I’ve never been there.
I’ve never been to any of the places Vaughn’s taken me to.
It’s not like I can sightsee. We stay locked in our accommodation, only leaving for supplies. Even then, only to the closest store.
It’s suffocating, though still a better fate than being locked in Noretto’s bedroom...
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
2
Bianca
Ipull the hoodie off my head as I enter the room, key card in one hand, bag of essentials in the other.
The door clicks behind me, the soft sound reverberating through the small, silent space like a clap of thunder. It summons Vaughn’s attention.
The lights are off everywhere save for the en suite. Even there, it’s a faint glow escaping through the narrow slit of the cracked-open door.
Vaughn’s stationed in his usual spot by the window, his body so still I often think he’s asleep. For every one of the twelve days since we checked into this hotel, he’s been sitting in his wheelchair in that exact spot for hours on end.
His head swings toward me before I take a single step forward. The dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep and constant worrying are so dark they look like fresh bruises. You’d think someone broke his nose and cheekbones, but no. He’s just tired.
Exhausted.
If he gets two hours of sleep in any twenty-four-hour period, it’s something to write home about. Not that I can write home about anything. Not that I would if I could. My parents aren’t wondering where I am. We haven’t spoken in three years. They have no idea I’m missing, running from mafia, hiding in obscure locations with a famous ex-cop.
Ex-cop who’s non-stop on the lookout, hidden behind the drapes, eyeing whichever decoy apartment, hotel room, or house we ‘officially’ live in. He rents out one place—using fake IDs—and then another one across the street, using our real names. We stay in the fake ID place, surveilling the ‘trap.’ Not just the trap. The whole street is under Vaughn’s intense scrutiny.
While the intricate deception he’s devised and perfected over the weeks is impressive, I’ve been wondering whether the sudden, middle-of-the-night, up-and-leave situations are even warranted.
He’s growing paranoid, losing his mind and nerve the longer we’re looking over our shoulders. Every minuscule thing out of place gets him moving.
And I’m growing more and more scared... Though not of our supposed pursuers.
I’m scared of Vaughn’s behavior.
A little more scared every day.
“I was careful,” I recite the line he expects to hear whenever I leave the safety of his protective gaze for longer than a bathroom break. “No one paid me any attention.”
He bobs his head, his gaze holding mine hostage longer than necessary before he zeroes in on my shopping bag.
“What are we having tonight?”
“Mac and cheese.” I pull two identical ready meals out, then his favorite whiskey, leaving it beside the food.
How he stays awake all night after emptying the bottle is beyond me. I’d be passed out in a pool of my own puke if I drank that much, but Vaughn’s not only unaffected—as far as I can tell—he’s also vigilant.
He turns back toward the window, peeking between the heavy curtains, head swinging left and right like he’s watching a child on a swing. We’re in a shady motel on the outskirts of Dayton. A low-budget apartment complex sits across the deserted street and there are lights on in the top-floor windows.
That’s where we ‘officially’ live right now. Vaughn makes sure to keep it on the down-low, choosing private rentals where the owners don’t bother with criminal checks or other nonsense and therefore don’t put our details online.
There’s a risk, of course, associated with signing the documents with our real names, but it’s small. Even if the rental agreements were uploaded, Noretto’s or Willard’s hackers would take a long time before stumbling upon our trail.
Which is one more reason the ‘unusual activities’ we’ve encountered thus far are most likely nothing to worry about.
Some days I get the feeling that Vaughn needs adrenaline. That hewantsus to be found.
