I wish no one was looking for me.
I wish I had even one person to confide in.
And more than anything I wish I had some way to find Travis.
The only emotional indulgence I allow is telling myself that once I find him he will assure me that I’m safe, that everything is going to be okay, and that he will take care of me from now on. Just like he did when I was little and ran to him when I was sad or frightened. He always made me feel secure, and my heart clings to the remembrance of that feeling. Other than that one thing, I have to be ruthless about being strong and making my own way.
I kn
ow the reality. THIS is my life, as much as I might wish that it wasn’t.
No one is coming to save me. That is for books and movies. For all I know, Travis didn’t even make it home from Afghanistan, and that is why he never came for me. Something in my soul tells me that I would know if he was gone, but I also know that I shouldn't pin my hopes on the promise an eighteen-year-old boy made to a sad little girl whose heart was breaking.
Trying again to shake off the funk I’m in, I pull on my ratty old jacket and grab my keys. It’s time to go to work.
I park my pickup in the side lot of the diner like I usually do and peruse my surroundings. For the most part I ignore them, but something feels different today. A tension in the air. Maybe it’s because I have been feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in those unproductive feelings, but the sketchiness of the truck stop really hits hard today.
There are two banks of grimy pumps outside of the mini-mart and diner. Nothing has a name. That should be a prime indicator of how low-class this place is. Old hand-painted signs over the doors say only “Diner” and “Market.”
Across the highway is a strip club that’s in even worse shape, its neon sign faded and always blinking GIRLS. The parking lot always sports several motorcycles and run down trucks, no matter what time of day.
Several of the day shift waitresses at the diner cross the highway for evening shifts stripping, and there are several more who use the diner as a way to make “appointments” to meet truckers when they get off shift. That’s the kind of place this is: waitressing is more often than not a front for prostitutes.
I know the girls who do that—work the parking lot—are usually tied up with not-so-nice men, usually the ones who hang out at the strip joint. It’s been my personal mission to stay as far away from those men as I can when they venture inside the diner. No matter how hard things are for me, I’m nothing but grateful that my life has not been reduced to the level of giving ten-dollar blow jobs in a filthy truck stop bathroom… or worse.
I know that some of the other waitresses think I’m being uppity, but I really don’t judge them for what they do. I know that, at best, any of us are just a few steps away from having to face those kinds of choices. The few of us working here who are like me, who are really just there to hustle and wait tables, stick together the best we can. We aren’t what you could call friends, but we do watch out for each other.
Ana, a new waitress about my age, is the closest thing I have to a friend, not that we take our chats any further than taking our coffee breaks together at a table in the corner. After her first day at work here, I walked her to her car at the end of our shift and handed her my canister of pepper spray. Her sweetness made me afraid for her safety. I’m not sure why she chooses to work here, but I suspect that, like me, she is hiding from someone.
Probably her baby daddy from the few things she has let slip about him.
I don’t think she told him she was leaving, let alone let him know about her pregnancy.
I do know that she is sad. She misses him, I think. I won’t ever ask, it’s not my business, but I can’t help but wonder why she left when it’s obvious that doing so broke her heart.
Reaching into my apron pocket as I get out of my truck, I confirm that I have my can of spray. I smile a little at the old aluminum baseball bat poking out from under the seat. One indulgence I pay for every month is time in batting cages. I’m not very good, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something to be ready to defend myself if it’s ever necessary.
So far, I have never needed to use either the spray or the bat, but I always park under a light and as close to the building as possible. Better safe than sorry. I know that I can’t count on any good Samaritans here, so it’s up to me to keep myself out of harm's way.
What it all boils down to is that I’m a twenty-year-old virgin who has NO intention of losing it to the kind of nasty-ass guy who frequents this place. I have no illusions that it couldn’t happen to me. It’s hard enough to get some of them to respect that I’m here to serve food, not be groped. That’s why I park under a light and don’t go anywhere without pepper spray. There is a much nicer truck stop just a little way up the highway, but I can’t work there. They actually look into the people they hire, and I know that my fake identity wouldn’t hold up to any level of scrutiny. That’s one problem with being on the run before you are even able to vote. I have no idea where to even try to get a fake ID that would let me get a better job, and I can’t risk actually using my real one either. So, here I am. Stuck.
At the truck stop I am known as Francesca Andrews. Faye Cooper no longer exists anywhere but in my mind, and no one who knew her even knows that she is still alive.
I shouldn't be scared anymore, I'm already dead. I'm a ghost.
Chapter Three
Travis
I need to get out of town for a while. To get away from my house and the office and everything else. The lure of the cabin claws at me, making focusing on anything else impossible.
It’s been fucking years! I’ve built a successful business with Blake. We have completed all kinds of investigations, and this entire time I have not once stopped looking for Faye.
I don’t understand how I can be failing at the most important case of my life.
I just need a break.
I need to stop this downward spiral I’m in. I can hardly sleep. I don’t go out with the guys like I used to. Blake isn’t the fussy type, but even he has been worried about me. This morning, when our office manager Becca came in, I had already been glued to my computer for hours doing social media searches. She pushed a cup of coffee into my hand, and made me eat a bowl of cereal she has started keeping in the small breakroom. I know it’s there for me. She is concerned. All of my friends are.