Page 39 of Ransom

Then there it is. The garage, where Robert taught me everything I know about cars and life, looms ahead, its weathered facade bringing a lump to my throat. The tow truck is parked in front, and the lights inside are on. She's in there right now. So close, but so fucking far.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, my chest so tight it hurts to breathe. Being back here feels like walking into a minefield of memories, each step threatening to detonate another explosion of regret and longing.

It's not just Blair.

It's Robert.

It's the kid I was when I got here and the man I left as. And everything in between. My whole life was in that building. In the garage downstairs, but also in the apartment above it. It's so like the Knight Street garage; only this apartment wasn't an afterthought. Here, there were three full bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a big living room and kitchen. Pretty sure the studio at Knight Street was put in after. I'm also not sure it was legal, but everyone knows you don't verify shit like that unless you want the inspectors climbing down your throat.

That's the last thing I would have done. Because that crappy afterthought of an apartment was my first real home after leaving here. It was the home I brought my brothers to. It's the home I built my family in. It was fucking precious.

It still is.

Yanking my eyes away from McKenna's, I focus back on the road and navigate a few blocks to the only motel in town. But it's boarded up. Half this town is boarded up. What the fuck happened here? This place wasn't ever crowded, but it was alive. Now? It's on death's fucking door.

Driving around a little more, I finally spot a bed-and-breakfast sign.

I'm not going in there. No fucking way.

I'd rather sleep in the car. Because I know this place. I remember the owner. Mrs. Winston. She was one of the biggest busybodies when I was a kid. If I stay here, the whole town is going to know I'm here, and any kind of tactical advantage I might have had is gone.

What the hell am I thinking? I have no tactical advantage. Blair already knows I'm here. As much as I liked and respected most of the people in this town, I'm not here for them.

So what does it matter if Mrs. Winston knows I'm here? As comfortable as this car is, I don’t want to sleep in it. Not if there’s a chance for a bed and a shower.

Grabbing my go-bag from the trunk, I take the steps two at a time, then press the buzzer. There are still lights on inside, and I'm relieved to see a wavy figure heading for the door.

The door swings open, and there she stands – Mrs. Winston, wrapped in a floral housecoat that's seen better days. Her eyes widen as she takes me in, muddy shoes and all.

"Oh my, what have we here?" she exclaims, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity.

I flash her my most charming smile. "Good evening, ma'am. I was hoping you might have a room available for the night?"

Mrs. Winston's face lights up. "Of course, dear! Come in, come in. Though…" She eyes my mud-caked shoes. "Perhaps you could leave those on the porch?"

Smiling, I pour on the charm. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of tracking mud through your lovely home."

She blushes at the compliment, ushering me inside. The foyer is exactly the way I imagined it – floral wallpaper, doilies on every surface, and the faint scent of lavender hanging in the air.

"Now then," Mrs. Winston says, bustling behind a little check-in counter. "Let's get you settled. How long will you be staying with us?"

I hesitate. "I'm... not entirely sure. Let's start with a night and go from there?"

She nods, pulling out a thick ledger. "That's fine, dear. Now, I'll just need to see some identification."

Ah, shit."Is that really necessary? I'm happy to pay cash up front."

Mrs. Winston's eyes narrow slightly. "I'm afraid I must insist. It's policy, you understand."

For a moment, I consider making my excuses and leaving. But the thought of spending the night in my car – or worse, driving back to Chicago – is enough to make me pull out my wallet and hand over my driver's license. Mrs. Winston takes it, adjusting her glasses as she peers at the name.

The change is immediate. Her eyes widen, darting between my face and the ID. "Ransom Kyle?" she gasps. "Little Ranny? Or I guess not so little."

I wince at the childhood nickname. "No, not so little, Mrs. Winston."

She claps her hands together, a strange delight all over her face. Or maybe it's not so strange. I was trouble when I moved here. And I left in a fucking storm of glass. I'm sure people talked about me a lot when I left. And I'm sure they didn't have very nice things to say.

"Oh my, look at you! All grown up and so handsome. Why, I remember when you were young, always trailing after Robert McKenna like a lost puppy."

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