Chapter Two
Present Day
They say old habits die hard. Which was why I was currently biting my thumbnail and trying to talk myself out of grabbing the twenty-ounce bottle of Cherry Coke from behind the refrigerator glass.
Soda was bad for me.
I believed that.
I told myself that every day.
And yet here I was, in a Mexican standoff with the gas station cooler. “No, Caroline. You don’t need it.” Talking to myself was another bad habit I couldn’t seem to break. At least mumbling under my breath didn’t lead to cavities, cellulite or cancer.
“One Coke isn’t going to give you cancer,” I whispered argumentatively. I opened the cooler door and reached inside, my fingers brushed over the smooth plastic of the beverage I wanted so badly. It had been a rough day. I was tired and bone-deep exhausted. Two separate symptoms that should go hand in hand but had totally different origins.
One came from a fitful night’s sleep. The other from a lifetime of waking hours that never seemed to go like they should.
Slamming the cooler door, I ripped open the next one and grabbed a Vitamin Water instead. Coke probably wasn’t going to give me cancer, but it was for sure going to give me cellulite and my ass did not need any help in that department.
Making my way to the checkout counter, I glanced around the small space, noticing the cameras behind the clerk’s head that showed squares of the store, the gas pumps and all the various people in both spots.
I got in line behind a middle-aged woman with a coffee in one hand and her cellphone in the other and a kid trying to pay for his gas in change and ripped dollar bills. Both of them were so self-absorbed with their purchases that neither of them noticed me step in line behind them.
Not that I wanted them to. But how people stood in line said a lot about what kind of people they were. For instance, the teenager at the counter needed to stop spending all his money on weed and take a shower. He was also $2.47 short if he wanted to put an even twenty dollars of gas in his tank.
And the woman in front of me had two kids, or at least two kids she was willing to brag about on Instagram, a cheating husband, and eczema. She also had a six hundred dollar fall collection Marc Jacobs purse hanging over her shoulder. She had no idea how easy it would be for someone to brush by her on their way out the door and snatch the wallet half hanging out of her flashy handbag.
Not that I would do that.
Not anymore at least.
But like I said, old habits die hard.
To be honest though, these days I’d rather have her purse than her identity.
But not the cheating husband. From the text messages I read over her shoulder to her friend Sherry, he was a real piece of work.
Weren’t they all?
When it was my turn, I placed my Vitamin Water, the small bag of pistachios I’d grabbed last minute, the big pack of Swedish Fish and white cheddar popcorn on the counter. “Thirty dollars on pump six too,” I told the clerk.
He started to ring me up while I kept my eyes glued to the security monitors. Lucky for me, they even clearly displayed myself and the people behind me.
Old instinct burned through me and I fought the urge to duck my head and hide my face. Innocent people didn’t have a reason to hide. The normal, everyday American woman walked around with a smile on her face, totally oblivious to how many times she’d been caught on camera. She didn’t snarl at Big Brother. She blissfully went about her day unaware of all the different ways her life was recorded.
That was me now. Blissfully unaware.
Or maybe willfully ignorant was a better way to describe it.
“Credit or debit?” the kid behind the cash register asked.
I swallowed down the constant anxiety that followed me everywhere. “Credit.”
Pulling out the card from my less expensive but better-secured wallet than the lady before me, I read the raised words, Caroline Baker, with the same kind of accusatory disbelief I always did.
The machine processed the card and blinked that my purchase was approved in understated victory. A gentle breath of relief puffed out of me.
I had a good job and a steady paycheck, but I would never be able to stop the anxiety that came alongside every purchase.
Would this be the moment the card stopped working?
Would this be the moment I realized my account had been cleaned out?
Would this be the moment they found me? The moment they ripped my safe haven away and dragged me back to hell?
When I’d come face to face with the past I’d worked so hard to escape?
“Do you want a receipt?” the clerk asked.
I nodded. “Yes, please.” Proof that my card worked. Proof that I was still free.
Outside, the cool evening wrapped around my body, cocooning me in fall and campfire scents and crisp mountain air. I smiled at the burnished sun dipping behind the peaks of bare mountain tops. It was Friday night. Finally.
I couldn’t wait to get home, strip out of these work clothes and curl up on the couch for the rest of the night.
Did that make me old? Was twenty-five old?
No, I suppose not. But for me, Friday night movie nights were the highlight of my week. My days of clubbing and partying and living wild were so over. Welcome consistency and dependability and normalcy. I was having the time of my life getting to know them.
I reached my black Murano with the plastic sack of goodies swinging at my side. With my thumb on the keyless entry, I was just about to open my door when a white paper tucked into the window seam caught my eye. It was only a small square, but it had been purposely placed on the driver’s side so I would see it.
My mouth dried out immediately and I resisted the urge to glance around. What would a normal person in America do? What was the protocol for a flyer tucked in your window?
“Read it,” I whispered in answer.
Threading my hand through the plastic sack handles, I plucked the paper from the window and read it. It was an advertisement for the new hotel up the mountain. The Lodge at Blackburn advertised a hot tub on every patio and private condos with spectacular views, typical accommodations for this part of Colorado. I already knew all about the resort. My roommate was a manager over there.
My heartbeat picked up, thumping quickly in my chest, racing to outrun the adrenaline rushing in my blood. Clutching the paper in my icy fingers, I told myself not to panic. It was a coincidence—probably. That was all.
My wonky heart didn’t listen.
I tucked the flyer into my purse and nonchalantly pumped my gas. Then I calmly climbed into the driver’s seat and started the SUV. Letting it warm up for a minute, I finally let myself examine the black Mercedes across the street. Was the person in the car waiting for me to turn my car on? Was someone watching me?
I dropped my forehead on the steering wheel and tried to talk myself into a rational response to my questions. I just wanted to go home, throw on yoga pants and remind myself that black Mercedes didn’t follow me anymore. Only I didn’t drive directly home.
Instead, I wound around and around the small tourist town of Frisco, Colorado until I couldn’t stall any longer, until I knew they would be worried if I didn’t check in at home. It took everything in me to head that direction, to not just drive all night. Away from this city, and this state and the hateful flyer that sat inconspicuously in my purse.
The Lodge at Blackburn.
The Lodge held no meaning for me other than that was where Francesca worked. It was just another pricy resort to pull in tourists. But then there was the handwriting in the corner, the penciled chicken scratch that whispered something more sinister.
I didn’t recognize the writing nor did I know what it meant. Or if it was even meant for me. But I did know that I didn’t like it.
Where is he? was all the note said.
That could have been a message for anyone, meant for anyone. It wasn’t necessarily targeted at me.
By the time I finally let myself go home, I had worked out most of the instinct to flee—although not all of it.
Panic was a healthy emotion for me. I could never let my guard drop. I could never get comfortable here no matter how much I loved this town nestled in a picturesque valley, surrounded by the towering Rocky Mountains on every side. I could never let myself feel safe enough or removed enough or complacent enough.
I had too much to worry about. Too much at stake.
And because of that, it meant I couldn’t just drop everything and run. I was caught in the game of impossible balance between fleeing the life I used to have and carving out a new one. I didn’t have the resources I used to. I didn’t have the flexibility.
By the time I turned down my street, I had convinced myself the message wasn’t meant for me. I thought back to that gas station parking lot and remembered white flyers on every car door. It was an accident.
It was a mistake.
And the reason I knew that was because if that message had truly been meant for me, I would already be dead.