches richer. Colton was already asleep. As always, he’d left a note on her pillow.
“I’m sorry but know I love you.”
Millie stood in the darkness, blood crusted in her hair, staring at his handwriting. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she and Molly will be gone. She’d given him a year too long already, but now, finally, she had somewhere to go. A job waiting. A plan.
A thousand miles might be enough distance.
Might be.
Chapter 2
The electric toothbrush’s whir pulled Millie from unconsciousness – her seven-day-per-week alarm clock. She kept her eyes closed, processing. Most mornings started with a headache, but today’s brought lightning bolts of pain that forced memory to the surface: the beer can’s trajectory, the Emergency Room’s harsh fluorescent lights, twenty-three careful stitches.
A smile crept across her face as she threw back the covers and planted her feet on the cold hardwood floor. The room swam. She steadied herself, fingers gripping the mattress edge. Today was different. Today she was leaving.
“Morning.” Colton’s voice drifted from the bathroom doorway, drawn out like thick icing on a birthday cake. The good Colton, the morning after Colton, smooth and contrite.
Millie wobbled to her feet, backing against the bed for support. “Hey,” was all she could manage. The word felt too intimate, but ‘morning’ would have been worse. She needed coffee, needed her mind clear.
She glanced at the digital clock: 5:10. Colton was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. “Don’t worry about breakfast,” he said. “I’ve got an early meeting.” She nodded, meeting his eyes. Soft like butter now, not the steel of last night.
In the hallway, she shuffled toward the bathroom, managing a slight smile he couldn’t see. Thank God. No elaborate breakfast to prepare. No eggs with exactly five shakes of Tabasco sauce, no homemade biscuits while he cleaned his guns or watched Fox News.
The mirror revealed what she expected: her right eye swollen nearly shut, the neat line of black stitches stark against purple flesh. She stared at her reflection, at a face that looked sixty-two instead of thirty-two. After swallowing three Tylenol, she heard Colton behind her.
His handsome face appeared in the mirror beside her disfigured one. He smiled, planted a kiss on her left cheek. “I’ve got to run. Tell Molly I missed her.” A pause. “Don’t worry about dinner. It’s a surprise.”
The words weren’t impressive. The bad Colton always consumed the good Colton. His face disappeared. Seconds later, the front door opened and closed. The Dodge Ram’s engine growled to life.
Millie hurried to the front window, watching until the truck turned onto South Princeton. Without fear, she whispered a mantra as she descended the stairs: “Freedom is waiting, come get it.”
Her only regret was the house. The hundred-and-nine-year-old brick duplex had cost $66,000 in 2012, her first year as a full-fledged paralegal at Quinn Law Firm. She was twenty-five then, Molly just five, about to be held back from starting kindergarten at Harvard Elementary after that terrifying false alarm with leukemia. But the house was a small price to pay for escape, for protecting Molly, who at twelve was involuntarily tempting Colton’s wandering eyes.
She forced down a cold slice of pizza and a large cup of coffee. Habit made her pour the remaining coffee down the sink, dump the grounds in the trash. “Okay, okay,” she answered the voice in her head asking, “what are you doing?” Habits were hard to break.
Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled out her phone and opened the Bank of America app. The secret account showed $1,846.28 – six months of careful planning, skimming twenty or thirty dollars from each grocery trip, saying she’d lost receipts, claiming higher copays than actual. The deception had gnawed at her, but survival required it.
Matt’s five hundred would help, but it wasn’t enough. Even with the job at Bird & Foley starting January second at sixty-five thousand – fifteen thousand more than she made at Quinn Law – the numbers were tight. First month’s rent and deposit on the studio would eat $2,000. They’d need at least another thousand for basic furnishings, probably more. Then utilities, food, subway passes…
The joint account she shared with Colton showed $3,892.41. Her direct deposit from yesterday – $1,623 after taxes – sat there with his Westrock paycheck. She wouldn’t touch it. The moment she withdrew anything; his phone would ping with an alert. Besides, stealing from him would only give him more ammunition to hunt them down.
At least they had the 401K. The $32,468 Matt was holding would be their safety net once they reached New York. After taxes and early withdrawal penalties, maybe twenty-three thousand. It would have to be enough.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: “Always have fuck-you money, baby. Every woman needs an escape fund.” She’d ignored that advice two years ago when she let Colton move in. Never again.
She deleted the Bank of America app and cleared her browser history. In a few hours, they’d withdraw every penny from her secret account. Until then, she had to focus on getting Molly out of school and themselves on the road east. They had enough for now. They had to have enough.
Upstairs, she packed two duffel bags with clothes and toiletries, gathered Molly’s extensive collection of stuffed animals. She handled each one with care, especially Maverick, the black llama that had been Molly’s constant companion for the past three years. The eighteen-inch-tall plush toy, with its banana-shaped ears and proud stance, always had the place of honor among the four dozen other animals. Beneath Maverick lay a stack of photos – mostly of Molly and Alisha, arms linked, grinning at school events, birthday parties, summer afternoons. Six years of friendship captured in snapshots. Millie added them to the bag, knowing these memories would have to sustain her daughter until they were truly safe. She packed them all carefully into a large garbage bag, knowing how much these silent friends meant to her daughter. Whatever else they needed, they could buy in New York. She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, hesitant at Colton’s nightstand. The S&W 357 lay there, tempting. After a moment’s deliberation, she lifted it, feeling its weight. Protection, a voice whispered in her mind. But another voice, stronger and clearer, countered: stealing his gun would only enrage him further, give him more reason to hunt them down. She returned it to the nightstand. They needed to vanish, not escalate.
Everything fit in the twenty-year-old Sentra’s trunk. Back inside, she sat at the kitchen table with a notepad.
“Colton, Molly and I have moved out. This shouldn’t catch you by surprise. You know it’s been coming. Please don’t try to find us. You will not be welcome. I’m tired of being your punching bag.
The house and everything in it are yours. I think that’s a fair settlement. You can rent out one of the units like you’ve always wanted to.
Matthew is the only person who’ll know how to contact me, but please, only contact him when your case is set for trial. I’ll decide then whether to be your alibi witness. I’m sure you know that it depends on you staying away from Molly and me. It’s up to you.
Goodbye, Millie.”
She stuffed the note into an envelope, printed his name across the front. Simple, direct – like ripping off a bandage. The less said, the better. Any attempt to mislead him would only make him more suspicious, more determined to hunt them down. The best strategy was to vanish without a trace.
The morning stretched ahead: Harvard Elementary to withdraw Molly, then New York City. A thousand miles of distance. A new job. A new life.
If they could make it that far.
──────
Millie parked the Sentra on South Harvard Avenue, scanning the street before killing the engine. No sign of Colton’s truck, but her neck prickled. He had friends at Westrock who lived nearby.
Harvard Elementary loomed before her, brick and solid, Molly’s only school since kindergarten. Through the window, she watched two mothers walk their children inside, remembering easier mornings. Another thing Colton was taking from them.
Principal Aisha McCarthy was behind the counter when Millie entered the office, the phone pressed to her ear. Their eyes met, and understanding passed between them. Today wasn’t just the last day before Christmas break. For Molly, it was the last day ever.
Voices drifted in from the hallway – Molly and her writing teacher, Chanel Thorton, deep in animated discussion about character development. Even in her simple school clothes, Molly drew attention without trying. She moved with a natural elegance that made her stand out among her peers, her copper hair catching the fluorescent lights like burnished metal. Alisha often joked that her best friend would be famous someday, and looking at Molly now, her fine-boned face alive with intelligence and charm, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Molly’s eyes kept darting to the classroom across the hall where Alisha would be arriving any minute. They’d promised not to say goodbye – it would be too suspicious, too final – but Molly had memorized every moment of last night’s sleepover, their last time together. At twelve, Molly was already crafting stories that made her teachers notice, most of them featuring two best friends who could overcome any obstacle. Millie’s chest tightened. She should have told Chanel too. For two years, the writing teacher had been Molly’s chief engineer, transforming a lackadaisical attitude about school into passionate curiosity.
“Mom, what happened?” Molly rushed to her; eyes fixed on the swollen mass of twenty-three stitches above Millie’s eye. They embraced, and Millie whispered in her daughter’s ear.
“I’ll ask for help next time I need something from the top shelf.” She rolled her eyes. “Clumsy me.” The lie tasted bitter, especially in front of Molly’s writing teacher.
Chanel Thorton, bless her, smoothed over the awkward moment. “Molly baby, you have a Merry Christmas, and I’ll see you in two weeks.” She kissed her star student’s forehead and exited the office. Principal McCarthy walked around the counter and gave Molly a long hug. She shook Millie’s hand, holding it a moment too long. “You know it’s not going to be the same around here without this young lady.”
“Group hug?” Molly asked. It was her favorite principal’s mighty weapon against awkwardness, anger, embarrassment – any situation that needed diffusing. The three stood together, arms linked, no one wanting to be the first to let go. None wanting this to be the last hug.
After signing the withdrawal papers, Millie and Molly walked outside. The heavy doors closed behind them with a final thud. There was no going back.
The moment they cleared the entrance, Molly grabbed Millie’s hand. “Stop. Tell me what happened. What did he hit you with this time?”
“I will but come on. There’s probably cameras out here.”
Molly raced to the parked Sentra, tossed her book bag in the rear seat, and waited on her mother; thankful their nightmare was ending. “Did you call the police?”
“Hop in.”
The drive to Walmart took five minutes, the traffic on S. Vincennes mercifully light. By the time they arrived, Millie had shared last night’s events, omitting the real reason for Colton’s rage. She couldn’t tell Molly that her own mother’s lie about her whereabouts had triggered his violence.
“If I’d been there, I would have killed him.” Molly’s voice was steady, certain – too adult for twelve.
“Don’t say that. I’ve taught you better. Think.” They walked toward the store entrance. “What would have happened to you, to us, if you had hurt him?”
“You know what I mean. We should have left months ago.”
Millie squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “You’re right. But we’re leaving now.” They paused to disinfect their hands. “And we’re never coming back.”
“Deal.”
Inside Electronics, Millie studied prepaid phones, calculating. They needed burners – untraceable, paid in cash. She selected two basic models, adding prepaid cards for minimum minutes and data. Their old phones would go into a dumpster two towns over.
“No social media,” she told Molly as they walked to Customer Service. “No location services, no downloading apps. These are for emergencies only.” She paid cash, pocketing the receipt to destroy later.
“I know, Mom. Minimal digital footprint.” Molly had been listening when Millie explained their escape plans. She clutched her book bag closer, grateful her mother couldn’t see the secret iPhone nestled inside; Alisha’s parting gift that would keep them connected.
They withdrew their savings from Bank of America – $1,846.28 that Millie had squirreled away in secret – and swung by That’s-a-Burger. By 10:15, they were merging onto I-90E, new phones activated, old ones waiting for disposal.
“New York City, here we come,” Molly screamed into the cold air rushing through her open window before cramming a giant bite of turkey burger into her mouth. Her excitement almost – almost – masked the fear in her voice. She clutched her book bag closer, feeling the weight of Alisha’s secret gift inside. At least they’d have that connection, even if everything else was being left behind.
Millie pressed the accelerator, watching the Chicago skyline shrink in her rearview mirror. Each mile put more distance between them and Colton, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving would be the easy part.
Staying gone – that would be the real challenge.
Chapter 3
Over an hour passed without a word between them. Molly sat staring out her window, lost in thought, likely pondering her new school in New York City, and whether she would ever again have a friend like Alisha Maynard. The silence felt heavy, weighed with everything they were leaving behind.
A shudder ran through the steering wheel, and Millie adjusted her grip. The Sentra had developed new rattles in the past week, sounds she’d been too preoccupied to investigate. She should have taken Matt up on his offer of the Tahoe. But that would have meant owing him even more, and she was already drowning in debt to his kindness.
It was time for another thankfulness meditation, something Dr. Maharaja had taught her. The road sign said thirty-eight miles to South Bend. That would be a good place to check the Sentra’s fluid levels – it leaked oil and transmission fluid, another thing she’d meant to handle this morning but had forgotten. Another symptom of her bipolar disorder.
If it weren’t for Matt, she’d never have gotten the help she needed. He’d noticed her mood swings at work – the manic phases where she’d take on impossible workloads, followed by periods of crushing depression. Six months ago, he’d insisted she see Dr. Maharaja, scheduling the appointments for Thursday afternoons when the office was quiet. “On company time,” he’d said, knowing Colton would never allow therapy after hours. Even then, she’d had to lie about working late on case files.
Dr. Maharaja had diagnosed her with Bipolar II, explaining how the hypomanic episodes fueled her driven personality at work, while the depressive crashes left her vulnerable to Colton’s manipulation. The diagnosis explained so much – the impulsive decisions, the rapid shifts between euphoria and despair, the periods of foggy memory. The medication helped when she remembered to take it consistently. But she worried about maintaining her treatment in New York, about what might happen if she slipped into either extreme while trying to build a new life.
Breathe in thankfulness, breathe out anxieties, stress, fears, bad habits, and past mistakes. Millie renewed her focus. After two weeks of engaging with Maharaja’s technique, Matt was always the first person to cross her mind. Other than Molly herself, there wasn’t another person in the world who would have cared as much as Matt. But it hadn’t really come as a surprise since Millie knew how much he invested in his clients’ well-being.
He’s trained in psychodrama. For the past ten years he’d attended a three-week intensive course at The Trial Lawyer’s College in Dubois, Wyoming. Matt’s voice tickled her ears: “It’s a group psychotherapy method, a stellar way of communicating with other human beings. You simply crawl inside the skin of your client, a witness, friendly or hostile, any person you’re wanting to know, and feel what she’s feeling.”
And that’s what he had done when he learned about Colton’s abuse. The empathy Matt had shown had clarified her thinking, ultimately enabling her to make the most important decision in her life – to break free from the man who now routinely treated her as his punching bag. Matt had seeded her courage and inspiration to continue her struggles while preparing for the day she would make her escape.
Molly opened her book bag and removed The Wind in the Willows. Although she enjoyed Harry Potter, she always found time to reunite with friends Mole, Mr. Toad, Badger, and Ratty. The book was a classic, and Millie had meant to buy a copy for Molly, but she hadn’t, and this one belonged to Harvard Elementary School. Millie couldn’t remember if she’d told Molly to return it or any other books she’d checked out. Another memory lapse.
Breathe in thankfulness. Millie visualized a tree with several branches. At bottom was the main root, Matt. From there, a direct line to a better life in New York City. His friendship with attorney Stephen Canna of Bird & Foley had opened the door to Millie’s new job. Matt had met Stephen in Wyoming several years ago at The Trial Lawyer’s College, and they’d become sounding boards for each other’s most challenging cases. The Manhattan practice was growing and needed an intelligent and experienced paralegal.
Breathe in thankfulness. Although Millie had only talked with Stephen three times, she was convinced he was as close to a clone of Matt as she would ever find. On her own it would have been impossible to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. The last conversation was on Monday. Out of the blue Stephen had called and inquired about their housing needs. It seemed Stephen both cared and had connections. He’d found a studio apartment for $1000 per month on Manhattan’s upper east side. Small but adequate for starts, and only fifteen minutes from Bird & Foley at the Woolworth Building.
The housing’s proximity to Robert F. Wagner Middle School, just eight minutes away, was another blessing. It had a great reputation and would be Molly’s school home through eighth grade, preventing her from having to change schools after sixth grade like she would if they’d stayed in Chicago. Again, with Stephen’s help and the kind and compassionate caring of assistant principal Kelli Buck, Molly’s application was streamlined and completed in two days. Millie had expected nothing less given Molly’s perfect grades and attendance at Harvard Elementary.
“How about a pee break?” Molly said, stuffing Willows back into her bag. “You do remember promising frequent stops?”
Millie smiled and nodded, amazed at her daughter’s resilience and how easily the once insolvable escape puzzle was fitting together. Breathe in thankfulness. A good job, more than adequate housing, an outstanding school, and reasonable prospects for friends and associates. What more could they ask for? Breathe out anxieties, stress, fears, bad habits, and past mistakes. Millie glanced in her rearview mirror and emptied her lungs. Every minute, another mile farther from the man and world that had almost destroyed her and Molly’s life.
“Here we are, South Bend, Exit 72. The University of Notre Dame is only fifteen minutes from here. Would you…?”
Before Millie could finish her question, Molly interrupted. “Mom, no. I was just a kid when I dreamed of coming here. I no longer want anything to do with religion, especially Catholicism.”
Millie didn’t respond. As she pulled into the Flying J truck stop, the burning smell coming from under the hood reminded her Matt had offered his five-year-old Tahoe, but she’d refused, thinking it was too much of a gas hog.
“What’s that smell?” Molly lowered her window, her copper hair lifting in the cold breeze.
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Sentra just needs a quart of oil and maybe a little transmission fluid.” Molly shook her head sideways and rolled her eyes, wishing she’d never personified the vehicle her mother had bought new in 1999, seven years before she became pregnant.
Molly opened her door and resisted any mention that she’d voted in favor of Matt’s vehicle offer. The burning smell followed them into the parking lot, a harbinger of troubles to come.
──────
“Code A,” Millie announced as Molly rushed toward the restroom. The words caught her daughter mid-stride, and Millie saw the slight straightening of Molly’s shoulders, the newfound awareness in her posture. Good. Their oft-repeated code for heightened observation was becoming instinct.
Without thinking, Millie opened the Sentra’s gas tank door and removed a debit card from her pocket. “Whoa.” The word escaped loud enough to draw attention from the man at the next pump.
The reality hit her like a physical blow. Earlier, before leaving home, she’d removed the card from her wallet and stuck it in her front right pocket. She’d meant to cut it up with scissors before leaving the house but had forgotten. Another mental slip. “You dumb ass,” she whispered. “That’s all we need, a trail of breadcrumbs scattered from Chicago to New York City, all showing on Colton’s next bank statement.”
Her hands trembled as she returned the card to her pocket. The actual plan was to use cash for all expenses along the eight-hundred-mile journey. Shortly after arriving in New York City, she would find a conveniently located bank and open a new account. A quick call or text to Matt would initiate the transfer of money he was holding from her 401K withdrawal. Another reason to be thankful, though right now she felt anything but grateful. The mistake with the debit card had triggered a familiar spiral of self-doubt.
Millie walked inside and scoured the store for the automotive section. After paying cash for two quarts of oil, two quarts of transmission fluid, and ten gallons of gas, she returned to the Sentra. She inserted the hose and raised the hood, breathing out and struggling to forget her near-mistake with the card.
Inside, Molly washed her hands and returned to the store. A rack of cards caught her attention. She was staring at the front cover of a Hallmark depicting pencil-drawn dogs of every shape, size, and color centered around a five-word congratulatory declaration: “Yah! Your new best friend!” Molly imagined receiving the card from Alisha three days after a late-night phone call announcing the adoption of a black Lab or Golden Retriever.
“Stay put while I go to the bathroom.” Millie told Molly in passing.
Inside the restroom, she washed her hands and swallowed a 500mg Depakote pill. It was half of what Dr. Maharaja had prescribed, but the full dose always caused extreme drowsiness. She’d take the other half tonight in Youngstown where Molly had begged to spend the night. The curious twelve-year-old hated riding and wanted to break up the long drive and hopefully take a long walk.
Millie locked herself in a private stall and tried to pee. She closed her eyes and realized this was the third day she’d been so euphoric, so energized. No doubt because she’d slept so little last night. She recognized the signs of an oncoming manic episode but pushed the thought away. They needed her energy, her drive. She couldn’t afford to be sluggish now.
As soon as she stood and snapped her pants, the image reappeared. It had been the same one for a week. Millie was in the clouds walking toward New York City along a square-tiled pathway, each tile three feet apart. And it was the same song, “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M.—playing as she carefully stepped from one tile to the next.
The slamming of the stall door next to her snapped Millie back to reality. “Hang on, hang on,” she kept telling herself, ignoring the sink, and exiting the restrooms. Molly was still at the card stand but now talking with a white-haired, bearded man leaning on a cane. So much for Code A.
The next few minutes didn’t register with Millie. Somehow, she and Molly returned to the Sentra and driven away and were now passing Exit 77. Molly was stretched out in the back seat reading The Wind in the Willows. Millie gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road ahead rather than the mistakes already piling up behind them.
Chapter 4
After some discussion and a little negotiating, Millie and Molly decided to alter their plan of stopping every hour. Instead, they’d take a longer break in Perrysburg, the approximate midpoint between South Bend and Youngstown. The only exception would be if either of them had to use the restroom.
Two and a half hours later, with Molly sleeping in the back seat, Millie decided to bypass Perrysburg and continue on. She thought to herself: “Like, miraculously, I’d know how to resolve the grinding sound I’ve been hearing for the past hour every time I speed up to pass someone.” Although torn whether to return to Chicago and accept Matt’s Tahoe offer, it seemed best to continue and contact an auto repair shop when they arrived in Youngstown. Maybe all the Sentra needed was a transmission flush like Colton had mentioned.
The Sentra had other plans. The moment they entered the long bridge across the Maumee River, the grinding noise doubled, the entire car began shaking, and the burning smell became so bad Millie thought her first and only new car might catch fire. Their progress slowed despite the accelerator pressing to the floor. Cars and eighteen wheelers whizzed past, horns blaring. In a quarter mile, the car lurched forward one final time, just enough for Millie to steer to her right and stop within inches of the metal guard rail that separated them from the dark, murky water below.
“Molly, wake up.” Millie turned and reached over the seat, shaking her daughter’s leg. Her honey-blonde hair fell forward, hiding the fear she knew must show on her face. “We’re stuck. We need to get out of the car and watch traffic.” The latter sounded silly, but Millie knew they couldn’t risk being hit from behind. At least outside, they could walk east and away from the car enough to hopefully escape death if someone drifted too far right and rammed the Sentra.
“What’s wrong?” Molly sat sideways; her copper hair tousled from sleep. She looked behind and watched the passing traffic. “Why’d you stop here?”
“Come on, I’ll explain. Be careful, watch for cars.”
It was almost two hours before the wrecker arrived. Millie had Googled and found two auto repair shops in Perrysburg. She didn’t know why but she’d chosen Ray’s Service Center & Towing over Steve’s Family Auto. During the wait, she’d tried Matt’s cell three times but got voicemail. Between calls, she’d paced beside the guard rail, alternating between watching approaching traffic and staring at the river below, its dark surface matching her sinking mood.
Molly had remained calmer, sitting cross-legged on a concrete barrier well beyond their car, wrapped in her red Christmas sweater from Walmart, reading her book. Every few minutes she’d look up, scanning passing vehicles as though expecting to see Colton’s Ram truck bearing down on them.
“Are you Ray?” Millie asked as the short and stocky man in a greasy red hat exited the cab and approached them.
“Nope. I’m Bobby. You got car troubles?” Bobby was perceptive. Millie described the Sentra’s problems, detailing each symptom, and her in-vain efforts to patch things up with extra fluids.
“You need a transmission. That’ll cost you.”
“How much?” Molly interjected, but Millie closed her eyes and shook her head sideways. The familiar tingling sensation spread across her skin – not good. Not good at all.
“Never mind. Just give us a tow back to your shop and we can talk about it there.” The words came out steadily, but inside Millie was unraveling. Their entire escape fund was $1,846.28, plus Matt’s five hundred. A transmission would eat most or all of that. Every cent was already budgeted: first month’s rent and deposit in New York, food, subway passes, basic furnishings. They couldn’t touch the money Matt was holding from her 401K – that was for after they were settled, after they were safe.
The tingling across her skin intensified, and bright spots flickered at the edges of her vision. She’d felt this before, the precursor to one of her crashes. Not now. Please, not now. She glanced at Molly, who stood shivering in her Christmas sweater, copper hair whipping in the wind off the river. They couldn’t afford this setback, not financially, not emotionally, not with Colton possibly already on their trail. But what choice did they have?
It was a quarter past noon when Bobby turned right off Louisiana Avenue and pulled the wrecker alongside a neat and modern three-bay metal building. Millie opened the passenger door and Molly slid out beside her. The two held a hand across their noses and mouths to ward off Bobby’s BO. The wafting smell coming from Perry’s Burgers across the parking lot was welcoming and prevented both from gagging and throwing up. “Ray’s at lunch. You girls can sit inside.” Bobby pointed toward a side door with a sign that read, “Welcome.” Thankfully, he walked inside the shop, selected some tools from a giant red box, and hid himself underneath the hood of a late model Camaro.
The waiting room was small with six stiff chairs and two vending machines: one supplied by Coca Cola, the other filled with an assortment of candy bars, gum, granola bars, chips & pretzels, cookies, and crackers. With change from her pocket, Millie bought a Diet Coke for herself and a Sprite for Molly who returned to the Sentra for the bag of snacks they’d purchased at Walmart.
The tingling under her skin intensified. She should take the other half of her Depakote now, not wait until Youngstown. But the pills were in her purse, still in the car, and she didn’t want to go back out there, didn’t want to smell Bobby’s stench or face the reality of their situation. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in thankfulness, but the clouds and floating tiles from her earlier vision were back, and this time there was no music playing.
──────
Ray and a woman, possibly his wife, returned at 1:15. To Millie and Molly’s surprise, the two were the total opposite of Bobby. Maybe mid-thirties, clean-cut. Both were dressed in casual clothes and were odorless. The woman retreated to a room marked “Office” and Ray approached and held out a hand. “I’m Ray. Sorry about your troubles. Bobby tells me it sounds like your transmission.”
The news had been devastating. A week to ten days for repairs, assuming they could find a transmission. Cost estimates ranging from $1,600 for a salvage yard part to $4,000 for a rebuilt one with warranty. Millie had walked outside with Molly to “discuss options,” but really to hide her rising panic. The tingling under her skin had spread, bringing with it a strange clarity. They couldn’t wait here. Couldn’t risk Colton searching for repair shops.
After paying Ray a hundred twenty in cash for the tow, Millie had made two decisions she prayed wouldn’t come back to haunt them. First, she’d arranged for Ray to ship Molly’s stuffed animals to their New York apartment. The risk of giving him their address seemed worth it given Maverick’s importance to Molly. Second, she’d looked up bus schedules.
Now, at 3:55 PM, their Uber driver pulled away from the Emerald Avenue bus station, taking another twenty-six dollars of their dwindling funds. All Millie and Molly had to do was wait six and a half hours before they were back on their journey to New York City.
Millie was surprised to learn the station served both Greyhound and Amtrak. The decision had been easy given their need to conserve cash. The Sentra’s death had heightened both Millie and Molly’s awareness of every dollar spent. The next available Amtrak departed at 11:49 PM and arrived at Penn Station in New York City at 6:50 PM Saturday night. Although that was six-plus hours faster than the scheduled bus ride, the trip would cost an extra $150, and that was for coach only. A private room would cost an additional $348. Two-hundred thirty-eight dollars to Greyhound for two seats was their only viable option.
The next six hours stretched before them like a desert. The waiting area was a sea of hard plastic seats in varying shades of orange and brown, most occupied by travelers who looked as tired as Millie felt. She chose a spot near a wall outlet, thinking of charging their phones, then remembered the old ones were still in her purse. They needed to be disposed of, but not here. Not where security cameras might record the action.
“Mom, please?” Molly was already pulling up an itinerary on her phone. “I’ll pay.” Her daughter’s copper hair caught the fluorescent lights as she leaned closer, enthusiastically outlining a multi-hour adventure: walk to nearby Middleground Metro Park and enjoy the half-mile walking trail, then walk two blocks to the highly rated San Marcos Mexican Restaurant on Summit Avenue, then venture south to The Original Sub for their chocolate strawberry olive oil cake with orange whipped cream, and finally, take an Uber to the Cinemark theater for the 6:45 PM showing of “Little Women.”
Millie shook her head, hating to disappoint her daughter but knowing they couldn’t risk being so visible in public. Instead, she took another Depakote, hoping to ward off the increasing sensation of electricity under her skin, and tried to sleep on the furthest bench from the station entrance. When she awoke at 8:45, Molly was reading Where the Red Fern Grows, the second book she’d failed to return to Harvard Elementary School’s library.
After a quick trip to the restroom, Molly suggested they eat at the in-house Subway. She again offered to pay. Molly was such a loving and forgiving child and did her best over the next ninety minutes to encourage Millie who seemed increasingly anxious and depressed.
The bus arrived ten minutes early and departed on time. From their seats toward the rear, Molly squeezed Millie’s hand and whispered, “Cleveland, Ohio, here we come.” Millie managed to smile and planted a soft kiss on her daughter’s forehead, trying to hide how the medication was finally pulling her down from the manic energy that had sustained her through their escape so far.
The darkness outside the bus windows matched her mood. She couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving their car at Ray’s was a mistake. But what choice did they have? The money that might have fixed the Sentra would now pay for their first month’s rent in New York. She had to believe they were making the right decisions.
She had to believe they would make it.
Chapter 5
Something was up. No lights downstairs, upstairs, anywhere. The front porch light was always on when he returned from work on Friday nights, even if Millie and Molly were gone on a jog or a walk. Colton turned off S. Princeton into his driveway. Hadn’t he promised Millie they’d go out tonight?
He parked and walked up the stairs. The front door was locked. It shouldn’t be. Both knew he didn’t like fiddling with keys. Where’s Molly? Hadn’t he called Millie at work and left a message with Catherine that he wanted Molly to go out with them tonight?
Inside, he flipped on the overhead light and walked to the kitchen for a beer. He closed the refrigerator and saw a note lying on the table. There was one sheet of paper ripped from a spiral bound notebook. Colton pulled back his chair and sat. It was Millie’s writing.
He downed half his Bud and read the note. Twice. It wasn’t a surprise Millie and Molly had fled. The surprise was that it had taken them so long to leave. The other two women he’d lived with hadn’t lasted a year.
Colton finished his beer, slung the bottle toward the sink, and grabbed another. He drawled out a deep burp and yelled, “you fucking bitch.” An equally loud laugh erupted. The only thing that bothered him was not knowing how to reach her. Without her testimony the DA had him over a barrel, a barrel shaped like an eight-by-eight jail cell.
Six months ago, Colton and Sandy, his best bud, met two gorgeous University of Chicago sophomores at Mitchell’s Tap, their favorite hangout. Two games of darts and a half-hour of dancing had led to a few drinks but unequal desires. Ellen and Gina’s excuse for leaving was they had to study. Colton’s temper flared. Hell, it was Friday night. Who studies on Friday night? He figured the girls had played them, just wanted to flirt and enjoy some free drinks. It’s our age, Sandy had offered. “At least fifteen years older.” The two young lasses had left without a mere thank you. Rejection was something neither man could manage.
After quickly dismissing the thought of more darts, Colton and Sandy had tailed Ellen and Gina outside to the parking lot and on to an older house on South Morgan Street. There, inside, the women refused to come to the door. They obviously didn’t understand the two men standing on their porch would not be so easily deterred.
An hour later, the men returned donning ski masks and wielding a crowbar. The rear door was easily breached. The women resisted at first but soon surrendered, doing what they were told, hoping they’d live to see Monday morning classes.
Before the night was over, Colton and Sandy had taken everything they came for. The sixteen hundred cash was a bonus but cost Ellen a finger. Shortly before dawn, a distant siren and a ringing land line scared them off, but not before tying the women up, dousing the place with five gallons of gasoline Colton kept in the bed of his truck, and tossing lite matches in both bedrooms. After retrieving his truck from Mitchell’s Tap, Colton had driven home and awakened a sleeping Millie. Molly was at Alisha’s for a sleepover.
At first, Millie didn’t ask a question, just wondered silently why Colton was so disheveled with two scratches on his face. “I may need you to provide an alibi.” Millie refused to tell anyone that he’d returned from Mitchell’s at 10:30 PM. She changed her mind when Colton threatened Molly.
Two weeks ago, the DA had secured an indictment against him and Sandy for burglary, robbery, rape, sodomy, false imprisonment, and arson. Colton’s defense attorney and investigator had subsequently learned that somehow Gina had managed to escape the burning house, but had hidden out for nearly a week before approaching the police. No doubt, Gina was the DA’s key witness and was saying it had to be the two men she and Ellen had partied with at Mitchell’s earlier that night. State detectives had no trouble identifying Colton Lee Atwood and J. Sanford Brown. Unfortunately for the DA, there was no physical evidence that Colton and Sandy were the perpetrators.
Colton tossed the second beer bottle in the sink and grabbed two more. He’d been in trouble before but nothing like this. At least he could be thankful he’d worn a condom when he’d screwed the tight-assed Gina. But he knew her testimony would be enough to put him and Sandy into the lion’s den of a trial, and without Millie’s alibi, the two of them could spend the rest of their lives in prison.
Colton swore he’d find Molly and Millie. If she refused to fully cooperate, he’d kidnap Molly and hold her until Millie lied that he was at home before 11:00 PM and stayed there all night. Colton knew Molly was the key to his freedom. The sweet, sexually maturing little girl was Millie’s weakness. She wouldn’t dare hesitate to protect the most important person in her world.
Chapter 6
“Turn right on Biesterfield Road. It’s about a quarter mile.” Sandy said from the front passenger seat of Colton’s crew cab Ram truck. The two had spent the past ninety minutes heading west to a house along the southern edge of the Busse Woods Forest Preserve. Their quest to disappear had led them here.
It seemed their best option. Certainly, they couldn’t stay at Colton’s on S. Princeton, or Sandy’s on S. Farrell St. These places would be the first locations Chicago Police would look at once the arrest warrants were issued. Neither man doubted that’s what would happen in court shortly after 10:00 AM on Monday. Hell, the whole purpose of the hearing was to determine whether the defendants would appear in court to face their charges. The judge, the new pro-prosecution judge, would order both men be immediately arrested and held in jail awaiting trial.
Colton turned right, and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Why wasn’t he more prepared? Why did the damn bank only allow a maximum daily ATM withdrawal of $300.00?
Sandy tried to think of the last time he’d been to Pop’s place. The best he could recall it was three or four years ago. Pop was the only father-figure he’d ever really known, since his biological father had died in his mid-twenties when Sandy was only three. James Todd Hickman was his maternal grandfather, who’d once owned two hundred acres south of the Busse Woods Preserve. Over the years he’d made a fortune selling off twenty-to-forty-acre tracts to eager developers. Now, Pop was gone, as was his only daughter, Sandy and Sarah’s mother, who’d died last February of a brain aneurysm. Any day now, his mother’s estate, which included most of Pop’s estate she had inherited, would be distributed to Sandy and his sister.
Sandy stared at Seibert Landscaping on his right and remembered the physically exhausting summer he’d worked there. Pop had said it would show him what real work was like and motivate him to do better in school. The only good thing to come out of the three-month torture was the owner’s daughter, the deeply tanned and delectably toned thirteen-year-old Rachel Duncan. “Oh my,” Sandy whispered to himself, wondering what might have been if his mother had let him live with Pop year-round.
“What if Sarah reneges?” It was the third time Colton had mentioned the agreement. Although Stella Hickman Brown had left everything in equal shares to Sandy and Sarah, the two had supposedly reached an agreement whereby Sandy would own the Busse Woods home outright, with Sarah receiving an extra $150,000 from Pop’s cash assets for her half of the real estate.
“Again, she lives in Phoenix and has no need or desire for sticks and stones in Elk Grove Village. Oh shit, turn left, right here. Beisner Road.”
“What about the contents? You said Pop had a lot of antiques, and several expensive paintings.”
“Get off of it, will you? It’s all in the agreement. That’s where the extra $50,000 comes in.” Sandy pointed ahead. “Slow down. Right on Winston.”
The idea had been Sandy’s. After he and Colton met at Mitchell’s Tap, they’d sat in his truck and brainstormed the safest place to set up what Sandy called “base-camp.” After listing a few not-so-desirable spots—including an abandoned warehouse close to Lincoln Park Zoo owned by Colton’s immediate supervisor at work—Sandy had suggested Pop’s house. The only negative being it was ninety minutes from either one of their houses. Colton had reluctantly agreed but was worried that cops or bounty hunters could discover the link in Sandy’s ancestral chain.
“Left on Ruskin Drive. About a block.” Pop’s place was the thirteenth house on the left, and backed up to the 3,500-acre nature preserve. Sandy’s mind returned to Rachel Duncan and the summer night they’d hiked to Busse Lake and gone skinny-dipping. Where had his life gone so horribly wrong? Such promise, including an all-expense college education compliments of Pop. But such disappointment? Beginning in the eleventh grade in Chicago. Drugs and stealing had led to juvenile detention and eventually to dropping out of high school. “Here it is, 622 Ruskin Drive.” The last account Sandy had of Rachel was she was married to a Dallas, Texas gynecologist. “Fitting,” he said aloud.
“Uh?” Colton pulled into the paved driveway already half-covered with snow. “What’s fitting?” He pointed the Ram toward a detached garage, then backed into the carport’s unoccupied spot beside Pop’s twenty-year-old Buick.
Sandy didn’t respond but jumped out and headed to his grandfather’s car. He hoped, at worst, all it would need was a battery charge. A thrill of confidence flooded his mind. Finally, Colton let him have a say. First, Pop’s place as base camp, then his well-maintained car as transportation to and from Chicago. As usual, the key was under the floor mat. Thankfully, it started right off.
“Somebody’s either living here or routinely coming. Otherwise, the battery would die.” Colton said, standing between the Ram and Pop’s Buick, worrying about the house’s heat, given the bitter cold weather forecast.
Sandy stared at the dash, his face red as a male cardinal. He thought of Mildred Simmons next door. “Shit.”
Chapter 7
Pop’s place was a small two-bedroom one-story clapboard-sided house built in the fifties on a one-acre wooded lot. At the rear was an attached two-car carport. Sixty feet to the northwest stood a single-car detached garage, currently locked, with an attached shed used by Mildred Simmons to protect her riding and push mowers, and an assortment of lawn-maintenance tools, including weed-eaters, blowers, edgers, and seed-spreaders. Pop’s house, as well as Mildred’s and the other ten houses on this side of Ruskin, faced south and were surrounded on the north and east by the 3,500-acre Busse Woods Natural Preserve, itself encircled by a paved biking trail that meandered parallel to the homes’ rear boundary lines.
The inside of Pop’s house didn’t look like it had changed since construction nearly three-quarters of a century ago. The floors in the utility room, kitchen, and both baths were linoleum. The other rooms—a large den, a small study, and two bedrooms—had low-pile shag carpeting, either yellow or green. The latter reminded Colton of guacamole, without the onions.
“Your Pop lived rather sparsely.” Colton had noticed several bare walls in the bedrooms and the absence of any type of desk in the study.
Sandy looked inside the refrigerator, then opened every cabinet door, top and bottom, and each of the drawers. “At least she didn’t take the pots, pans, utensils, and a pound of coffee.”
“Your sister? But she took the antiques and paintings you mentioned.” That explained the house’s empty feel.
“About two weeks ago. Sarah hired a moving company. She flew here and supervised the loading and flew back to Phoenix without even a phone call.” Sandy said, leaning against the kitchen sink.
Colton returned to the den but still within Sandy’s earshot. It was odd that an American Gothic hung on each of the den’s four walls. No doubt reproductions, since the original 1930s painting is in the Art Institute of Chicago’s collection. Apparently, Pop liked the now dead but still famous painter Grant Wood, who favored scenes of rural people and Iowa cornfields. American Gothic portrays a farmer and his daughter standing in front of an Eldon, Iowa house. The farmer is holding the handle of a three-speared pitchfork while his daughter is staring at someone or something to her left. Colton would never have known these details if it weren’t for a visit with Molly and Millie to the museum shortly after they started dating. It was something to do with a school research project. That too was odd, since at the time Molly was only in the fourth grade. “I guess Sarah didn’t like reproductions.”
Without responding, Sandy removed a notepad from a kitchen drawer along with a pencil and started writing a grocery list. “Coffee, creamer, sweetener, beer. Do you like pot pies?”
“Only if I’m starving. Let’s unload the truck, make a pot of coffee, and keep brainstorming our strategy. We’ve got lots to think about.”
They walked through the combination laundry and utility room onto the carport. Colton made two trips, bringing in two duffle bags, a metal lockbox filled with a cache of pistols, and a briefcase stuffed with bank statements and a spiral notebook Millie used to capture names and addresses of plumbers, heating & air repairmen, carpenters, electricians, and anyone else she believed might be needed in the future. Sandy made one trip with a suitcase and a smaller duffle.
“Where’s the key to the garage?” Colton asked after depositing his things inside Pop’s bedroom. Naturally, Sandy had chosen the one he occupied in the summers while growing up since Sarah rarely visited.
“Pantry. You best be glad Pop was organized and a creature of habit. Or we’d be looking for a hacksaw or bolt cutters to open the lock.” Sandy opened the narrow door beside the refrigerator and grabbed the labeled key from a small pegboard filled with an assortment of keys and screwdrivers.
Since Colton made the decision he and Sandy had to disappear, he’d wondered what to do with the Ram. He knew they couldn’t use it in Chicago. At first, he’d thought about going out of town and trading it for something else. But that seemed to swap one problem for another, given the near-certainty investigators would check the Department of Motor Vehicles database. Ultimately, he’d gone with Sandy’s suggestion they use Pop’s Buick.
Colton sat in the Ram and turned up the heat. The weather was deteriorating. Snow was thickening. The temperature was falling. He eased the truck forward as Sandy crunched through two inches of the white stuff.
The key worked flawlessly. Sandy removed the Master lock and raised the over-sized garage door. He couldn’t believe what he saw parked inside. Colton put the Ram in park and exited. “What the hell?”
The dark blue Mercedes Sprinter van looked brand new. “Damn, Pop lost his mind. He hated traveling. Was an absolute homebody.”
“These things don’t come cheap.” Colton added, walking to a locked driver’s side door. “Run grab the keys.” If Pop was so organized, the key would be on the pegboard. Yet, the key to the Buick was under the floor mat.
“Something’s wrong.” Sandy said, walking to the passenger side, checking the locked door, and peering inside the cab. “I’d bet this isn’t Pop’s. For two reasons. One, he wouldn’t dare spend this kind of money, and two, he’d never have a Branson, Missouri brochure.”
“Uh?”
“On the seat.” Sandy pointed as Colton joined him and stared at the colorful front page advertising Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede Dinner Attraction.
The sound of an approaching vehicle from Ruskin Avenue caught their attention. At first, given the near-blinding snow, all they could see were two headlights. But then, a 1990’s Impala appeared and parked behind Colton’s Ram.
“Shit, that’s Mildred Simmons.” Sandy said, recognizing the car Pop’s favorite neighbor had purchased new when he was ten.
Without exiting the Impala, and while leaning her red-haired head out a lowered window, the ancient woman with more wrinkles than an African bush elephant, half-screamed, “I’ve called the police. You’re not going to steal my van.”
“Well, that explains it. Just the hell we need.” Thought Colton, remaining in front of the Sprinter.
“Rusty, it’s Sandy, Pop’s grandson. We’re not stealing anything.”
It took three attempts to convince her, including the inspection of Sandy’s driver’s license, and the correct name for the Pekingese Mildred owned fifteen years ago. After some deliberation Sandy said, “Scarlett.” No doubt, she too was a redhead.
“Oh my goodness.” Mildred said as she made a smooth exit from the Impala. “I’m so sorry about Pop, and for not making the funeral.” Pop’s death had been sudden, six months ago by heart attack. Sandy reminisced over bygone days with him, silently regretting his near failure to visit his grandfather during the last ten years of his life.
Fortunately, shortly after two Elk Grove police officers arrived, they departed with repeated assurances from Mildred she’d made a mistake in calling 911. The deciding assurance was her detailed narrative of the van purchase a year ago and Pop’s insistence she park it inside his detached garage.
After Mildred returned home, Sandy lowered the garage’s overhead door while Colton backed the RAM once again inside the carport.
Shivering, both men returned to the kitchen for more coffee. “Rusty is going to be a problem.” Sandy said as they stood backed to a five-grate gas heater just inside the den.
Chapter 8
When the bus driver shut down the engine, Millie tapped Molly on the hand. “Wake up. Breakfast time.” The kid could sleep through a tornado.
Molly, startled, inclined her seat, removed her ear buds, and shook her curly copper hair out of her eyes. “I’m starving,” she said, looking at her mother.
“Sally Ann’s your best option.” The anorexic-looking girl across the aisle was standing and politely waiting for Molly and Millie.
“Say again,” Millie said, smiling at the young girl who looked like she hadn’t eaten in years. Despite her rail-thin figure, there was something magnetic about her—an intensity in her green eyes, an elegance in her movements. Danger radar pinged at the back of Millie’s mind. Anyone who showed interest in them could be a threat.
Molly glanced at her mom, carefully slid the secret iPhone from Alisha out from under her jacket where she’d been charging it and stuffed it into her book bag. “It’s a restaurant.” Molly whispered to her mother.
The girl motioned for Millie and Molly to go first. “The reviews advise staying away from The Pitts. That’s the fast-food joint inside the bus station.”
The three exited the bus and walked inside the rear double-doors of the terminal. The lobby was large, much bigger than Toledo’s, and, so far, much cleaner. The gray and black floors looked like they’d just been waxed. “How far away is Sally’s?” Millie asked, not that hungry but knew Molly was, as always.
“It’s just two blocks north on 11th street. I’m going. Join me if you like. My treat. By the way, I’m Tracey.” This confused Millie. Anorexics are opposed to eating. And why would this skinny, yet attractive girl who neither she nor Molly knew, offer to buy their breakfast?
“I’m Molly. This is Millie, my mom.” Molly grabbed her mother’s hand and squeezed, knowing she needed to take charge as Millie battled the fog of depression that had descended after her manic energy crashed. “Sounds good to me.” Molly said, shifting her book bag to her other shoulder.
Tracey led the way across the lobby, out the main entrance, and onto 11th street. Nothing much was said during their five-minute walk. Millie was too busy scanning the passing faces, looking for anyone who might be following them or showing undue interest. Her paranoia felt justified; Colton had friends everywhere.
The restaurant was small and crowded. Six booths and an eight-stool counter. Not an available seat anywhere. For a minute, the three stood inside the front door, staring at the menu on the back wall taped to the metal hood above the griddle, and pondering whether to leave or wait. “Take ours.” An older man said from two booths away. “Come on Ethel, time to let these nice folks have our table.” The woman, probably his wife, looked like Millie felt: alone, sad, helpless. “You’re lucky. The food’s great. Come here every day.” It took another minute or two for the man to coax his wife from her seat, slip on a wide red scarf, and lead her outside. Millie couldn’t help but think how lucky the two seniors were, to have each other, hopefully after a long, satisfying life together.
“Where are you headed?” Molly broke the silence after the waitress filled their water glasses and took their orders. Millie removed the burner phone from her purse and laboriously began typing on the numeric keypad, pressing each button multiple times to form letters. She’d promised Matt a daily update, but the basic phone made texting tedious. She’d have to keep it brief: “Day 2. On the bus to NYC. All OK. Will call when safe.”
“The Big Apple.” Tracey said, pouring half a Splenda into her water glass, then two shakes of salt. “New York City,” she added to clarify, but you probably know that already.” She stirred and used a spoon to test her concoction.
Millie’s hand froze above her phone. New York. Their destination. Coincidence? She studied Tracey more carefully now, looking for any sign this was a setup.
“What do you do there?” Molly was uninhibited.
“I teach meditation, also known as mindfulness.” Oh my, Millie thought about the Moonies along Canal Street she’d see every Thursday afternoon during her walk to her psychiatrist.
“Sounds like woo-woo to me.” Molly had no filter. Millie eyed her daughter, shaking her head sideways.
Carrie Borders was a Moonie, and she was a paralegal at Winston and Strawn. She occupied a cubicle in Millie’s quadrant, and like her, reported to law partner Kimbal Deitrich.
Tracey chewed slowly as though garnering time to frame her response. “I teach Zen. It’s nothing to do with the metaphysical. Simply put, it’s an exploration into the nature of the mind, a tool to open completely to our lives.”
Millie wasn’t especially spiritual but for the last year had attended a small church in their neighborhood. The unspoken reason was to create more time on weekends away from Colton. She ate a bite of her bran muffin and recalled Fridays at Winston and Strawn.
Once per week, if their schedule allowed, the paralegal staff was allowed to dress casual. Carrie would always wear a T-shirt that read, “I’m a Moonie and I love it”. Millie had tried to avoid Carrie as much as possible but sometimes she’d be stuck with her in a conference room indexing depositions. There, Millie learned a near-complete history of the Unification Church. Its founder, Sun Myung Moon, was allegedly a Messiah, second only to Jesus, wholly sinless. Moon’s purpose, as was all his followers, was to replace Christianity with his mission which was, in essence, to unite all humans into one family under God bringing peace throughout the earth. Woo-woo for sure, Millie had always concluded.
Molly ordered a refill of orange juice and continued peppering Tracey. “Where have you been? Did your car break down?”
Tracey pushed back her oatmeal bowl and forked a slice of pineapple. “I love your inquisitive daughter.” Her eyes met Millie’s and lingered a long while. “Two or three times per year I go on retreat. I always travel by Greyhound. For me, it keeps me rooted in life, real people, and real dependency. But mainly, I’m selfish. Riding the bus creates a lot of time to meditate without having to worry about driving.”
Molly interrupted Tracey. “Where was your retreat? This time?”
The waitress delivered their ticket and waited. Tracey removed a card from her pants pocket and handed it to the voluptuous redhead. “Ottawa, Illinois, One River Zen. The center is a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian built in 1890, situated on the scenic banks of the Illinois River.”
Something about Tracey’s practiced responses made Millie uneasy. The precision of her answers. The ready business card. The careful word choice. Was this a coincidence or something more calculated?
“How long are retreats?”
“They vary. At One River they’re either a weekend or a week. Mine was the latter.” Tracey ate two bites of cantaloupe and swallowed some water.
“Does meditation cause you to be so skinny?” Again, absolutely no filter.
“Molly, that’s too personal, borderline offensive.” Millie hoped her daughter would grow out of this.
“Oh, I love it.” Tracey replied. “So natural. She’s got a bright future.”
Millie activated her cell. “We best be going. It’s almost 5:45. We don’t want to miss our ride.”
The food had been better than great. Even Millie bragged on the eggs, although she’d only taken a bite from Molly’s plate, who had wolfed down a southwestern omelet and a side order of bacon. Tracey’s appetite was equally as strong as Molly’s although she chose oatmeal, fruit, and unbuttered toast. Millie was surprised she ate anything at all.
As they walked back to the bus station, Millie hung back slightly, watching Tracey interact with Molly. The woman seemed genuinely interested in her daughter, asking about her favorite books and what she liked to write. But Millie’s protective instincts were on high alert. In their situation, trust was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
And Tracey was headed to New York. Just like them.
Chapter 9
Colton awakened to the sound of an unfamiliar furnace kicking on. The muted rumble in Pop’s ancient house was nothing like the high-pitched whine of the unit back at the duplex on S. Princeton. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and why.
His head pounded. Too much beer. Last night, after their run-in with Mildred and settling into Pop’s house, he’d downed most of a six-pack while Sandy snored in the next room. The realization that he was now effectively a fugitive with a court date looming had driven him to drink more than planned.
A sharp, stabbing pain exploded in his right temple as he sat up. Coffee. He needed coffee.
The old-fashioned percolator was already bubbling when he reached the kitchen. Sandy sat at the table in thermal underwear and a flannel shirt, pencil in hand, making what looked like a grocery list.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Sandy muttered without looking up. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
Colton grunted in response, lowering himself carefully into a wooden chair. The hangover was brutal, but he couldn’t afford to be sidelined. Not now. Not with Millie and the little bitch somewhere out there, his future in their hands.
On his second cup, Colton finally started to focus. He knew a plan was imperative if he ever wanted to find Millie. He couldn’t just hide out at Pop’s, wait for Monday’s hearing, and hope for the best. There was no doubt, he had to act quickly and decisively, otherwise his life was over, and he’d spend his remaining days behind bars.
“Got a pen?” Colton asked. Sandy slid an old ballpoint across the table. Colton flipped over Sandy’s grocery list and began writing.
The first name he wrote was Matt Quinn. He was Millie’s number one cheerleader. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure this out. Since Colton moved in two years ago, Millie had received at least four raises and two promotions, all while her work hours had stayed the same. For the last six months, she’d worked less.
Colton grinned as he thought about his foresight and wisdom in hiring private eye Butch King to tail Millie after work each day. Although it had taken Butch a few weeks to spot the Thursday pattern, he eventually learned Millie exited Grant Thornton Tower at 2:30 every Thursday and walked four blocks to the Clarity Clinic. With some clever subterfuge, Butch had discovered Kiran Maharaja was Millie’s psychiatrist.
“What are you doing?” Sandy asked, leaning over to see the page.
“Making a list of people who might know where she went.” Colton tapped the pen against Matt’s name. “This guy, her boss – he knows something. He’s been sniffing around her for years.”
Sandy nodded. “Who else?”
Kiran Maharaja was the next name Colton added to his list. “Her shrink. She’s been seeing this quack every Thursday for months. It seemed like the kind of thing a mentally ill person might share with her psychiatrist, you know? ‘I’m planning to run away from my boyfriend.'”
Colton drew a circle in the lower half of the page. “Who else is inside Millie’s circle?” He paused, cocking his head as though an invisible hand was prodding him in a new direction. “Molly also has a circle, and the two don’t perfectly overlap.”
Sandy sipped his coffee, watching Colton’s process with obvious unease. The concern in his eyes suggested he was wondering if bringing Colton to Pop’s place had been a mistake.
Colton again picked up the pen and started writing, this time at the bottom of the page. Work, church, school, friends. He paused and thought. “Millie’s best friend at work, other than Matt, is Catherine.” He added her name to the list.
“What about the kid?” Sandy asked.
“Molly? That’s easy, she has only one real friend. Alisha, Alisha Maynard. Lives in the Auburn Gresham area.” Colton remembered driving Molly there for a sleepover about a year ago. He could see the street and their house in his mind’s eye. He added Alisha’s name to the list.
Colton had just written Harvard Elementary School and was trying to remember Molly’s favorite teacher’s name when he heard his cell phone vibrating on the counter where he’d left it charging. Both men froze. “Millie,” Colton said out loud, knowing there was no way in hell she was calling, but hoping all the same.
Chapter 10
Colton stood, walked into the den and stared at his phone’s screen. It was his attorney, Cliff Blackwell. “What now?” He pressed Accept and suppressed his dissatisfaction with the attorney who’d come highly recommended. “You’re up early for a Saturday.”
“It’s my golf day and I’m about at the first hole so I’ll be quick.” Colton visualized Cliff driving his cart and could hear someone beside him talking, probably also on a cell phone. “Hey, tried calling you several times last night.”
“Sorry. I was, well, out of range. Plus, my phone died.” He lowered his voice and moved away from the kitchen where Sandy was refilling his coffee cup.
“Bad news about Monday’s hearing. Judge Rhodes got assigned to your case.”
Colton swore under his breath. This was exactly what they’d feared when they heard about the bond review hearing and decided to hide at Pop’s place. “Rhodes? The hanging judge? What happened to the possibility of getting Alvarez?”
“Court clerk says Rhodes specifically requested your case. Word is, the DA’s been in his ear.”
“Shit man. So, we’re looking at revocation?” Sweat popped out on Colton’s forehead. They’d been lucky to make bail at all, given the charges. His family home as collateral and Sandy’s mother’s life insurance payout had barely covered the $250,000 bond. Judge Stewart had been surprisingly lenient, citing their ties to the community and lack of physical evidence. But Stewart is gone now.
“It’s worse than that. Rhodes has been looking at the case file. He’s questioning why Stewart set bail at all for charges this serious. His clerk told my paralegal he’s ‘deeply concerned about public safety.'”
Colton walked out onto the back porch, ignoring the bitter cold. The snow-covered nature preserve stretched out before him, but he saw none of its beauty. “Can’t you do something? File some kind of motion? Appeal to someone higher up?” Four months ago, the DA had pulled this same stunt, filed a motion to revoke bail, and Judge Stewart refused to even set a hearing.
“Listen, I got to go. Just be warned, if you show up Monday, I’m ninety percent certain you’re leaving in handcuffs. The only shot we have is if something dramatic changes before then. Have a good weekend.” The call ended.
“Have a good weekend, my ass. That’s fucking easy for him to say.” Colton stormed back inside, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the American Gothic reproductions. Sandy looked up from his coffee, eyebrows raised in question.
“Rhodes. We drew fucking Rhodes for Monday.”
Sandy’s face drained of color. “My guy just texted. Same news.” He held up his phone. “Said it’s a ‘foregone conclusion’ they’ll revoke bail.”
“This confirms it. Coming here was the right move,” Colton said. “But it’s not enough. We need to find Millie fast.”
Sandy slumped in his chair. “Maybe we should just run. Really run. Not this hiding-at-Pop’s-place shit.”
“With what money? Your inheritance isn’t settled. We’ve got maybe two thousand in cash between us. We wouldn’t make it to the border.”
“So, what then? Turn ourselves in on Monday and hope for the best?”
Colton returned to the kitchen table and tapped the list he’d been working on. “No. We work these leads. Fast. We find Millie before Monday.”
“And if we find her? Then what? She left you, man. She’s not going to suddenly agree to be your alibi.”
A cruel smile spread across Colton’s face. “That’s where you’re wrong. Millie will do anything for Molly. Anything. If we have Molly, we have Millie.”
The implication hung in the air between them. Sandy shifted uncomfortably. “Jesus, Colton. We’re already looking at serious time. Kidnapping a kid—”
“It’s not kidnapping if it’s my girlfriend’s daughter who’s been living with me for two years. It’s a… family dispute. A custody disagreement.”
“I don’t know, man… We barely got bail the first time around. My mother’s life insurance and your family house on the line. Another charge and we’re done.”
“You want to go to prison for twenty-five years? Shit, we’ll probably get life. Because that’s what we’re facing if Gina testifies, and we don’t have an alibi.”
Sandy slumped in his chair, defeated. “So, what’s the plan?”
Colton picked up his list. “We start with her friends. Catherine at work. She might know something.”
“How do we find Catherine on a Saturday?”
“Social media. Phone records. I’ve got access to our cell account online. If Millie called her recently, we’ll know.”
“And how do we get to Chicago and back without being seen? Your truck is pretty recognizable.”
Colton looked out the window at Pop’s old Buick in the carport. “We use that. Nobody’s looking for it. And we only go into the city when we need to. First, we work the phones. Do some digging online.”
“What about that Quinn guy? Her boss? You said he’s sweet on her.”
“Matt Quinn is on the list. But he’ll be harder to crack. We save him for last, when we’re desperate.”
“We’re already desperate,” Sandy muttered.
Colton’s phone vibrated again – a text message this time. He looked at the screen and his face darkened. “It’s Catherine. Responding to my message from last night.”
Sandy looked up, surprised. “You contacted her already?”
“Of course. While you were asleep. I asked if she knew where Millie was.”
“And?”
Colton’s expression hardened as he read the message. “She claims she doesn’t know anything. Says Millie didn’t tell her where she was going.”
“You believe her?”
“No. She knows something.” Colton began typing a response. “And she’s going to tell us. One way or another.”
The Pencil-Driven Life 