Chapter 9 - The Pine Grove Motor Court
Deputy Miller’s cruiser had vanished down the county blacktop twenty minutes ago, leaving the gravel shoulder of the church parking lot quiet and empty under the fading light. My hands still rested on the steering wheel of my sedan, my fingers curved tightly over the leather as I regulated my breathing. Beside me in the passenger seat, the young boy with short brown hair in his light grey shirt and dark shorts sat quietly, clutching the small box of crayons we’d picked up at the gas station. He didn't ask where we were going. He just watched the shadows lengthen across the dashboard, his young face carrying a heavy maturity that no child should ever have to bear.
"We need to find a place to sleep for a couple of nights," I told him, keeping my voice steady and reassuring. I reached over to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Just until Deputy Miller calls us back."
"Okay," he said softly, looking up at me with wide, steady eyes.
I turned the ignition, the engine purring to life in the cool evening air, and steered the car back onto the highway toward the western edge of town. Ten minutes later, I pulled off into the gravel lot of the Pine Grove Motor Court. It was a modest, single-story brick establishment with green doors and flickering neon signage that buzzed against the twilight. It wasn't luxurious, but it was clean, set well back from the main thoroughfare behind a thick stand of pine trees that offered a sense of seclusion and safety.
The office bell chimed a sharp, metallic note as I pushed the door open. A middle-aged woman behind the counter, wearing a faded floral blouse and reading glasses pushed up onto her forehead, looked up from her crossword puzzle. She didn't ask unnecessary questions. I paid cash for two nights in room twelve, signing a fictitious name with a steady hand, though she barely glanced at the paper before sliding the heavy brass-ringed key across the laminate counter.
"Ice machine is by the laundry room around the back," she murmured, handing me a folded linen towel. "Quiet hours start at ten."
"Thank you," I said, taking the key.
I drove the sedan around the loop, parking directly in front of door number twelve so I could keep an eye on the vehicle through the narrow window. Stepping out into the crisp evening air, I felt the familiar, dull ache in my lower back—a physical reminder of the pregnancy I was fighting so hard to protect. I paused for a moment, resting a hand against my beige button-down shirt over my abdomen, breathing in the scent of pine needles and damp earth before unlocking the door.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of lemon polish and bleached linoleum. A double bed with a faded plaid spread sat against one wall, flanked by a scarred wooden nightstand and a small cathode-ray television bolted to a corner bracket. Across from the bed was a tiny dinette set with two mismatched chairs.
"Here we are," I said, flicking the wall switch to flood the modest space in warm, yellow light. "Home for a couple of days."
The boy walked in slowly, setting his crayons down on the small table before inspecting the television. "Can I watch it?" he asked, pointing to the screen.
"Go ahead," I said, walking over to the wall unit and twisting the metal dial until a local news broadcast flickered into view, the sound kept low so it was more of a hum than a distraction. "Find a cartoon or something quiet."
While he sat on the edge of the plaid spread, flipping through the channels with the heavy remote, I set to work securing our temporary sanctuary. I walked over to the heavy wooden door, turning the brass deadbolt until it clicked solidly into place, then flipped the brass security chain across the track. I dropped my canvas bag onto the floor and immediately moved to the windows. The aluminium frames were stiff, but I forced each one down until it locked flush against the sill, pulling the thick beige curtains tight across the glass until the outside world was completely sealed away.
Only when every latch was checked twice did I finally let my shoulders drop. I walked over to the tiny bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the spotted mirror. My reddish-brown hair was pulled back loosely, and my freckles stood out sharply against pale skin. I looked tired, but beneath the exhaustion, there was a hard, unyielding resolve. We were safe here, hidden away from the modern dining room and the older woman in her beige dress who still sat in that house, unaware that the net was tightening around her.
I walked back out into the main room, pulling one of the mismatched chairs up to the small table where the boy was now quietly coloring inside the lines of a cheap coloring book.
"Hungry?" I asked him, offering a gentle smile.
He shook his head, keeping his eyes on his blue crayon. "Not really. Are we going back home soon?"
I pulled out the other chair and sat down opposite him, resting my forearms on the laminate surface. "We're going back as soon as it's safe," I promised, my voice quiet but firm. "Deputy Miller has to do his job first. We just have to wait."
May you like
He nodded, satisfied with the answer, and went back to his drawing. I leaned back in the chair, watching the muted television glow against the wall, listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the corner, and waiting for the phone call that would change everything.
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