Chapter 12 - The Threshold of the Highway
The state police barracks outside the capital was a low brick building with a gravel parking lot where two patrol cars sat with their light bars dark against the gray afternoon sky.
Clara’s car was parked near the side entrance, its engine idling, steam rising from the exhaust pipe in the cold air. She was leaning against the fender, smoking a cigarette down to the filter, her coat pulled tight around her throat. When she saw us walk down the concrete steps from the front door, she dropped the cigarette into the slush and walked over.
"Did they sign it?" she asked, her voice tight with residual fear.
"They signed it," I said, holding the manila envelope containing the stamped court order against my chest like a shield. "David can't come near us for six months, and the state police have taken over the investigation into the property."
Maya was holding my hand, her steps lighter than they had been all morning. The court-appointed advocate had given her a small box of crayons and a coloring book while we waited in chambers, and she was carrying it under her arm like a treasure.
"Where are we going now, Mom?" she asked, looking up at the gray sky where the first flakes of afternoon snow were beginning to drift down through the bare oak branches.
"We're going to get your other clothes from Clara's house," I said, looking over at Clara, who gave a slow, affirming nod. "And then we're going to take that drive up north to your aunt's place like we talked about."
"Can I bring my blue dress?" she asked.
"Every single thing you want," I told her, opening the passenger door of Clara’s car and helping her climb inside into the warm back seat.
I turned back to Clara on the gravel, the wind whipping our hair across our faces as the patrol cars inside the fence switched on their security lights for the evening shift.
"You don't have to stay here, Clara," I said. "David's going to be looking for someone to blame for the paperwork, and even with the restraining order..."
"My husband already called the commercial commission and told them we're moving my mother's furniture business to the coast next month," Clara interrupted, a thin, tired smile touching the corners of her mouth. "David doesn't own everyone, Sarah. He just made everybody think he did."
She reached out and squeezed my hand—a quick, firm pressure that felt real and steady against the cold.
"Call me when you get to the lake," she said, opening her car door and sliding behind the wheel.
I watched her tail lights blink twice in the gathering dusk before she backed out onto the highway, turning away from the county line where the tall brick chimney of our old house was already disappearing into the winter haze.
May you like
Maya was already pressing her face against the side window, watching the road unfold ahead of us as the motel signs and highway lights began to blink on through the snow. I got into the front seat, closed the door against the wind, and put the car in gear. There was no knocking on the door this time, and for the first time in three years, the road in front of us was entirely our own.
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