The Perfect Lie (The Perfect Stranger #3) - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,6
it weren't for Isabelle driving me to the clinic and making that vet take it out, I wouldn’t be here.
I sleep as we drive all the way up the mountain to a town called Big Bear. I'm not sure if I got the name right until she leads me into the small A-frame, one house away from the lake, and all I see are carved bears everywhere.
“How are you doing?” she asks, helping me into the recliner in the living room.
I swivel around and face the lake. There are mansions on the other side of the lake, and the moon is big, white, and full, illuminating the blackness of the water.
“Are you sure this is going to be a good place?” I ask.
I don't want to second-guess her decisions. She's the only one making any and I appreciate everything that she's doing.
“I didn't think so at first, because of the big houses on either side, but Mrs. Bowden told me that the owners are never there.”
“It's convenient,” I say with a strained nod.
“We can move if you want, but she only asked $500 for the week and I'm not sure we can even get a hotel for that.”
“Yeah, that's a really good price,” I say.
My thoughts immediately go back to the money.
There were two large barrels filled to the brim and all the money inside belongs to me. Mac took it.
He took a barrel, but what happened to the other?
I want to ask Isabelle, but I don't have to.
I already know the answer.
She had left it in the desert. She had to.
Mac had shot me and she had to save my life.
We're not too far, maybe we can go back when I feel a little bit stronger, but it's probably not there anymore. There would be nothing stopping Mac or Tessa or that other guy, Nicholas Crawford, from going back and getting the other one.
I want to stop myself from thinking about it, but I can't. My thoughts form big clusters and swirl around.
“There's a grocery store in town and I can run out and get something,” Isabelle says, “Or we can just eat the leftovers from before. I think we have a few bags of chips and some other things like that.”
“Let's do that,” I say. “I'm not very hungry.”
“Okay. Sounds good,” she says. “I'm pretty beat.”
“It has been a long day.”
“Do you want me to help you into the bathroom?” she asks.
I shake my head and say, “Actually, the recliner feels really good and I think I’d prefer to stay here.”
She brings over the chips and the sandwiches that we bought earlier, along with a tall glass of water.
“I'm really tired,” she says. “Do you mind if I go and get some rest?”
She leans over, gives me a light peck on the mouth, and disappears into the bathroom.
I wake up early the following morning from the loud chirping of the birds right outside. The sun streams in and feels nice on my skin.
I open my eyes slightly and listen to their songs. The vintage clock on top of the television says that it's not even 6 a.m.
I've never been much of a morning person, but that changed in prison. I woke up early there and filled up large parts of my day with whatever I could just to make the time pass faster.
Suddenly, the dark thought shows up somewhere on the horizon of my memory. I even shake my head from side to side to force myself to stop thinking about it.
I’m not going to pollute this day with what happened there. It was a dark time full of dark things and now I'm free.
I've gone through a lot to get here and I'm not going to sabotage it by thinking about the past.
Despite the pain and the stiffness that I feel in every part of my body, I force myself to get up to my feet and drag myself to the bathroom. It feels good to empty my bladder, but when I look at myself in the mirror, I gasp.
I'm covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and blood. I look like I have aged a decade. My skin is sallow, dry, harsh, and textured from the unforgiving desert.
My body aches when I turn on the faucet, but I force myself into the shower.
Stripping off my clothes is difficult and cumbersome, particularly painful around my shoulder, but the warm water streaming down my body almost makes up for it.
Luckily, the shower head is flexible so it makes