Hidden in a Small Town by Stacy M Wray

Author:Stacy M Wray [Wray, Stacy M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kingston Publishing Company
Published: 2020-03-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

I hate Sundays.

The bar is closed, forcing me to occupy my time away from home.

Most times, I scour the library for a good book, either holing myself in a hidden cubby or taking it with me and finding a bench in the park beneath the shade of a towering tree – depending on how high the temperature soars that day.

I’ve even gone as far as to haul every stitch of dirty clothing I own, spending the day with my ass planted in a hard chair. Watching mine and other people’s clothes rotate in sudsy water exceeds any clanking of chains and vicious threats bellowing through the vents, even though I have adequate appliances nestled in the back room of my house. Most people would do anything to avoid a laundromat.

Most people aren’t me.

It’s been nearly four weeks since I made one of the worst decisions of my life. So hell-bent on revenge and snatching the upper hand I neglected to carry out the plan in my head. I should have gone to the cops. Should have taken my chances. But when I think about what those chances involved, I’m right back to where I am now. I’m thankful I’m alive and unharmed. How many people can boast about how badass they were at thwarting a crime so unfathomable?

And it’s this mindset right here that has me on the edge of insanity. The teetering between regret and satisfaction on a daily basis. I’m not sure how much more I can take because I see no end solution. I see no out. What did I think would happen? That he would repent? Apologize for his abominable behavior? A well-taught lesson would reform him? What a damn idiot I’ve been!

Today, I’ve managed to stay away from my outlying home until nightfall. I went for a drive to Parke County, wanting to see all of their covered bridges. I stopped and retrieved a map from a tiny information booth, thankful it was self-serve. I spent the day following the paths of the old, historical landmarks, most of them impassable but lovely to witness. And after stopping at a quaint diner in Marshall for dinner, I’m on my way back toward town, my foot easing on the gas to stretch the time, the dread increasing against my will.

As I drive through Main Street, past the old bookstore and the diner Slater took me to once, I notice how unattended the sidewalks are on a Sunday night, most places not even open for business today, aside from a few restaurants. It’s almost eerie how deserted it is.

I make the familiar turns, one after another, as I follow the stalks of green that line the country roads, my eyes so accustomed to the unlit path. That’s why I’m immediately alerted to the headlights that shine in my rearview mirror, my stomach dropping instinctively. My heart nearly explodes as I watch the car mimic my turns, each one increasing the sweat accumulating on the palms of my hands.

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