Chapter 7 - A Call Across State Lines
The vinyl armchair in the corner of the motel room smelled faintly of lemon bleach and old wool. Outside the taped-up window seam, a steady stream of highway traffic hissed against the asphalt under a gray, overcast afternoon sky. On the small mounted television near the ceiling, a cartoon rabbit chased a badger across a painted meadow, the tinny sound effects cutting through the silence.
I sat on the edge of the double bed, the chenille spread rough beneath my palms. In my left hand, I held a cheap prepaid burner phone I'd bought off the rack at a roadside gas station three towns back. In my right hand, a small square of lined notepad paper held a ten-digit sequence written in Tiffany’s sharp, precise handwriting.
My thumb hovered over the green call button. Every instinct I had spent the last three years cultivating—the need to stay invisible, to leave no digital footprint, to keep my brown updo pinned tight and my head down—screamed against making the connection. But the encounter at the garden wedding reception, followed by Mike’s cold pursuit and Tiffany’s stunned recognition, had shattered the glass walls of our quiet life. I couldn't run blindly anymore. I needed to know what Mike was building against me, and Tiffany was the only person inside that inner circle who might tell the truth.
I pressed the button, lifting the plastic receiver to my ear.
The line clicked twice, hollow and electronic, before a sharp intake of breath echoed through the tiny speaker.
"Hello?" Tiffany’s voice was tight, stripped of the polished elegance she had worn while holding her crystal champagne flute on the green grass.
"Tiffany," I said softly, keeping my tone flat to steady the sudden hammering in my chest.
A sharp gasp hissed through the line. There was a rustle of heavy fabric—silk sliding against leather, perhaps—and the sound of a door clicking shut at her end, cutting off background noise.
"God," she breathed out, the word trembling. "I didn't think you'd call. I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to process... after you vanished from the charity circuit three years ago, everyone thought—well, Mike told everyone you'd gone abroad for treatment. He had papers drawn up. Quiet ones."
I stared at the television screen where the cartoon rabbit had been replaced by a local news anchor pointing at a weather map. "Mike tells whatever stories serve his position. You know that better than anyone, Tiffany. You worked the foundation boards with him."
"He's been asking questions," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "Since yesterday afternoon, right after the reception. He called me twice this morning. He wanted to know if we'd spoken, if I remembered anything about your departure, if you mentioned where you were living. He’s digging, and he’s using foundation resources to pull records across state lines."
The chill in the motel room felt heavier now, settling into my bones. "He's trying to close the circle. If he finds out where my daughter and I are staying, he'll use every legal hook he owns to pull her back into his custody orbit. You saw how he operates."
"I know," Tiffany said, and for the first time, her voice carried a hard, resolute edge that matched my own quiet desperation. "That’s why I took my own notes during his inquiries. He thinks he can control the narrative because he has the board and the legal team in his pocket. But he doesn't know everything."
"We need to talk," I said, watching my daughter sit cross-legged on the floral rug, completely absorbed in the glowing screen. "Somewhere neutral. Somewhere out of his line of sight."
"There's an administrative office for the county park charity gala," Tiffany suggested after a brief, calculating pause. "It’s housed in a stone caretaker’s cottage off the old reservoir road. Nobody uses it on weekdays after four o'clock. I have the keys from last year’s committee work. I can bring the files I printed from the foundation archives—the asset transfers, the legal motions Mike filed before you left."
I memorized the details, weighing the risk against the necessity of having concrete proof. "Late afternoon. Say, four-thirty. I'll come alone."
"Don't let him follow you, please," Tiffany murmured, the line buzzing with static before she disconnected.
May you like
I lowered the burner phone to my lap and exhaled slowly, the tension in my shoulders refusing to loosen. I had a meeting to prepare for, and very little time left to secure my daughter's safety before the next move was played.
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