Run Away Baby

“Want any?” Charlie asked, gesturing toward the remainder of his fries.

“No thanks.”

“Have a great day,” said their waitress, setting the card and receipt in front of Charlie. He stuffed them both in his wallet before Abby could catch a glimpse.

They both stood up. He’d accidentally dribbled some of his milkshake on his belly while he was eating. Like a messy kid. It made her sad. Even though they were in public, she took his hand and they walked out to the parking lot together. She gave him a long hug as they stood between their vehicles.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you to the cabin?” he asked.

“I’m positive.”

“Call me soon,” he said.

“I will.”

He got in his truck and she got in her SUV and they went their separate ways.

Chapter 29

The first thing Abby saw when she got to the cottage was tire tracks in the tall grass beside the driveway. From someone installing cameras, she assumed.

She let herself in and took a look around. Nothing immediately seemed out of sorts. The room appeared as clean and tidy as she’d left it. To her left was the steep, narrow staircase. In front of her was a small closet. To her right was the living room, looking cute and quaint, the pink, midcentury sofa as stylish as she remembered. An old wicker rocking chair creaked slightly from the breeze blowing in through an open window. Who would have left a window open? Had she? Would a security company be that unsecure?

She went over to close the window. The covered porch that wrapped around this side of the cottage had kept the recent rain out. She stood back and surveyed the room from this angle. The latch hooked throw pillows seemed a little crooked, but maybe she was imagining things. She scanned the ceiling and corners, looking for anything new she didn’t recognize, be it a spider or a camera. Nothing unusual jumped out at her.

It wasn’t until she got in the kitchen that she knew something was definitely wrong. An old, cheap toaster she’d never seen before was sitting on top of the kitchen table, plugged into an outlet halfway up the wall. Abby hadn’t eaten a piece of toast in years. A toaster was one thing she would never buy at a flea market. Furthermore, she wou

ld never leave a toaster plugged in. As a child, her mom had warned her and her sisters practically daily about how many fires were started by toasters.

She stood there, staring at the toaster. Randall knew about her toaster-phobia. Had he planted it here? Was he trying to mess with her head? It looked so innocuous sitting there beneath her newly acquired collection of plaster wall fruit art that it was hard to believe it could actually mean something menacing. Abby went over to it and pressed down the lever. A quiet, vibrating purr began to fill the room and the coils inside began to glow.

Over the sound, she heard a tiny creak above her head. She looked around the kitchen, wondering what else might be different. Hadn’t there been a dish towel hanging from the handle of the oven? Was she crazy, or could she smell a lingering hint of fried eggs?

There was another creak above her head, a shifting of weight on old floorboards. The inappropriateness of it registered to her, and all her attention was diverted to what was happening upstairs.

When she had arrived, she’d hung her keys on the hook by the front door. She couldn’t get to them without passing right by the staircase.

There was another creak, a little farther away now. A little closer to the top of the stairs.

Move! Move! You have to move, she told herself.

And suddenly, mercifully, her legs began working again. She turned and darted for the door, grabbing her keys, ripping the wooden key holder right off the wall, and ran back outside. She fumbled with the remote as she ran, attempting to unlock her SUV, and in doing so, she dropped her keys in the tall grass. She gasped, falling to the ground, trying to find them. Her body still ached from Randall’s beating, and throwing herself down like that made everything hurt all over again. She looked back at the cottage, just as her hand closed around her keys. She pushed herself back up, staggering toward her vehicle. She attempted to hit the unlock button again and this time it worked. She jumped in, locked the doors, and took off as fast as she could go.

Chapter 30

Abby decided she had better say something to Randall about the toaster, in case he had planted it there as a test to see if she’d really gone out to the cottage.

They were sitting by the pool, Randall still in his work clothes, minus shoes, and she in a one-piece swimsuit with a long flowy cover-up over it. The cover-up, when properly belted, did a pretty good job of hiding her bruises. Even though two weeks had passed, she was just starting to recover. No part of her body had gone untouched that day. Fortunately, her nose didn’t seem to be broken after all, and her face looked okay. Today’s trip to the diner and cottage had been the first time she’d left the house since the beating. Tomorrow she’d be back at work, wearing tights with her skirt and a turtleneck.

Normally Randall complained if Abby wore a one-piece swimsuit, but today he said nothing. They were eating some cold salads that Rosa had made for them before leaving for the day. There was chicken salad and a loaf of freshly baked bread to make sandwiches, a bowl of fruit salad, chopped veggies in marinade. A regular little picnic. Randall was not impressed.

Abby had been about to launch into her story about the toaster when he pulled out his phone and placed a call to Lobster Brothers.

“Randall Greer here. Is this Shandra? How you doing, Sweetie? Good, good. Send over a number four and number seven. That’s right, 519 Celosia Boulevard. Hold the coleslaw. Give me some extra bacon rolls.”

“I’m good with this,” Abby whispered, gesturing toward all the food Rosa had made. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening.

“You haven’t got it on file? How do you know my address, but you don’t know my credit card number? I’ve told you to write it down. Give me a second.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He read the number. Abby picked at her fruit salad, smiling blandly, trying to seem like she was sympathetic to his troubles. He did this step, the reading of the numbers, slowly, deliberately, in a voice that said he felt he was talking to someone really stupid. To Abby, each number sounded like Spit in my food, Spit in my food.