hours straight. After I woke up, I stopped by a large department store and bought several outfits. I saw a few women who looked my age walk by, and they had on shorts and t-shirts or sundresses, so I copied what they had on.
I got back in my car and drove. Pine Hills looked cozy. Maybe I could stay there for a while. My father's partners would never expect me to be here. They would assume I was just like the rest of our family and would never consider lowering myself to stay in a country town. They’d look in Manhattan, Beverly Hills, or Milan, Italy.
Sure enough, the person next to me was driving a pickup truck with the windows down. Country music blasted from the inside of the cab. It was the perfect disguise for me.
After driving around for a few minutes, I spotted a public library. Maybe they’d have an opening there. I had some cash, but I couldn't use a credit card if I wanted to hide. Soon enough I’d need money. The library was cool and dark and the walls were covered in wood paneling that looked thirty-years-old.
The woman at the desk wore a name tag said ‘Abigail’
“Can I help you?” she asked in a slow, drawling, southern voice. I could listen to her talk all day.
“I'm looking for a job,” I said. “Do you have any openings?”
She laughed. But it wasn't cruel or mocking. It had a soft gentle sound to it. “Oh man, our funding has been cut, they barely have enough to pay me and I have a library science degree. But the sheriff in town is looking for help. Would you be interested in that?”
I assumed she meant he was looking for an administrative assistant. Because I sure wasn't qualified to be a sheriff’s deputy, but it was worth a shot. It seemed likely that the same skills that I use as a reporter could be used as an office manager or a secretary, or whatever it was that he wanted.
Anything would be better than posing as a drug addict on the streets of Chicago, so I could definitely do the work he needed. My perspective on the kinds of work I would do had definitely changed during the course of the last month. I didn't have a lot of choices either. Eventually my cash would run out.
“That sounds wonderful. Where should I apply?”
“Go on over to the sheriff’s office. It’s on Cedar Street. I’ll show you,” she said.
I expected her to open an app on her phone, or even pull out a paper map, but instead she came out from behind her desk and tugged on my elbow. I followed her outside, and she pointed to the left.
“Turn down there, and it’s the big brick building. You can’t miss it.”
In Chicago this would have never happened. No one that I’d just met would have given me this kind of help. And directions weren't that simple in the city. Having always lived in cities, being able to walk a few blocks to my destination was a novelty.
I pulled open the heavy glass door, reminding myself that I no longer was posing as a drug addict. For the last few weeks I've been hyper-vigilant, always watching out for law enforcement. When I’d been with Jenny, part of me even wondered if I’d get swept up in an underground FBI sting. But that hadn’t happened.
But now part of me was just permanently on edge, from my time on the streets, and from last night, and overhearing Christopher and Carl’s discussion this morning. I was far more afraid of my father's partners than I was of any of the people I’d met on the street.
Inside the sheriff’s office, a matronly woman sat at the reception style desk in the front. She barely glanced at me when I said I needed to see the sheriff. She merely waved her hand pointing in the direction of his office.
That was another thing that never would have happened in Chicago. Someone off the street didn't just walk in to see the chief of police, not even if they had an appointment. She didn’t even ask my name, much less to see my ID.
The door where she pointed was open, and the door read ‘sheriff’ so I had to assume I was in the right place. I fervently hoped the person who was supposed to be here at this time wasn’t going to come rushing in, ready to interview for