Omens (Cainsville 1)

A throat-clearing behind me. I wheeled, saw the old man, and flushed.

"Sorry," I said.

"I don't blame you. You made an appointment and she's not there to keep it."

"She is there. I heard her."

He shook his head. "That's just the TV. She leaves it on all the time." I was about to say I'd heard footsteps, too, but he continued, "This isn't the place for you. The building's all right. But the neighborhood?" He shook his head. "Not safe these days. Not safe at all."

"You might want to take your own advice."

He smiled and when he did, his teeth were perfect. Not unnaturally perfect, like dentures, but straight and white, like those of a man half his age. "I can take care of myself," he said. "Now, you've helped me, miss, so I owe you one. Have you ever heard of Cainsville?"

I shook my head.

"Little town outside the city. That's where you want to be." He handed me a folded slip of paper.

"I need to stay in Chicago," I said. "The jobs are here."

"Jobs are everywhere, if you're not too picky. Cainsville has its share. And apartments at half the price of this."

He pressed the paper into my hand. "My second cousin Grace owns a walk-up there. She'll set you up. Give her that note, though, or she might try to tell you she doesn't have a room. She's a fickle old bat."

I unfolded the paper. On it was an add

ress and a note. "Give this girl a room." Signed "Jack in Chicago."

"Thank--" I looked up, but he was already back at his apartment door.

"Thank you," I called.

He nodded and went inside.

----

I had no intention of moving to a small town, particularly one I'd never heard of. I appreciated the kind gesture, but I saw no life for me outside Chicago.

I tried a couple more apartments, in even worse neighborhoods, then surrendered to exhaustion and found a hotel. A motel, actually. The kind I'd only ever seen on TV, usually where the bad guys holed up until the cops came busting through the door. Two stories of dirty brick, rusty metal railing along the second floor, neon sign out front promising clean rooms, as if that was a selling point you wouldn't find elsewhere. At thirty-nine dollars a night, it probably was.

I was so tired that when the desk clerk did a double-take, I told myself he didn't actually recognize me. Even when he surreptitiously checked a newspaper under the desk, I stood my ground. This was going to happen, so I'd better just get used to it.

He didn't deny me a room. Just fumbled through the check-in process, not even asking for a credit card deposit when I said I'd be paying cash. He messed up on the room rate, too, charging me twenty-nine. Or maybe, considering who my biological parents were, he thought it best to give me a discount. I didn't care. It was money saved, and I was quickly realizing I'd need every penny, even the lucky one nestled in my pocket.

My room was just big enough to hold a double bed, a tiny table, and a dresser of scuffed particle board. The pink and brown polyester bedspread had a bizarrely intricate design, probably to disguise stains. Matching curtains. As advertised, the room was clean. Or clean enough if you didn't look too carefully.

I made it as far as the bed, dropped onto it, and sat there for at least an hour. I wanted to cry. Sob into the pillow and vent all the day's frustration and loneliness. But I was too tired to manage it. Too empty.

I finally fell back onto a bedspread that stank of spilled beer and sex, and I didn't care. I just lay there and tried not to think about how much I missed home and how upset I was with my mother and how badly I wanted to hear Dad tell me everything would be okay.

I thought of calling James. Just to let him know I was all right.

Instead I called my mother. I blocked my number as I did, telling myself that I had to because otherwise she'd use it to call me later. In truth, I blocked it because it gave me an excuse if she didn't use it later.

No one answered the new cell number she'd given me. It didn't even ring to voice mail, suggesting the number had been disconnected. So I phoned Howard. When I announced myself, there was a pause, as if he was wondering whether he could accidentally hang up. First thing I was doing when I got things under control again? Firing his ass.

"I'm trying to get in touch with Mum," I said. "I want to let her know I'm okay."

"You told her that this morning, Olivia."