“I’m a vegetarian,” Cain quipped. “And I never touch alcohol.”
“R-right,” said the woman, giving her a dubious look.
Cain paid the money and took the key to her new home. After doing her forklift gig, Cain had looked around and finally found this dump. It was in a horseshoe-shaped motel built in the 1970s that had been “renovated” into longer-term living arrangements, or so the woman had told her. Which meant, basically, that nothing had been done to it besides changing the name so they could charge more, a week at a time. The asphalt parking lot had long since been given over to dirt and weeds. She unlocked the door to number 110.
The room’s width was a little under twice as long as her height. The bed was a twin with a gauzy veil for a coverlet and a pillow that looked as flat as a gambler without a stake. The only other furniture was a small nightstand that leaned to one side, a scarred desk with a shiny green Gideon Bible on it, and a chair with its back partially hanging off. There was no carpet, but they had left behind the gray, scratchy underneath pad for what reason she didn’t know, other than it would cover the concrete slab below. The missing carpet’s tacking strip was exposed where the wall met the floor, its pointy nails like rows of puppy teeth. There was a tiny closet with a few metal hangers. The bathroom was basic: ancient toilet, stained sink, phone booth–sized fiberglass shower. Someone had left a half roll of toilet paper and what appeared to be permanent pee stains on the toilet seat. The window was open. Cain closed it and tried to lock it but that was a no-go. She would have to fix that.
She put her duffel and other few possessions on the desk, took out her Glock, and lay back on the bed with it in her hand. She was tired, worried, and fearful, not because of where she was now living. She was scared because the FBI was after her. There was no statute of limitations for killing someone; she knew that from watching Law and Order episodes.
But could they really get her for murder? They had kept her locked in a cage. Didn’t that give her the right to free herself and to defend herself against the Atkinses? She didn’t know. She wasn’t a lawyer. And people did whatever the hell they wanted and got away with it. Just like the Atkinses had for so many years.
The immediate years after her escape hadn’t been much better. She was a very tall nineteen-year-old with the mental awareness of a preteen and the emotional maturity of someone even younger. Her naivete had led her into treacherous situations. Her fear of the authorities had steered her to groups that had exploited her, damaged her further, chewed her up, and then spit her out. And then one day Cain had woken up and said to herself, Enough. And then she’d said it even more forcefully to the biker gang member she was shacking up with, leaving him a bloody, pulpy mess. It was the least she could do after months of beatings from him. After that, it was her, solo. It would be her solo until the day she died, she had promised herself.
Cain slept fitfully for a couple of hours and awoke ravenous. She splashed water on her face, and since the room rate obviously didn’t include towels or a washcloth, she used a spare sweatshirt to dry her face. She had purchased a new pair of shoes with her MMA purse and now slipped them on.
She drove to a nearby Wendy’s and had a chicken sandwich, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. She looked around at the other tables and saw moms helping kids with their food, wiping mouths and noses, and cleaning up spills, just normal stuff. Still, she felt something odd in her head. Funny scenes appeared there. She had had them before. Dim memories . . . of something . . . someone. A girl laughed and put her hands over another girl’s face. The other girl screamed with giggles. It was like a dream so vivid, it gave you the sweats. Yet when you woke up you could really remember nothing about it.
She left and drove back to her new home. The first thing that confronted her was the scream. It was loud, scared, and when it died out, she opened her car door and looked around for its source. There were other residents around, some sitting on fold-up outdoor chairs or on the ground, or on overturned five-gallon paint buckets while smoking and drinking and shooting the breeze. Two others were playing cards with piles of quarters as chips. Not a single one of them reacted to the screams. Cain wondered why. And she meant to find out.