When Brooks decided to skip town, she'd hoped to vanish without a trace. It didn't help that she was leaving in her father's Beetle — the old jalopy hadn't been out of the garage since winter.
As she filled up the tank at the gas station, she could already imagine Harry sharing his thoughts at the town hall — after all, he'd be the last person to have seen her."There was a look in her eyes," he'd say. "As if she were running away from something.
"Her shoes were covered in mud — it's still on my pavements if you'd all like to come and see. And she kept tapping her fingers on my counter. Might've scratched the glass a bit. I was going to ask her if everything was okay, but when I turned around to hand her a receipt, she'd already stormed off. I think her mind was made up."
Clip would be there, listening intently, or at least pretending to. He had to keep up appearances after all — the golden child of Common's Creek would move heaven and earth to find his woman.
Brooks forced her mind off of him. She drove past the moor and weaved off as the tall grass gave way to a dirt track. It was safer than the road this late at night. The truckers would be halfway through their moonshine and mowing through the asphalt. She didn't trust them to spot a little red Beetle driving the other way.
In the backseat, Brooks' suitcase slept under a blue fur blanket, its handle resting on a matching pillow. The guesthouses along the valley didn't have locks — far too many people overstayed their welcome, often not by choice — and so, the Beetle would be home for a few nights. Not that Brooks was expecting to get much sleep. She'd relive the past day over and over, wondering if she had left a trail.
A week ago, the two men in polos had returned, and they wouldn't stop knocking. Eventually, she'd given in and drawn open her curtains — the sound of their knuckles against the hardwood hurt more than the sunlight.
"What is it now?" Brooks shouted through her window on the second story.
"We are sorry to bother you again, miss. However, you did promise us those papers."
"I promised I'd look for them, and as I told you on the phone, they aren't here," she struggled out of her sleepy daze. "My father didn't bring his work home."
"Would you mind if we had a look for ourselves?"
"Would I — would I mind?! You've dragged me out of bed in the middle of...the day, and now you want to tear apart my house? Yes, yes I would mind."
"It really is quite important."
"They're not here," she replied bluntly, hoping that would be the end of this interaction as well as any future ones.
"We'll come back at a better time," said the man on the left, stubbing out his cigarette on her pot of petunias.
"I wish you wouldn't," she told him in return.