Page 49 of Gone Tonight
Instead of answering, I drop a kiss on her head.
“Are you going out?” It feels like our roles have shifted. She sounds like the parent.
“Just for a bit,” I reply lightly.
Her face shutters.
“With Melanie?”
I debate lying and saying yes like I usually do on nights like these,but something holds me back. Maybe it’s because there seems to be a faint challenge in her tone.
“No, I need a little time to myself. I thought I’d take a walk and maybe stop somewhere for a beer. I won’t be late.”
Catherine doesn’t like my answer. But given that she went out last night, she can hardly complain.
I follow her gaze as she glances down at my sandals—they’re flat, but they’re not exactly walking shoes.
“Fine.” She stands up and tosses the remote control onto the coffee table, then she heads into her bedroom without another word.
I think about going after her, but I end up deciding a few hours of space would do us both good.
I wind my way down the stairs to the lobby, then step outside. It’s nearly dusk now, but I keep on my sunglasses. I won’t ever make the same mistake again.
When I’m two blocks away from home, I reach for my phone and set it to airplane mode.
After I’ve walked a half mile, I reach a little café with a red awning. Any customer who purchases food or drink can use the desktop computer set up at a table in the back. It’s a convenient place to do my checking.
I come here every month or so because the café is never crowded and the beer is cheap. I tell Catherine I’m meeting Melanie for drinks, or I pretend to have the occasional date because it would seem strange for a forty-two-year-old woman who doesn’t wear a nun’s habit to be celibate for her entire adult life.
But I don’t date. It’s one more thing I deny myself, like food.
I can never forget that every single person I encounter is a potential threat.
Precautions rule my life.
If they aren’t enough, I have one final plan in place to protect Catherine. I’m counting on the fact that I’ll have time to make a quick phone call or send a text to Catherine. I’ll tell her where to find mynotebook and the fake ID I had made with her photo that’s taped to the inside back cover. I’ll instruct her to carry only what she can fit inside the gray duffle bag that’s on the top shelf of my closet.
I’m not writing my journal simply to reveal my true story to my daughter.
It’s also intended to teach her how to run.
When I get home, Catherine is dozing in front of the TV in the living room. Instead of waking her, I decide to write more in my notebook, even though my dyslexia worsens when I’m tired, forcing me to go more slowly than I’d like.
We’ve been in this apartment for almost four years now—the longest we’ve stayed at any address. I could be getting soft.
I need to remind myself how to run, too.
It was pitch-black outside when James pulled up outside my house, repeating his plan as I sat nearly catatonic next to him in the Corvette: I was to pack a few changes of clothes, grab whatever valuables I could find, and then drive to meet him at Pizza Piazzo at midnight.
We had one hour to disappear.
What would you take with you?
I stood in the middle of my bedroom, looking at the Polaroid photos tacked up on my bulletin board and the pink piggy bank I’d gotten for my eighth birthday and my trophy from when our Poms squad won regionals.
I only began to move when I realized how much time I was wasting.
I reached for the gray duffle bag on the top shelf of my closet and packed jeans, a sweatshirt, a couple of T-shirts, underpants, and an extra bra. I kept on the clothes I was wearing even though Coach’s blood had stained them. James had instructed me to not leave any evidence behind.
