It had to look real.
I sit up straighter on the double bed, hugging my stuffed turtle to my chest. The turtle’s name is, quite simply, Turtly. What can I say—I named him when I was four. This turtle is one of the few things I brought with me from my house. It was a risk, because somebody might have noticed it missing, but it was worth the risk. I have slept with this turtle every night since I was a preschooler. I wasn’t leaving it behind.
It was bad enough I had to leave Junior behind. I hope she’s okay.
This bed is extremely uncomfortable. At home, I have a memory foam mattress with 270 thread count sheets and a down comforter. I knew the beds at a motel wouldn’t be as comfortable as what I am used to, but what bothers me most is not the low quality of the sheets… or the plastic coating on the mattress that makes it hard as a rock and yet also lumpy.
No, what keeps me awake at night is the fact that the sheets and the pillowcase are two completely different colors. Yes, you heard me correctly. The sheets are white and yet the pillowcase is an off-white color that is practically tan. And even more horrifying, the blankets are blue! It makes my skin crawl just to look at it.
But it’s not like I can ever go home again.
I miss my house. I miss my bed with the white sheets, white pillowcase and white blanket. But again, it’s worth it. It’s worth anything.
Anyway, this bed is surely better than wherever Natalie sleeps tonight. Jail cells aren’t known to be particularly cozy. It worked out so perfectly that she got arrested on a Saturday. She’s going to be stuck in a cell all weekend.
I pick up the pad of paper I left lying by the bed. I handwrote a letter on it to Mia, since email is not an option right now. There were some things I still had to say, and I wanted to get them down on paper. For practical reasons, this will be the last letter I write to her.
I reach for the remote control and flip around to find another news station. I want to see her get arrested again. When I get my hands on a computer again, I’m going to make that shot my wallpaper.
My stomach growls. All I've got to eat is the small amount of food I've been stashing in the mini-fridge in the room, although they do have a few vending machines outside. My door leads right outside, and I don’t have to pass any other people to get to the machines. My breakfast was a bag of Doritos. I’m not looking forward to having cheese doodles for lunch.
I’m trying not to venture too far out of the motel. I do have a nondescript brown wig that I use to conceal my hair. Some people cut off their hair when they don’t want to be found, but mine is already slashed off half an inch from my skull. So my only choice is a wig. A cheap wig that itches intensely if I have it on for more than five minutes. I wear a baseball cap on top of it so it looks more realistic.
Still, my face has been all over the news lately. Especially today, since Natalie was arrested this morning. It’s too dangerous to walk around, even in disguise. That’s a risk that isn’t worth taking.
I can’t let myself be found. It was hard enough to get Natalie arrested. I can’t blow it all when I’m so close.
She needs to pay. If I don’t do it, nobody else will.
The news switches to a segment about me. About the life of Dawn Schiff. Not that they really know anything about me, but they know the basics. Where I grew up, where I went to high school and college, that I’m not married and have no children. There are a few unflattering old photographs of me, undoubtedly provided by my mother.
The main photograph they always show on the news is the one from my ID photo at work. I’ve never photographed well, but that one is particularly awful. My hair is plastered to my skull, because I had recently showered, and my eyes are wide open like I’ve just seen a ghost. It looks like a bad mugshot.
I wonder what Natalie will look like in her mugshot. Even she can’t pull off a good mug shot photo. Even though she’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful. Maybe if she weren’t, she would be a better person.
Now the television is showing my mother. I can’t believe my mother agreed to go on camera and admit that she and I are related. She’s tearfully talking about how she wants justice for my murder.
I stare at my mother’s face on the television screen, waiting to feel something. Guilt or remorse.
No. Nothing.
My mother has never been supportive of me for one day of my life. When I was a kid, all she wanted was for me to stop embarrassing her. And as an adult, all she cared about was that I sent her those checks every month. If I never come back, she might feel a little bit sad occasionally, but she’ll be happy to get the money I left in my bank account. She doesn’t care about me any more than I care about her. And if she knew what I was up to, she would turn me in herself.
I push myself up in bed and my left wrist throbs. I’ve kept it bandaged since Monday, when I made the cut that created all that blood on the floor of my living room. I had to be very careful about it. If I cut too deep, that would have been the end of me.
I sit up straighter at a loud noise coming from outside my room. I’m on the second floor, but the walls are paper-thin and the windows may as well be made of saran wrap. There’s no heat either, and I spent all of last night shivering under that flimsy (blue!) polyester blanket. Nobody said revenge was easy.
I shut off the television and walk to the window. A green Ford is pulling into a spot just outside the main office. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and peer through the glass.
The driver’s side door to the Ford opens up. Someone gets out of the car. I recognize him immediately.
It’s Caleb McCullough.
I tug on the shades to partially conceal my face as I watch him. He goes straight to the main lobby and disappears inside. I stand at the window, wondering what’s going on in there. What is he doing in there?
My stomach churns. I’ve been so careful.
About ten minutes later, Caleb exits the lobby. He takes a left, and moves in the direction of my room. He pauses in front of the stairs that lead up to the second floor. Then he starts to climb.
I take a step away from the window. What’s going on? What is Caleb doing out there?
And then he disappears from my line of sight. He must be on the second floor. I can hear his footsteps on the walkway, growing louder. And then…
Three loud knocks on the door to my room.
He’s here.
Chapter Forty-Six
I don’t answer immediately. I back away from the door, wiping my hands on my blue jeans. I glance around the room anxiously.
He knocks again.
“Dawn!” His voice travels through the thin door like he’s in the same room as me. “Come on, Dawn, open up!”
I walk over to the door. I flip open the deadbolt, then I turn the lock. Caleb is standing there, his brown hair tousled by the wind even though he never ended up going on that 5K run, and he’s holding a white paper bag I hadn’t noticed him carrying. He thrusts it in my direction. “I brought this for you,” he says.
I step aside as he enters the motel room. I shut the door behind him, lock it, and throw the bolt again.
“Did you see her get arrested?” I ask him.
He grins at me. “Yeah, I was right there. I wish you had seen her face, Dawn. It was epic.”
“I’ve been watching it on the news all morning.” I glance at the television screen, which is now dark. “I wish I had it on repeat.”