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“OK,” I said, nodding, suddenly distracted by the neatly folded pile of fresh laundry. One of Glenn’s biggest gripes about my housekeeping was my sloppy, haphazard laundry methods. Clean clothes had to be precisely folded or they would end up thrown in a big messy pile in the closet for me to fold all over again. So when I left, my first act of rebellion was to throw my socks into the drawer in a massive sock ball. But now my socks were matched and folded with military precision.
“No arguments, no negotiations, just ‘OK’?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding again, chewing my lip. E-mails. All it took was a few pissy e-mails from my ex-husband, and I had retreated right back into “life with Glenn” coping mechanisms. What did that say about my progress so far? What did it say about my ability to survive on my own?
I could send Caleb after Glenn.
The thought took root as quickly and stealthily as a poisonous weed. I had a big bad werewolf on my side. He could make my Glenn problem disappear with a snap of his claws. No more running. No more hiding. No more fear. All I had to do was ask. It was on the tip of my tongue.
“Hey.” Caleb squeezed my arm gently. My eyes snapped up to his face and its expression of concern. “Are you all right?
I gave him a weak smile. I couldn’t ask that of him. I couldn’t ask Caleb to kill for me. I wouldn’t put blood on his hands, or mine. I would have to handle this myself.
“You spaced out a little bit on me,” Caleb said.
“I’m fine, just not looking forward to another couple of hours in the truck. That’s all.”
He grinned, plopping down on the bed and pulling me into his lap. “Well, that’s because I haven’t introduced you to the wonders of my Conway Twitty CD collection.”
What little smile I was able to produce disappeared, even as he nuzzled my neck. “If there is any good in this world, you are kidding.”
Later that night, while Caleb slept, I sat up, thinking over the e-mail issue. How had Glenn found my e-mail address? Before I’d stumbled out of the Internet café, I’d checked the log-in history and didn’t see any suspicious account activity. Had he figured out the password? How much longer would it be before he tried to take over the account?
In those few moments before my brain had completely melted down, I’d deleted every e-mail Red-burn had ever sent me and then sent her a quick message telling her it was possible the account had been compromised and asking if she could call my phone. I’d changed the e-mail password and increased the security settings, arranging it so that any changes would be tracked through my cell phone.
Glenn thought he could find me. He had no idea how good I’d gotten at hiding.
With a decisiveness that seemed cold and alien, I swung my feet out from under the covers. I scrawled a short note to Caleb on one of his Post-its and stuck it to the lampshade. I concentrated on keeping my feet silent on the nubby motel carpet. My bags were already packed for the early-morning departure. All I had to do was slip on some jeans and shoes and somehow manage to open the door without waking up Caleb, who had superhearing. No problem.
Dressing quietly, I watched him as he slept, the weak light filtering through the curtains giving his skin a faint yellow glow. Just like the light that would spread over his skin before the change. I was more than a little disappointed that I would never get to see Caleb shift. I would have liked to see what he looked like in wolf form. Of course, his human form wasn’t too bad, either.
My fingers fumbled with the button of my jeans, and I shook them out. What was I doing? Why couldn’t I just wake him and tell him that I was freaking out and needed his help? Why couldn’t I give up my need to run as soon as things got tough? Why couldn’t I just tell him I knew about wolfiness?
Caleb let out a whuffling sound and turned onto his side, burying his face in his pillow.
The distinctly canine movement made my lips curve into a fond smile. I couldn’t do that to Caleb. I couldn’t drag him down with me, into my big bag of crazy. He belonged to the valley, with his pack, not running my ex-husband down like the proverbial dog. He deserved to go back home and find some nice wolf-girl and have furry little babies. He deserved someone who could share her whole life with him, not just carefully edited sound bites.
Just walk out, my brain commanded. Put on your coat and get the hell out before you manage to talk yourself out of this. Move your feet.
So that’s what I did. I slung my bag over my shoulder and made it all the way to the door. I looked back.
Damn it, why did I look back?
Caleb’s hair was all mussed around his face, his relaxed, nearly boyish face. His lips were parted as he breathed deeply. I was going to miss that. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, where it was warm and safe and smelled like him.
I moved closer to the bed, even as my brain lectured me about mocking the laws of common sense. I stretched out my arm, stopping just short of running my fingers along his cheek.
“Be happy.” I pressed the barest whisper of a kiss against his cheek, inhaling his spicy, woodsy scent one last time, and ran out of the motel room as if he was hot on my heels.
9
I Make Use of Stolen Law-Enforcement Equipment
I, for lack of a more flowery term, hauled ass up the street to a bar called Slippery Sam’s. It had been a while since I’d done any kind of running, and I ended up pulling a hamstring. But it was worth it to be able to close myself up in the dark, smoky room and hide in a booth lit only by a neon blue St. Pauli Girl sign.
The waitress wasn’t thrilled to have a nonordering freeloader taking up her booth. So when I mentioned I was looking for a ride, she was quick to point out the bar’s beer distributor, Bart, who would be departing for parts unknown within the next thirty minutes. Parts unknown sounded pretty good to me. And the rotund, grandfatherly driver’s rig was parked out back, which was even better.
Bart was willing to take me as far as a saloon about four hours away, where he happened to know of a Coca-Cola distributor who ran a regular route to Rooklin, about a hundred miles east. He vouched for Carl, the Coca-Cola man, as a noncrazy non–serial killer and promised to arrange for my transportation to Rooklin, for which I was very grateful. Even when he insisted on showing me a few dozen pictures of his kids, grandkids, and various salmon he’d caught in the past year.
