Page 87 of Gone Tonight
They’re in my palm before George finishes picking the last coin up off the floor. He puts everything back in my purse and gives it to me.
“Thank you so much.”
I keep my right fist clenched around his keys as I leave, promising to see them soon.
I intend to keep that promise. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll make up an excuse about missing something from my purse and wanting to check to see if it rolled under their entryway table. George’s keys will be back in the bowl before he ever misses them, and I’ll replace any gas I use.
I wish I could’ve asked George if I could borrow the Cadillac, but that car is his baby. I knew the request would make him uncomfortable, and I couldn’t risk him saying no.
My hair is pinned up in a style I never wear, and I’m still in my scrubs. It isn’t a great disguise, but my mother knows I never wear scrubs to and from work, so if she catches a glimpse of me from a distance, she may not immediately identify me.
Plus, the few residents who still drive get the parking spots closest to the building, which means all I have to do is walk about ten yards out in the open without my mother spotting me.
I wait inside the front door of Sunrise until a visiting middle-aged couple signs out at the front desk and departs.
I step outside a beat after they do, trying to position myself so that they provide a screen between me and the Bonneville.
Five yards to the Cadillac.
George’s keys are pointed outward in my hand. I keep my head ducked low and move to the side of the vehicle, crouching down while I unlock the door and slide in. I start the engine, throw my backpack onto the passenger’s seat, and back out of the spot.
In a few seconds, I’ll know if my mother has seen me.
I drive to the exit and turn right onto the two-lane road, then glance in the rearview mirror. If the Bonneville roars up after me, I don’t know what I’m going to do.
The road behind me is clear.
I step on the gas, exceeding the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit, and coast through a traffic light just as it turns yellow.
The only vehicle in sight is a FedEx truck.
I’m free.
Dusk is leaching the color out of the sky. The highway is busy now, at the tail end of rush hour, but traffic moves steadily. I stay in the middle lane, keeping several cars’ lengths behind the vehicle ahead of me. My full attention is on driving safely. I don’t even look toward my phone when it buzzes with an incoming call. If I got in an accident and had to confess I’d taken the Campbells’ car, I’d be fired—or worse, charged with theft.
The thought of those potential repercussions should have me turning around at the next exit, but all I do is grip the wheel a little more tightly and stare straight ahead. Twenty-four years of lies strengthen my resolve.
Her name begins with an A.
Tonight I’m determined to finally learn the truth about my mother.
I reach Pizza Piazzo a little before 7:30 p.m. The restaurant is located at the end of a strip mall, past a grocery store, beauty salon,and bank. Vehicles fill the parking area closest to the restaurant. It’s clearly a popular place. I pull into a spot in the middle of the lot, near the grocery store. When I cut my headlights, I realize how dark it has become.
I check to make sure no one is nearby, then I climb into the back seat and quickly change into shorts and a fresh shirt I pull out of my backpack. I double-check that my legal pad is inside my purse in case I need to write anything down and then I step out, lock the doors, and walk toward the restaurant.
I might be retracing footsteps my mother left as a teenager, I think. When my fingers stretch out for the big metal door handle, I imagine the ghost of hers doing the same.
An electric pulse races through me. Something makes me turn around, but no one is there.
I step inside, and noise hits me like a slap. The place is packed. Dozens of animated conversations fill the room, with laughter cutting through it all. At rectangular tables in the middle of the floor, a family celebrates a child’s birthday and a softball team in matching jerseys digs into a postgame meal. Wooden booths line the walls, each lit by a votive candle in a red glass holder.
A woman wearing a white button-down shirt and black slacks is behind the hostess stand. She looks about my age, which is a disappointment. She wouldn’t have known my mother.
“Welcome to Pizza Piazzo. Table for…?”
“Just one.”
She nods and picks up a menu from the top of her stack. “This way, please.”
