If I Could Stay

by Annette K. Larsen

  Jack held up the bag of food, his face stoic. “I hope you like tacos.”

  “Thanks,” I said grudgingly, annoyed that he looked so comfortable and put together while I stood here with post-shower bedhead and clothing I’d bought in a gas station.

  He nodded toward the room. “I’ll just put these down.” He stepped past me and set the bag down on the tiny table before I could figure out a way to stop him.

  I stood there, keeping the door wide open.

  He slipped his hands in his pockets but didn’t move to leave. Instead he fixed his dark eyes on me. “You mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Yes, I mind.” I minded everything about him. I minded that he’d lied to me. I minded that he was a cop. I minded that he’d stepped into this room without my permission. I really minded that I found him attractive.

  He studied me for a bit then dove into the conversation anyway. “I went and found your car this morning.”

  My hand slipped from the door, and the whine of the hinge as it slowly closed punctuated the importance of this moment. He had found my car. What secrets had it told?

  The door clicked shut, and I flinched before forcing myself to focus on his face. He was in police mode, his expression cool, his eyes taking in everything about me, about my reaction.

  I should have said something, but I didn’t want to tip my hand if he hadn’t found anything incriminating. Maybe he hadn’t run the name on the registration. Maybe he hadn’t gone through my go-bag and found my extra ID.

  Guilt was written all over my face, I was sure of it. The numbness that had settled into every inch of my body prevented me from putting on a poker face.

  “Someone had found it before I did,” he said carefully.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  If someone had found it in the few hours since I’d left it, then that meant someone had been following me or tracking me. My father? Russo? Silas?

  I shook my head. I needed more information. “How do you know?”

  He pulled out his phone and tapped it a few times before turning the screen toward me. “Is that your car?”

  My hand shook as I reached out and took the phone, studying the photo of a blackened shell of a car that had clearly been burned. Breathe. You have to keep breathing. I kept blinking, trying to clear my vision and push through the panic.

  Jack reached over and flicked through a couple more images. The shape was the same. The trunk was crunched, just like it had been last night, but whoever found it had managed to pry the trunk open.

  “Was there anything left in it?” I asked in a sandpaper whisper.

  “Nothing.” His voice remained cool, almost aloof. “If you had luggage back there, it was removed before they burned it.”

  My breaths were shallow and fast. “How could they find it so fast?” I whispered to myself as my eyes flicked over each detail in the photo, trying to comprehend it but unable to.

  “Who’s they?”

  I jerked my gaze up to look at Jack. There was a glint in his eye. A dog with a bone. I shook my head roughly. “No one.”

  “You said, ‘How did they find it so fast?’ Who is they?” he demanded.

  I shoved the phone back into his hands. “Whoever found it!” I snapped, but I knew it wasn’t good enough.

  We faced off. The only sound I could hear was the air hissing in and out of my lungs, a panicked metronome.

  “Do you want to tell me why someone would torch your car?”

  I inhaled a deep breath through my nose. Pull it together, Leila. You can do this. Pull it together. I glared at him. “Because they’re crazy? Because they’re bored teenagers or terrible people that just like to cause problems? I don’t know!”

  He didn’t respond to my outburst. Instead he broke eye contact and took a couple of steps back before sinking down on the edge of the bed and pushing a hand through his short hair. His police jacket was stiff and official. He was Officer Trent. I was stuck in a room with a police officer, one who knew that I was lying, that I was hiding things. I seriously considered running out the door, but I was barefoot and my purse was on the other side of the room.

  Finally he looked up. “I reported it to the police down there and they’re looking into it. They’ll try to recover the VIN and find out what name is on the registration.” He let that threat hang in the air, allowing me time to sort through all the implications. Had he told them about me? Did they know that the girl who owned that car was holed up in a tiny town, refusing to give her real name?

  If the police down there ran the VIN, they would find out that Maggie Lawrence had owned that car. They would run the name, see if Maggie had a record, any criminal ties. She didn’t.

  “So,” Jack said, interrupting my terror-driven trance. “I have a conundrum. They’re not too keen on letting me encroach on their investigation, but I know they’d have a field day if I told them about you.”

  IF he told them. So he hadn’t yet. That was good, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

  “I could tell them about you,” he said softly. It wasn’t a threat. He was just stating a fact. “I could try to get them to share info so I can go digging into who owned that car, what her name is, what she’s running from.” He stopped to give me a pointed look. “But I won’t do that if it’s going to put you in danger.”

  A shudder of relief swept through me and I leaned back against the wall, forcing even breaths into my lungs.

  “Will you be in danger if I do that, Angel?”

  I sealed my lips and dammed the tears that threatened to escape my eyes. Then I nodded, a jerky little up-and-down movement.

  “This isn’t about a stalker or a violent ex, is it?”

  Another jerky movement, this time shaking my head no.

  He hung his head, letting out a breath. “What are you into?” It sounded rhetorical, a question he didn’t really want an answer to, but it was so filled with disappointment that I had to answer.

  “It’s not what I’m into.” My voice was small. I felt small. “It’s what I’m trying to get away from.”

  He lifted his head to look at me. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

  “No. Because where I come from has nothing to do with my own choices.”

  He tilted his head. “Explain.”

  “I can’t,” I said simply.

  “You can,” he said more forcefully.

  “But I won’t.”

  He pushed to his feet and paced the short distance to the far wall of the room. I remained rooted to my spot, leaning against the wall right beside the door. The close quarters were stifling, but at the same time it felt like a gulf lay between us, filled with everything he couldn’t know.

  I scrubbed my fingers through my hair—a habit that came out when I was frustrated—then fingered it into a thick ponytail even though I didn’t have an elastic to hold it.

  “You should eat something.” The quiet concern in his voice was unnerving.

  I glanced at the bag of food that had looked so appealing when he’d walked in. Now it made me want to throw up. “I can’t.” I had to think. Plan. Leave. Find money. Get a car—steal one if I had to. But first I had to get him out of here. I dropped my hair and rubbed my palms against my thighs. “Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it. You probably have work to get back to.”

  “This is work.”

  I jolted upright as the thought of my father or Russo finding me here without resources threatened to crush my chest. I pushed away from the wall and walked right up to him. “No, it’s not.” My voice shook, even as I grabbed onto his sleeve, desperate to make him understand. “It can’t be. You can’t go digging into the car or try to find my name.” I shook my head as the panic seeped in, taking control of my voice. “You can’t do it, Jack. Please, please don’t do it. I just need a little time. That’s all I ask. Just let me figure out where I can go.” My eyes were so blurred with tears that there was no point trying to see his face, so I just dropped my forehead
on his chest.

  I didn’t care if I looked pathetic and desperate. He had to give me time. If he involved me in some sort of an investigation, I would lose my anonymity. Maybe the cops who found my car would run the VIN and be able to recover it, but at least I was almost an hour away, on the other side of I-70. Because if it was my father who’d had my car burned, there was no doubt that he would be following the investigation.

  Jack’s big hand came to rest on the back of my head. “Who burned your car?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m not sure.” My breathing was still ragged from the panic.

  “There’s more than one possibility?” he asked in dismay.

  I just nodded.

  He let out a noise of frustration that was almost a growl. “Don’t you have anyone you can call? Someone you can stay with?”

  I released his jacket and stepped back. “Not everyone has big families and amazing friends.”

  “You said you had a sister.”

  My heart squeezed, but I managed a deep breath. “We haven’t spoken in years. I don’t even know how to contact her.”

  “What about your dad?”

  He’s who I’m running from. I folded my arms into a shield. “Is this an interrogation, Officer Trent?”

  He dropped his eyes to the ground and blew out a breath. “No.”

  “So, the police down there—did you tell them anything about me?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t.” He winced at the admission. “I should have. That would have been the responsible thing to do, but something about it, about you—” He let out a frustrated sigh. “It all just feels wrong.” He put a hand over his mouth then pulled it down over his chin. “I’ll be honest. I want you to tell me. I want to know everything. I want you to let me help you.” He took a deep breath then released it. “But I’m not going to force it. So, how about you tell me what your plan is, and I’ll see if I can assist in some way.”

  I studied him, gauging his sincerity, his trustworthiness. I could see it took a lot for him to stop pushing.

  “What’s the plan, Angel?”

  “I need money.” It always came down to money, which is why it was so frustrating to have my carefully laid plans turned upside down. “I can afford maybe one more night here, and then I’m pretty well homeless. So if you happen to know someone who’s looking for an in-house cook or nanny or housekeeper . . .” Yeah right.

  I watched as he looked at the ground, thinking.

  “Or if you could just recommend a good alley for me to sleep in.” I gave him a bitter, sardonic smile.

  “If I vouched for you, I think I might know someone who would give you a job.”

  The vise on my chest eased just a little bit. “And that alley recommendation?”

  “I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”

  “What if I’m a money-grubbing con woman?” Or the daughter of a career criminal.

  “Then you’re a terrible one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you haven’t asked me for anything.”

  I shrugged my already hunched shoulders. “Sure I have. I asked for a job and an alley recommendation. Maybe I’m running a long con.”

  He smiled a little as he shook his head. “I’ll take my chances.” He picked up his hat from where he’d set it on the bed. “I better get back to the station.”

  I nodded, knowing that I should be anxious to be rid of him, but suddenly dreading the isolation, the worry that would eat me alive once I didn’t have him there to distract me.

  He pinned me with a look. “I’m not going to let you starve, or freeze, or sleep on the street. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “And you can tell me anything, as much as you’re comfortable with.” The hope in his expression was unnerving.

  I dropped my eyes, knowing I’d never tell him everything. “Thanks.”

  He walked to the door, and I moved back so he could open it. “I’ll come back after my shift and we can talk about jobs, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He stepped over the threshold, then turned back. “Are you ever going to tell me your real name?”

  I attempted a smile and failed. “Bye, Jack.”

  He sighed and left.

  I leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door and let my head thump against it. What was I going to do?

  My car had been found, searched and burned. Was it a warning from Russo meant to scare my father? Was it my father trying to cover my tracks so that only he could find me? Was it a total coincidence? I scoffed at myself. It certainly wasn’t that.

  I honestly didn’t believe it was Russo. Silas was the one that had found my workplace, and Russo wasn’t one for dramatic threats or warnings. Why warn someone when you could just shoot them then and there?

  I crossed back to the table. Now that I had a plan and Jack had agreed not to pursue his investigation, my appetite was back. Well, maybe not back, but at least I didn’t feel like I was going to be sick. I ate a few tacos and stuck the rest of them in the mini fridge, grateful that this room had both a fridge and a microwave.

  Next, I went to my bag and pulled out the box of hair color. Time to change things up so my hair would be different from my Maggie Lawrence ID.

  As I worked the black color through my hair, I flipped through the possibility of the car VIN coming back to bite me. The ID linked to it would be squeaky clean and appear legit. It was a good fake. One of the best. Because my father only employed the best, and in the case of forged IDs, the best had been a twenty-two-year-old guy who thought I was pretty. In order to convince the rather awkward Milo to take the job, my dad had sent me to make friends with him. Dad did that a lot. He always said that my prettiness and innocence could soften even the hardest of hearts. I realized now that it was my wide-eyed naiveté that he was leveraging. I wasn’t corrupt, and for some reason, corrupt people seemed to like that. Luckily, my father was also very protective. So while he liked me to be nice, everyone knew that when it came to me, there was a strict “look but don’t touch” rule. Creepy, I know. I never said my dad was a good guy.

  Milo was actually really sweet. Social interactions were not his forte, but I could tell he loved it when I talked to him.

  He’d taken the job with my dad, and a week later when he was delivering an order for my father, he tracked me down in the music room. I set down my violin and gave him a smile as he handed me an envelope with a shy lift of his lips. “These are for you.”

  “Thanks.” I took it from him. “Should I open it now?”

  “Yes. I want to see if you like them.” He pushed his wide-framed hipster glasses up his nose with one finger.

  I lifted the flap and pulled out a set of identification papers for someone named Silvi Montgomery. “This is your work?”

  “Yep,” he answered with a proud tilt to his head.

  “Who are they for?” I asked just before opening a passport with Silvi’s name and my picture. My eyes darted to him, startled.

  He shrugged a shoulder. “They’re just for fun.” At my confused look, he clarified. “I mean, they’re totally usable. Some of my best work. But they’re just for if you need them later.” He lifted one shoulder. “Thought you might like having one.”

  “Does anyone else know about them?”

  “No one.”

  I said an awkward “Thank you,” and he ducked his head and went on his way.

  It was weird, absolutely. Then again, Milo was an odd duck, so all of our interactions tended to be a little off. When I thought about it more, though, I saw the benefit. The next time I ran into Milo a few weeks later, I raved about how great his work was, how I wouldn’t mind having another, just in case.

  A month later, he brought me another one, and another after that. Every time he came to see my father, he brought me another identity. It was like his version of bringing me flowers. I gave him photos of me with different hair and makeup so that they would all be different.
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br />   We ended up being friends, though it certainly wasn’t a typical friendship. I think he was stuck in a weird position. He was either too smart, or too criminal, or too young to fit in anywhere.

  But we’d stayed friends, and by the time I left, I had seven separate and distinct sets of papers. I had trusted that Milo would keep the existence of those identities to himself, since he had always been more loyal to me than to my father. But if someone had found my car when it was three states away from where it had been yesterday, were any of my IDs safe? Had Dad gotten to Milo? Even if my other IDs were intact, the one connected to that car definitely wasn’t.

  An hour later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking over my handiwork. It was definitely black. I missed the honey blonde, and it was really depressing to realize that I didn’t remember what I looked like with my natural light brown. I hadn’t seen that color in years.

  I wished for some scissors so that I could cut some blunt bangs, but that wasn’t an option, so instead I parted my hair far to one side, allowing the swoop of my hair to cover most of my forehead on its way behind my ear. I studied myself with a critical eye and decided it would do.

  After cleaning up the hair dye, I filled the sink with soapy water and worked on cleaning my slacks and blouse. I really didn’t want to have to live in sweatpants for the foreseeable future. Once those were rinsed, wrung out, and hung over the shower curtain, I went back to the bed and dumped the contents of my bag. Extra socks, extra t-shirt, my old ballet flats, a disposable cell phone, a box of granola bars, and a Powerade. My purse held $104 in bills, some change, a gym membership card that I needed to get rid of, and a picture of my mother that was so wrinkled and faded that it was hardly recognizable.

  That was it.

  My life had been reduced to this. Though I supposed I could add hotel soaps and lotion to my list of possessions. I didn’t even have a toothbrush or paste. I would have to go down to the lobby and hope that they sold a few essentials at the front office.

  I leaned my elbows on my knees and kneaded my forehead with my fingertips. What was I going to do? Could I really stay here and work when my car had been torched less than an hour’s drive from here? Granted it had been on a country highway south of I-70, so anyone searching would have a lot of ground to cover. If I had access to my bus locker, I would have the resources to go far away, but I didn’t, so I’d have to try something new.