The Perfect Cover (The Perfect Stranger #2) - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,27

that he would stay put so we can get there as safely as possible.

While it’s still light out, I decide to leave them with their beers and go on a walk to clear my head.

“Where are you going to go?” Tyler asks when I grab my purse. “There’s just a road, that’s it up ahead.”

“I don’t know. I’m getting a little bit claustrophobic being in the car and then being stuck here in this little room.”

They are each three beers in and I wonder if the couple of six packs that we have left is going to be enough.

I want Tyler to follow me, but he doesn’t.

I don’t wait long.

I don’t know how long I can make it out here in the cold but a part of it feels almost refreshing and relaxing. The wind picks up in the desert but still I go further and further behind the parking lot.

Outside, I admire the beautiful colors of the Southwest. The sky is some sort of majestic color of light blue, fuchsia pink, and little sprays of red. There are a few cacti here and there, sprouting up all covered in flowers.

Spring is supposed to be the most beautiful time in this region and I wish that we were going through the Grand Canyon or Tucson on our way to California.

I have never seen a saguaro cactus in real life and I have only viewed the Grand Canyon on Google. Both seem to be like these magical otherworld beings that only exist in another dimension or perhaps in another life.

When I get tired of walking, I find a little bit of shelter in the curve of the land and kneel behind a puffy shrub of creosote.

I sit down and pull out a yellow notebook. I’ve always had this dream of one day writing something, but when it came right down to it, I never could.

The truth is that I never really tried, but India has always encouraged me to put my thoughts on paper and I figure now is as good a time as any.

I consider the fact that if someone finds this journal, then they will probably use it against me, especially if that someone is a law enforcement officer.

So, I don’t want to write anything specific. I want to write in metaphors and yet no metaphors come.

I sit for a while staring at the blank piece of paper. The paper is thick with many imperfections. The edges are uneven, almost as if they have been ripped.

The cover itself is made from vegan leather and is about the size of a mass-market paperback. I got it on a whim at a gift store and paid way too much for it. It’s one of those beautiful journals that is almost too gorgeous to actually mess up with written words.

I press the pen onto the paper and try to make the first word, but nothing comes.

I’m not a poet.

I’m not someone who can write in metaphors.

I’m not someone who can write one thing and have it mean another.

Maybe I don’t have to.

Something else occurs to me. What if I were to just write and then get rid of the pages? I can get it all out on paper, the truth, and I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding it.

I turn the first page, hesitate only for a moment, and then begin.

I start from the beginning.

I don’t think about the words, I just relay the feelings and everything that happened.

Occasionally, I’m tempted to lie. I’m tempted to write about how Tyler took me hostage and that I’m really here against my will, but that would be fiction and I can’t bring myself to do it.

The truth is okay, I tell myself. I won’t hang onto these pages for long.

I just need to get it all out.

I write until my hand cramps and my fingers turn to ice.

“Hey!” I yell. Mac snatches the journal from me so suddenly that my pen leaves a thick, black line down the center of the page, evidence of my protest.

“What are you doing?” I gasp.

I reach over to get it back from him but he holds it over my head as if we were back in elementary school.

Whenever I try to reach for it, he keeps turning the pages, reading bits and pieces here and there and shaking his head.

“You can’t do this,” he says.

I jump up, trying to grab it away from him, but again he eludes me.

He is faster, stronger, and taller than I am