I saw mine next door, at school, and in anyone who might pose a threat to Mom and the life we had together. I hated the constant moving and the deep secrets, but I loved my mom more.
My father had never been in the picture. I didn’t know his name, and neither did Mom. He probably had no idea I existed, which was actually okay by me. I wasn’t one of those girls who longed for a father figure. I enjoyed the mother-daughterdynamic I had with Mom. She was my best friend. My protector. My teacher.
Mom grabbed the bleach wipes from the metal shelf and scrubbed her palms in rough, circular motions. The chemical smell made my eyes water. She grabbed the car keys from the bowl by the garage entrance and paused as her gaze drifted back toward the kitchen, where blood still painted abstract patterns across the tile. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up when I get back. You just make sure you’re all packed. We leave in the morning, just like planned.”
“And the car?” I asked, trying to think of all the small details easily missed.
“I’ll stop at the car wash on Morrison, the one with the undercarriage spray.” She glanced at me again, and for just a second, she looked tired. “Don’t worry, Malibu, everything will be fine. It always is.”
I rolled my eyes at the nickname. I was anything but sunny and bright, and I hated the beach; damn sand got into cracks it had no business being in. But Malibu had been what she’d been drinking when she got pregnant with me, and she constantly told me I was the only good thing that came out of that night.
I wanted to believe everything would be okay, because as much as I feared getting ripped away from her by CPS, I feared a world without her more. “Let me know when you’re home,” I insisted. I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I knew she was safe.
She nodded, her lips twisting at the corners. “Go.” She nudged me toward the door that led back into the house. “The fun’s over. I’ll handle the rest.”
And she would. She always did.
I walked back through the kitchen without looking at the floor, climbed the stairs to my room, and started pulling clothes from my closet. The same clothes I’d packed in Dallas. And Phoenix before that. And Portland before that.
I had no attachments to this space, to this house. We hadn’t been here long enough, and I stopped thinking of the rooms I stayed in as mine years ago. They were like short-term rentals.
I grabbed the worn stuffed white bunny from my bed. Angel, Mom had named her when she gifted the plushy to me on my third birthday. He was the one thing I never left behind. “One last move,” I told Angel before putting her back on the bed.
They said the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. But what if I wasn’t just near the tree? What if I was already growing roots in the same blood-soaked soil? Was I destined to be like my mom, a killer by blood? Or could I break the cycle, free my family from suspicion and death?
The Chevy’sshocks groaned under the weight. Every inch of cargo space was crammed full, duffel bags wedged against boxes, loose clothes shoved into gaps, and that stupid artificial plant Mom refused to leave behind somehow balanced on top of everything else. The trailer behind us rattled and clanked over every pothole, our entire lives reduced to whatever could fit and what we could tie down. We’d done this six times in four years. We were basically professional nomads at this point.
Mom always tried to make moving exciting, a fun experience. She would bring out the folded map she kept, spread it out on the table, tell me to close my eyes, and pick a place. Wherever my finger landed, that was where we’d go. This time it landed on Elmwood, an East Coast town neither of us had ever heard of, but a quick Google search showed it had promise. Cute. Quaint. Peaceful. And very far.
I’d be starting my senior semester at Elmwood Public. I stopped counting the number of schools I’d attended. There wasa short stint when Mom homeschooled me, but after a semester, we both decided it was better that I attended school.
It was hard to imagine being at a school long enough to have friends, let alone graduate. I used to envy all those girls who had close relationships, having grown up together since kindergarten. That was never in the cards for me. It was easier for me to be alone. I had my online friends.
My mom, on the other hand, was a damn social butterfly wherever we were. You would think, given her extracurricular activities, she would keep a low profile. Nope. Not the case.
We stopped at a gas station for fuel and snacks. I watched as Mom strutted across the parking lot, every guy in the vicinity eyeing her. She loved the attention. A slight curve touched her lips, and her hips swayed a tad more, emphasizing her hourglass figure. Her jean shorts were tight, and her pale-yellow tube top had tiny white flowers. She looked like she walked out of a beach vacation ad, not a woman fleeing her latest crime scene. She’d paired her outfit with strappy heels, accentuating her long tan legs. Men never saw her coming. They saw the smile, the curves, the way she laughed like she was inviting them into a secret.
At least she came back with a bag full of our road trip essentials and not a body. She dropped the bag into my lap after sliding behind the wheel, and I took a quick peek inside. Sodas. Twizzlers. Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Beef jerky. And an assortment of dark chocolate bars. She knew they were my favorite. It had to be dark chocolate.
“Look what I found,” she said with a bright smile. We had the same shade of black hair. Hers was tied into a slick ponytail where mine was loose, long, and wild. She handed over a postcard for me to look at, her dazzling, deep blue eyes dancing.
Oddly, I’d inherited only one of Mom’s blue eyes. I had what they called heterochromia. My eyes were different colors. The other one was hazel, most likely my father’s color. With myunique eyes, I glanced at the postcard. It was a landscape view with the text Elmwood printed across it.
“Looks perfect,” she said as I continued to stare at the picture. “I have a good feeling about this place, Malibu. This is where our journey ends.”
“And if we hate it?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate. Mom was the optimist. I was the pessimist. Someone had to keep their feet on the ground.
She steered the car out of the gas station and back on the road. “If Elmwood sucks, there are a million other cities for us to try. We’ll find one that fits us.”
I dug into the bag of goodies, reaching for the Cheetos as she started the car, her ponytail falling over her slim, bare shoulder. “You sure you don’t want me to drive?” I offered, licking Cheetos dust from my fingers. We’d already been in the car for nearly thirty hours and had been switching off and on since we left, Mom doing the bulk of the drive in the middle of the night while I slept.
She reached for a bottled soda and took a swig. “It’s going to get dark soon, and besides, we’re close.”
I cranked the window down farther and tilted my face toward the swiftly setting sun, letting the wind whip my dark hair into a tangled mess I’d regret later. The warmth soaked into my skin, and I closed my eyes against the brightness.
God, I’d missed seasons.
Texas had been one endless, suffocating summer. Flat highways that stretched forever, heat that made the asphalt shimmer like water, and air so thick you could choke on it. No change. No relief. Just sun and dust.
