My head is a mess. When the man you love calls you by another woman’s name. That shit hurts. When it’s the name of his first love, it fucking hurts worse. Was he just with me to try and save me when he couldn’t save her? I can’t help but think that’s the case. It doesn’t matter in the big picture, because I know Michael is behind the shooting, and once that happened, it was all too clear that I couldn’t stay. Zander could have died trying to protect me, and Nicole and Carrie are both pregnant with their whole lives ahead of them. I can’t stay, and more than that, Zander needs to find a woman to love that he doesn’t have to save. He deserves it.

I caught Bull in the bathroom. I know what he does in there. I don’t think the others have caught on yet, but I’ve done it for a long ass time. He’s taking away the pain with pills. I hope he finds his way out of the hole. It’s a fucking dark place to be, and the urge never goes away. Like right now, I’m sitting in an old ratty-ass motel room on the Kentucky and Missouri border, trying to keep my head straight and figure out what the hell my next move is, when all I really want to do is self-medicate, and get lost in a bottle.

I should probably take the meds the doctor prescribed, but right now I’m afraid to. I can’t afford not to be alert. I want to call Nic or Ray, but I can’t, at least, not yet. I need to be far away before I even attempt it. I would love to call Zander. Just so I can hear his voice, even though I know I shouldn’t.

I decide I should at least get some food. It would be smarter to run through a drive through, but I think if I sit alone in this hotel room that the urge to call Zander will win, either that, or I’ll start drinking. So, I leave and search out an all-night diner. I find one just over the Missouri state line. It’s deserted except for a waitress and a cook, but it looks clean, and I haven’t had anything to eat today, so I go for it.

“What’ll it be?” The waitress asks. She’s actually wearing a pink uniform like something off of an old TV show, her tired red hair is pulled up on top of her head, and she has on a dark red apron. She’s holding an ordering pad, but no menu. I guess she figures I don’t need one.

“Coffee, and can I get a toasted turkey sandwich? On wheat?” I ask, because without a menu, I’m kind of flying in the dark here. It must have been okay because she nods and goes back into the kitchen. I look around for a bathroom and decide to go freshen up.

I look in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s worn, tired…she looks so damned tired. I get lost in the reflection trying to remember what I looked like before Michael came into my life. I find that I can’t remember, and that makes me want to cry. Would Zander have liked Melinda? The Melinda I was before Michael had me in his sights, obviously. Or would he not have been attracted to me at all then, because I didn’t need fixing? Why I’m even worried about it, escapes me. Whatever the answer, it doesn’t change the outcome.

When I make it back to my table, the diner is empty and pretty damn quiet. I guess they decided to take a break since it was deserted? Having worked as a waitress before, I can understand that. My sandwich and coffee are sitting at the bar and the smell makes my stomach growl in hunger. It looks good, or it’s just the fact that I’m starved, but I dig in. As good as the sandwich is, the same can’t be said for the coffee, it’s bitter and has a nasty after taste, and it’s kind of what I’d imagine drinking cardboard is like. Still, I finish it off because I’m so tired and honestly, taste is an afterthought at this point. I just need something to help me stay awake.

“Hello, Melinda.”

My hands freeze on my food as I look up at Donald. Fuck.

“They let any kind of vermin in this place I guess,” I tell him, trying to figure out how to get the small pistol I have in a holster on the inside of my jacket. It seems so much easier in the movies.

“You would know, my dear. Let’s get up now, I have orders to bring you to your husband, and it’s getting late.”

“I’m not going back,” I tell him, turning to the side so he might not realize I’m trying to reach behind my back.

“Oh, but you are.”

“We’re not alone, I’ll scream and raise such a fit the others will call the cops in no time,” I tell him, ignoring the voice that says that cops are useless.

“That would be kind of hard, since the waitress and the cook are dead.”

“Fuck…,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.

“Perhaps later, now either you come quietly to my car, or I’ll pick you up and carry you out of here. Either way is good. The stuff I put in your coffee should already be making you sleepy. I do hope I didn’t put too much, it’s hard to judge really.”

As he talks, I already know he’s right, because the room is getting blurry, and I’m so tired. My arms feel like they are weighted down, they are so heavy. He’s going to get me. The thought terrifies me enough that I can fight it and get my hand on my gun. I make a quick decision to shoot him instead of me. My hands are shaking from fear and the weight of the weapon, but I pull it out and aim at his crotch. Honestly, I dream of shooting his and Michael’s dick off. I try to steady the gun and shoot, but I can’t seem to get my fingers to work, to squeeze the trigger. I scream out at myself as Donald grabs the gun. He wrestles it out of my hands and then slams the butt of it against my head. Blackness envelops me and all I can think is, I hope I don’t wake up this time.