Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)
Again, assuming they’re not already tracking my car.
Focus, Chloe. One step at a time.
Taking a steadying breath, I walk into the small convenience store attached to the gas station and, with a small wave at the elderly woman behind the register, go directly to the bathroom in the back. Once my most pressing needs are taken care of, I wash my hands and face, fill up my water bottle from the faucet, and pull out my wallet to count the bills, just in case.
Nope, I didn’t miscalculate or miss a stray twenty. Thirty-two dollars and twenty-four cents is all the cash I have left.
The face in the bathroom mirror is that of a stranger, all strained and hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under overly large brown eyes. I’ve neither eaten nor slept normally since I’ve been on the run, and it shows. I look older than my twenty-three years, the past month having aged me by a decade.
Suppressing the useless bout of self-pity, I focus on the practical. Step one: decide how to allocate the funds I do have.
The biggest priority is gas for the car. It’s got less than a quarter tank, and there’s no telling when I’ll find another gas station in this area. Filling up all the way will set me back at least thirty dollars, leaving me only a couple of dollars for food to quench the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.
More importantly, the next time I run out of gas, I’m screwed.
Exiting the bathroom, I head to the register and tell the elderly cashier to give me twenty bucks worth of gas. I also grab a hot dog and a banana, and devour the hot dog while she slowly counts out the change. The banana I stash in my hoodie’s front pocket for tomorrow’s breakfast.
“Here you go, dearie,” the cashier says in a croaky voice, handing me the change along with a receipt. With a warm smile, she adds, “You have a nice day now, hear?”
To my shock, my throat constricts, and tears prickle at the back of my eyes, the simple kindness undoing me completely. “Thank you. You too,” I say in a choked voice, and stuffing the change into my wallet, I hurry toward the exit before I can alarm the woman by bursting into tears.
I’m almost out the door when a local newspaper catches my eye. It’s in a bin labeled “FREE,” so I grab it before continuing on to my car.
While the tank is filling up, I get my unruly emotions under control and unfold the newspaper, going straight for the classified section in the back. It’s a long shot, but maybe someone around here is hiring for some kind of gig, like washing windows or trimming hedges.
Even fifty bucks could up my chances of survival.
At first, I don’t see anything along the lines of what I’m looking for, and I’m about to fold the paper in disappointment when a listing at the bottom of the page catches my attention:
Live-in tutor wanted for four-year-old. Must be well-educated, good with children, and willing to relocate to a remote mountain estate. $3K/week cash. To apply, email resume to
Three grand a week in cash? What the fuck?
Unable to believe my eyes, I reread the ad.
Nope, all the words are still the same, which is insane. Three grand a week for a tutor? In cash?
It’s a hoax, it’s got to be.
Heart pounding, I finish filling up the tank and get into the car. My mind is racing. I’m the perfect candidate for this position. Not only have I just graduated with an Education Studies major, but I’ve babysat and tutored kids all through high school and college. And relocation to a remote mountain estate? Sign me up! The more remote, the better.
It’s as if the ad was crafted just for me.
Wait a minute. Could this be a trap?
No, that’s truly paranoid thinking. Ever since this morning’s close call, I’ve been driving aimlessly with the sole goal of putting as much distance between myself and Boise as possible while staying off the major roads and highways to avoid traffic cameras. My pursuers would’ve had to have a crystal ball to guess that I’d end up in this remote area, much less pick up this local paper. The only way this could be a trap is if they’d placed similar ads in all the newspapers across the country, as well as on all the major job sites, and even then, it feels like a stretch.
No, this is unlikely to be a trap set specifically for me, but it could be something equally sinister.
I hesitate for a moment, then get out of the car and go back into the store.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, approaching the elderly cashier. “Do you live in this area?”
“Why, yes, dearie.” A smile brightens her wrinkled face. “Elkwood Creek born and bred.”