He's nice, fatherly, and it both cheers me and makes me ache inside.
Dad loved me, but in the last however many years before his death, he got deeper and deeper into his work, trying, I guess, to keep us afloat, to stay a step ahead, and to hide the things he was doing from dangerous people.
I honestly don't know why he owed so much money.
He made a lot. Yes, but he burned through a lot. And maybe it wasn't the money that got him into trouble. The robbing from one to pay the other, the secrets he knew...those were the dangerous things.
But then, I don't think it matters. He did something, killed himself, and then left me alone, not only to pick up the pieces but to deal with the fallout.
"Thanks," I say. "Got any kids?"
He gets all chuffed. "Got grandkids now. I'll tell you all about them..."
And as I listen to him, I find myself wishing his family I've never met was also mine.
Bert's probably in Tennessee by now, but I'm outside of Boston. It's not where he left me, I doubled back, closer to the Tri-State area, because if anyone might have seen me or asked Bert, then it looks like I'm heading to California.
Right now, in this cheap motel room I paid cash for, I've decided to go to New Mexico instead and take my time. Weaving a little across the country.
But I headed back, sort of in the direction I came because I figured Enzo would think I ran hard and fast.
I'm going to go slow and careful.
As careful as I can.
For now, though, I want to eat and then sleep.
Except fast food makes my stomach heave, and sleep has suddenly abandoned me.
I can't stop the vision of the gun. I can't escape the slam of the trunk as the man shoved Lyndall into it.
Over and over, it slams into me, and each time the guilt grows until I'm not sure I can stand it.
I lay on the bed in a T-shirt from the thrift shop, with shoes, socks, and jeans ready to be put on.
My bag is packed, the cap is shoved into it, and I'm sure it looks like I'm an amateur prepper.
Somehow, just the thought of it calms me enough to finally allow sleep, even through the tangle of repetitive thoughts.
It's early the next morning, my feet are restless. A dull pulse moves in my blood, urging me to grab the bag, hit the highway, and try to get a lift.
But I know I need a plan.
Well, I need answers too, but first, I need a plan.
The idea of zigzagging and just going with the flow to different places is all well and good, but picking a real final destination is the ultimate goal. I think I need a little method with that chaos.
So, hitting the library and checking out their maps is a good idea. I can spend a day looking at destinations, reading up on them, a day where I try to read over what's on that drive to see if I missed anything or if I can find an answer to Alex in there.
It doesn't matter I already know that answer.
I need it written down. Like a hammer bearing down on me, the nail.
Hell, I'd get started now, but I can't.
I only have the burner phone, no computer, so I have to wait until opening hours to go to the library in the small town.
At seven thirty, I take my bag, now in a cheap backpack that's worn and cost me a whole ten bucks at the thrift store, and head there right in time for eight a.m.
