Would this be the moment the card stopped working?
Would this be the moment I realized my account hadbeen cleaned out?
Would this be the moment they found me? The moment theyripped my safe haven away and dragged me back to hell?
When I’d come face to face with the past I’d worked sohard 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 atthe burnished sun dipping behind the peaks of bare mountain tops. It was Fridaynight. Finally.
I couldn’t wait to get home, strip out of these workclothes 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 movienights were the highlight of my week. My days of clubbing and partying andliving wild were so over. Welcome consistency and dependability and normalcy. Iwas having the time of my life getting to know them.
I reached my black Murano with the plastic sack ofgoodies swinging at my side. With my thumb on the keyless entry, I was justabout to open my door when a white paper tucked into the window seam caught myeye. It was only a small square, but it had been purposely placed on thedriver’s side so I would see it.
My mouth dried out immediately and I resisted the urgeto glance around. What would a normal person in America do? What was theprotocol for a flyer tucked in your window?
“Read it,” I whispered in answer.
Threading my hand through the plastic sack handles, Iplucked the paper from the window and read it. It was an advertisement for thenew hotel up the mountain. The Lodge at Blackburn advertised a hot tub on everypatio and private condos with spectacular views, typical accommodations forthis part of Colorado. I already knew all about the resort. My roommate was amanager over there.
My heartbeat picked up, thumping quickly in my chest,racing to outrun the adrenaline rushing in my blood. Clutching the paper in myicy fingers, I told myself not to panic. It was a coincidence—probably. Thatwas all.
My wonky heart didn’t listen.
I tucked the flyer into my purse and nonchalantly pumpedmy gas. Then I calmly climbed into the driver’s seat and started the SUV. Lettingit warm up for a minute, I finally let myself examine the black Mercedes acrossthe street. Was the person in the car waiting for me to turn my car on? Was someonewatching me?
I dropped my forehead on the steering wheel and triedto talk myself into a rational response to my questions. I just wanted to gohome, throw on yoga pants and remind myself that black Mercedes didn’t followme anymore. Only I didn’t drive directly home.
Instead, I wound around and around the small touristtown of Frisco, Colorado until I couldn’t stall any longer, until I knew theywould be worried if I didn’t check in at home. It took everything in me to headthat direction, to not just drive all night. Away from this city, and thisstate and the hateful flyer that sat inconspicuously in my purse.
The Lodge at Blackburn.
The Lodge held no meaning for me other than that waswhere Francesca worked. It was just another pricy resort to pull in tourists. Butthen there was the handwriting in the corner, the penciled chicken scratch thatwhispered something more sinister.
I didn’t recognize the writing nor did I know what itmeant. Or if it was even meant for me. But I did know that I didn’t like it.
Where is he?wasall the notesaid.
That could have been a message for anyone, meant foranyone. It wasn’t necessarily targeted at me.
By the time I finally let myself go home, I had workedout most of the instinct to flee—although not all of it.
Panic was a healthy emotion for me. I could never letmy guard drop. I could never get comfortable here no matter how much I lovedthis town nestled in a picturesque valley, surrounded by the towering RockyMountains on every side. I could never let myself feel safe enough or removedenough or complacent enough.
I had too much to worry about. Too much at stake.
And because of that, it meant I couldn’t just dropeverything and run. I was caught in the game of impossible balance betweenfleeing the life I used to have and carving out a new one. I didn’t have theresources I used to. I didn’t have the flexibility.
By the time I turned down my street, I had convincedmyself the message wasn’t meant for me. I thought back to that gas stationparking lot and remembered white flyers on every car door. It was an accident.
It was a mistake.
