Or he’s come to his senses, and he’ll keep to his side tonight. Having a hysterical crying fit while running through the woods for no particular reason isn’t really the way to tempt a gorgeous man into bed.
I hope not that. The pressure of his arms around me as I woke this morning fed my soul. I’m hungry. I might never get another opportunity to be so close to another human being. I want to feed again.
My cheeks burn with remembered details as I walk into the office. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”
I keep my head bowed, making it more difficult for the clerk to recognise me if they’ve seen any footage. Judging from the young woman’s dismissive glance, I doubt she’d care.
“Eighty for a double, one ten for a twin.”
“I’ll take the double thanks.” I carefully count out the money, handing it across with a frown of concern. There’s food in the car but we’ll need something more nutritious than a packet. I’m starving, an odd sensation for me. Usually, I don’t do enough to work up an appetite.
“Where’s the nearest takeaway?” I ask, filling a load of invented details onto the check-in card that I’ve hopefully committed to memory if someone asks.
“There’s a fish ‘n’ chips opposite,” she says, pointing. “They do fried chicken as well or there’s a Chinese next block over.”
“Thanks.” I push the ledger back towards her, hoping my anxiety doesn’t show. She gives it a cursory look, then reaches behind her for a key. “Trim or full fat?”
“Sorry?”
“Your milk. You get milk for tea or coffee with the room.”
“Right. Full fat, thanks.”
“We’ve also got a complimentary paper if you want one. It arrives around six.”
“Could I have one now?”
The girl stares at me like I’m a fully fledged idiot and she’s seen more than her fair share of those. “No,” she says slowly. “It comes in the morning.”
“Yeah, I—” I bite on my lip, dredging a smile out of nowhere. “I meant, could I have today’s paper now, and forget the one tomorrow morning?”
She jerks her chin at a table full of pamphlets behind me. “There’s one there.”
“Thanks.” I pick it up, checking the date as I tuck the keys into my pocket. The front page has my face emblazoned across it and I refold it, so it faces inward, then walk to the door.
“Oh, hey,” the girl calls out and I shove the door open, not wanting to be stopped. Not wanting to be caught.
“Hey,” she calls out louder and I turn, trying to keep my face in profile so it’s harder to recognise.
But she’s holding a small container towards me. “Your milk,” she says with a frown, and I lean back to snag it with a grateful smile. “Check out’s ten in the morning. If you leave before the office is open, just push your keys through the slot.”
“Thanks.”
This time, I get all the way out. Out into the fresh air where I drag in an enormous breath, then exhale with a chuckle. A life of crime isn’t something I’m designed for. Not if this is anything to go by.
The room is basic. A kettle, a small fridge, a selection of tea and coffee in a plastic tray. The carpet and bedcovers are worn, the walls a tired shade of pastel green that hasn’t been in fashion since the sixties and reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen hard enough that I can almost smell her Anzac biscuits.
I take fresh clothes from the car, washing my underwear and bra in the sink and hanging them over the heated towel rail to dry before I shower and change.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I comb the paper for all mention of us. The main article adds nothing new to what I’ve already heard on the radio. A jolt upon seeing my husband and son’s names in print, along with old photos, is the worst of it. The image they have of me is from my work ID badge. Hardly a good representation of what I currently look like since it’s four years old, my hair style now is quite different.
Good.
They’re looking for us, but they don’t seem to know much. Though that could equally be the police withholding information from the press, always keen to keep something up their sleeve to reveal later, like a magician’s sleight of hand.
I turn on the TV and hunt through the free-to-air channels, looking for the news. The article summarises what I’ve just read and I’m about to turn it off when the shot changes from the studio to my house.
More precisely, my back yard.
