Chapter 1 - Lily
The Welcome to Blackwater Falls sign looks like it hasn't been repainted since the eighties. Peeling white letters on faded green wood, barely visible in the dim glow of my headlights.
I ease my old Honda past it, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching back to adjust the blanket covering my sleeping daughter in her car seat.
"We made it, baby girl," I whisper, though Rosie doesn't stir.
Two years old and she can sleep through anything, a skill I'm endlessly grateful for considering we've spent the last six months bouncing from one shitty motel to another across three states.
The main street is exactly what I expected from a dying Montana town. A handful of businesses that look like they're holding on by sheer stubbornness, streetlights that flicker more than they shine, and not a single soul walking around at. I glance at the dashboard clock: nine thirty on a Friday night.
My stomach growls loud enough that I'm surprised it doesn't wake Rosie. We finished the last of our crackers and peanut butter around noon, and I've been running on fumes and desperation ever since. I need to find a motel, somewhere to buy food, and then figure out my next move.
I cruise slowly down Main Street, taking in the closed storefronts. A general store, dark. A hardware shop, locked up tight. Something that might be a clinic, lights off. Everything's fucking closed except—
My headlights catch a neon sign still glowing. Murphy's Grill.
The place looks like it should've been condemned years ago. Peeling paint, faded sign, the kind of establishment my mother would've clutched her pearls over and declared "unsuitable fordecent people." But decent people don't end up driving across state lines with their entire life packed in a Honda Civic's trunk and a toddler who needs dinner.
I pull into the small parking lot, more dirt than pavement, and study the building through my windshield. Checkered floors visible through the grimy windows. An old man working a grill inside. And in the corner booth, one massive guy eating alone.
He's the only customer.
That should probably worry me more than it does, but I'm too tired and hungry to care. Besides, the old man at the grill looks harmless enough, and one customer is better than walking into a place full of drunk men who might get ideas about the single mom with no ring on her finger.
"Okay, Rosie-girl." I turn in my seat to look at my daughter. She's still out cold, her dark curls plastered to her chubby cheeks, her little fist clutching the stuffed elephant she's had since birth. "We're gonna go get some food, and you're going to be a good girl for mama, right?"
She doesn't answer. Obviously.
I climb out of the car, and my joints crack as I stretch. Too many hours folded into a driver's seat that's seen better days. My purple cardigan is wrinkled, my jeans are probably too tight around my thighs (they always are), and I can feel my frizzy dark hair escaping from the messy bun I threw it into this morning.
I look like exactly what I am: a broke single mom who's been living out of her car and cheap motels for half a year.
Fuck it. I've looked worse.
I open Rosie's door as quietly as possible and unbuckle her from the car seat. She makes a small sound of protest as I lift her but settles against my shoulder with the ease of a kid who's beencarried sleeping more times than she can count. She's getting heavy. Two-year-olds aren't exactly light, but I've learned to ignore the burn in my arms.
The elephant gets tucked under my other arm because god forbid we go anywhere without Mr. Trunk.
The door to Murphy's Grill squeaks when I push it open. The smell hits me immediately—grease, burgers, fries, that perfect greasy spoon aroma that makes my mouth water and my stomach cramp with hunger. The old man at the grill looks up, his weathered face creasing into something that might be a smile.
"Evening, sweetheart," he calls out, his voice rough but not unkind. "Take any seat you like."
"Thanks." My voice comes out shyer than I want it to.
I can feel the man in the corner watching me as I navigate between tables with Rosie's dead weight on my hip. I choose a booth halfway between the door and where he's sitting. Close enough to the exit that I can bolt if I need to, far enough from him to maintain distance. The vinyl seat is cracked but clean, and I slide in, adjusting Rosie so she's curled against my side, head on my lap.
The old man, Murphy, I assume from the sign, appears at my table with a grease-stained menu and a glass of water I didn't ask for but desperately need.
"Haven't seen you around before," he says, and it's conversational rather than accusatory, but I still tense. "Just passing through?"
"Maybe." I take a drink of water, keeping my answer vague. The less people know about me, the better. "Depends."
His eyebrows rise slightly, like he's waiting for me to elaborate, but when I don't, he just taps the menu. "Burger and fries are the best thing on here. Everything else is pretty good too, but that's what you want."
"Burger and fries sounds perfect." My voice cracks a little. "And maybe some milk? For when she wakes up?"
"You got it." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "You need a place to stay tonight? Motel's on the other end of town, but Betty who runs it, is probably already asleep. She doesn't much like being woken up after nine."
