But I Need You (This Love Hurts 2)

“Gunshot residue doesn’t lie and you need somewhere to wash it all off, plus a change of clothes.”

“I shouldn’t have done this,” she says and my mother’s statement is a plea. As if she wishes she could go back. I’ve heard that cadence so many times. “Just take me back.”

“I’m not taking you back until I make sure you’re all right.”

“Did you see what I did?” she says and her voice cracks. With a shuddering breath she croaks out, “You shouldn’t have to deal with me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my baby girl.”

“No talking now. Please, just wait.” It’s always a struggle when a child watches their parent break down. But right now? It feels like that bullet went straight through my heart.

“Let me get you inside.”

“Don’t help me. I don’t deserve it.” She begs me as I pull into the parking lot.

“I don’t know, but …” I trail off as I struggle to justify anything I’ve done.

“You don’t know what he did.” Pain lingers in each of her words. “I couldn’t … I didn’t know it all. I just thought … Oh God …” My mother’s sobs wrack through her and she rocks back and forth. A shivering chill flows over me as I slam the car into park.

Something’s been broken for a very long time. More broken than the cracks I skipped over as my father held my hand down Main Street.

How did I ignore it? Waves of heat and anxiety crash within me. Suddenly I need the cold air outside just to breathe.

The lot is mostly vacant. Which is expected. It’s not like this town gets a lot of tourism.

There are a few cars, all of which are much older models than my own.

I turn back to look at my mother, wanting to calm her down or at least make sure she knows to stay here for just a moment. The seat groans loud and heavy as my mother sways with a hand over her heart, her face tilted up to the roof of the car. Like she’s praying.

“I want you to tell me everything.”

“Don’t risk—”

I smack the passenger seat to get her attention. Her eyes whip up at me.

“I’ve already abandoned the scene of a crime. I’m going in that office right there, getting a room and then I need you to tell me everything.” I spoke it all too quickly. But I got it out at least. Licking my cracked bottom lip, I wait for her to say something, anything.

The nod of my mother’s head is subtle, but she agrees. “I’ll stay here.”

I’m firmer this time, like I am with the defendants. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything.”

My mother hesitates but again, she gives me that small nod of agreement. Not wasting another second, I get out of the car and the cold air is nothing but brutal and refreshing at once.

Sniffing and wiping under my eyes, I brace myself to face the first person I have to encounter, a potential witness.

The check-in area isn’t any larger than six by six feet. A counter spans the length of the room and behind it there’s a plain white door that I imagine leads to a back hall or closet.

As I place my hand on the sign-in sheet, wanting to tap it instead of the bell, attempting to get the attention of the man laying back in the chair, his feet up on the counter and a hat over his face, I see under my sleeve of the cream sweater.

There’s just a spot of blood on it.

My father’s blood. My own runs cold as I pull my arm back just in time for the old man to lift the hat from his head.

“Didn’t hear you come in.” He speaks while rubbing his eyes with just one hand and then pinching the bridge of his nose. “Allergies always get me this time of year. Excuse me,” he says and then blinks away whatever sleep he was attempting to get.

“A room for tonight. Maybe the weekend?” I ask and even to my own ears I sound out of breath.

My tone gets the man’s attention. He glances away from me to look past me.

“Just you?” he asks and I nod. It’s a lie, but better that than the truth. Why the hell would I get a motel room for me and my mother when she lives in town?

“How much?” I ask, already prying out my wallet and counting the bills.

I’ve stayed here plenty of times. It’s only sixty-five dollars for the night. He tells me one hundred and I hand it over in a single bill. He eyes it for a second too long before taking it.

It’s only then I can breathe. “Thank you.”

“You all right?” he asks, his lips in a thin line.

I let out a sigh and close my eyes before telling him, “It’s been one hell of a drive and it’s way too cold for September.”