The laundromat on Fifth had one working light and a smell like old bleach. It was cheap, quiet, and nobody there knew my father.
I counted my bus money on my knee, one bill at a time.
Four hundred and twelve dollars. Not enough to fix my whole life, but enough to get it somewhere else.
In my head, that somewhere had a diner, a cheap room, and no one who flinched when I walked in.
I had been saving since spring. Every tip, every skipped lunch, every birthday card with a five inside.
It was a quiet plan. The only thing I owned that Roderick couldn't take.
A woman two machines down folded towels and hummed. She didn't look at me, and I didn't look at her.
That was how I liked it.
In the town I picked, being human would not be an apology. I would be the new waitress, and that was all.
I would say good morning to strangers and not wait for the room to go cold.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Perrin's name lit up the screen.
My stomach dropped before I even answered. It always did.
Perrin: Where are you? Roderick wants you home.
Maeve: I'm doing laundry. Unless the washing machine joined the pack, I'll be done in an hour.
Perrin: Don't be smart. He's in a mood. He said now.
Maeve: He's always in a mood. Which one is it tonight?
Perrin: The quiet one. The one where he stares at the wall and drinks.
Maeve: Great. My favorite kind of family dinner.
Perrin: Can you not make this a thing? He's our dad.
There it was. Perrin always said our dad like she was reminding me of the rules.
Maeve: He's your dad, Perrin. I'm the reminder he keeps in the back room.
The line came out flatter than I meant it to.
Perrin: You always do this. You make everything about you.
I didn't make it about me. Roderick did that every time he looked at me.
Maeve: Fine. Twenty minutes.
Perrin: Thank you. And Maeve? Don't embarrass him.
She hung up before I could ask which part of me did that.
I looked at my bus money. Then I looked at the clock.
I had a ticket in my pocket and a family that treated me like a warning label. I went home anyway.
Outside, the air smelled like rain and hot asphalt. Across the street, a man stood under the streetlight.
He was tall and still, like he had nowhere to be and all night to be there.
His eyes caught the light, pale gray and steady. Something low in my stomach pulled tight.
I told myself it was fear. I told myself he was waiting for someone else.
When I looked again, he was gone. Only a black car was pulling away from the curb.
I walked to the bus stop with my money tucked in my boot and a bad feeling I couldn't name.