Chapter 5 - THE MOTEL ROOM
The neon sign outside the window buzzed with a rhythmic, maddening hum.
Batesburg Motor Inn. Vacancy.
I sat on the edge of the sagging double bed, staring at the peeling floral wallpaper. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:14 AM.
In the bed next to mine, under a scratchy wool blanket, Chloe and Ben were asleep.
I had driven home, packed three suitcases, woken the kids, and left before Daniel could make it back from Mark’s house. I drove for two hours, crossing the state line into South Carolina, heading toward the only place I knew we would be safe.
But I had stopped halfway. I was too exhausted, too shattered to make it all the way to the lake house in the dark.
My phone vibrated on the mattress.
Daniel (47 Missed Calls).
I flipped the phone over. I couldn't look at his name. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his handwriting on that letter. I want out. Keep it quiet.
While I was vomiting bile into a plastic basin, begging God to let me live long enough to see my children graduate kindergarten, my husband was drafting his exit strategy.
A soft rustling sound came from the other bed.
“Mommy?”
I blinked, wiping my eyes quickly. Ben, my nine-year-old, was sitting up. His hair was sticking up in every direction. He rubbed his eyes, looking around the cheap motel room in confusion.
“Hey, baby,” I whispered, moving over to sit on the edge of his bed. I smoothed his hair down.
“Are we hiding?” Ben asked, his voice thick with sleep.
The innocence of the question broke my heart.
“No, sweetie. We’re just… taking a little trip. An adventure. We’re going to the lake house tomorrow.”
“Is Dad coming?”
I swallowed the massive lump in my throat. “Not this time, baby. Go back to sleep.”
Ben laid his head back down, his breathing evening out almost instantly.
I sat there in the dark, the silence pressing in on me. I had to protect my children. Lorraine was desperate, facing prison, and she knew the bulldozers were coming Monday. Daniel was a coward who had proven he couldn't be trusted when the pressure was on.
I was completely alone.
Suddenly, heavy headlights swept across the motel room window.
Tires crunched on the gravel outside my door.
I froze. I hadn't told anyone where I was going. I had turned off my location sharing.
A car door slammed. Heavy footsteps approached my room.
My heart hammered in my ears. I looked around for something, anything, to defend myself with. I grabbed the heavy glass ashtray off the nightstand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Claire.”
It wasn’t Daniel’s voice.
It was Mark.
I crept to the door and looked through the peephole. Mark was standing under the flickering yellow bulb, looking absolutely terrified.
I unbolted the door and cracked it open, keeping the chain engaged.
“How did you find me?” I hissed.
“Chloe posted a Snapchat with a geofilter an hour ago,” Mark whispered, looking over his shoulder at the empty highway. “Claire, please let me in. You’re in danger.”
I hesitated, then undid the chain.
Mark slipped inside, bringing the smell of stale coffee and gasoline with him. He looked at the sleeping kids and lowered his voice to a bare murmur.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It wasn’t a legal document. It was a child’s drawing.
I took it from him. It was a picture Chloe had drawn when she was six years old. Stick figures of our family standing in front of a blue house by a lake. A bright yellow sun in the corner.
“I found this in Mom’s car,” Mark said, his voice trembling. “Claire, she’s not backing down. When Daniel came back to the house tonight looking for you, he told Mom that you have the trust documents.”
“I do,” I said fiercely. “I have the real deed. She can’t sell it.”
“You don’t understand,” Mark said, grabbing my arms. “Mom isn’t trying to beat the deed anymore. She’s trying to invalidate you.”
A cold dread washed over me. “What do you mean?”
“Mom went to a judge at midnight. A judge she plays golf with. She filed an emergency injunction.” Mark took a shaky breath. “She’s claiming your cancer has returned. She’s claiming you’ve suffered a psychotic break from the trauma, that you kidnapped the children, and that you are mentally unfit to act as a trustee.”
I stared at him, horrified. “She can’t prove that! It’s a lie!”
“She doesn't need to prove it permanently,” Mark said urgently. “She only needs a temporary 72-hour guardianship order. Just long enough for her to sign the developer's contract on Chloe’s behalf. Once the house is demolished on Monday, it’s a civil matter. Mom takes the millions, pays off her bookies, and disappears.”
I looked down at Chloe’s childhood drawing. The stick figures holding hands.
May you like
“Where is she now?” I asked, my voice turning to ice.
“She’s heading to the lake house,” Mark said. “She’s meeting the developers there at 8:00 AM to sign the final transfer. She brought the sheriff with her, Claire. If you show up, they have orders to detain you for a psychiatric hold.”
