Chapter 103 Roads Diverging
Elena: POV
The night before we left, Mom and I sat on her bedroom floor surrounded by half-packed duffel bags and crumpled lists.
"Medications," I said, checking off another item. "Pain pills, anti-nausea, the supplements Dr. Smith prescribed—"
"Elena." Mom's hand covered mine. "We're going on a road trip, not preparing for the apocalypse."
I looked at her—really looked. The hollows under her cheekbones had deepened in just the past week. Her wrists were so thin I could see every bone.
Six months. Maybe less.
"I just want to be prepared," I said quietly.
She squeezed my hand. "I know, sweetheart. But let's not forget to pack the fun stuff too."
I forced a smile and added her favorite shawl to the pile.
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, folding clothes and organizing toiletries. I tried not to think about how this might be our last trip together. Our last anything.
"What about snacks?" Mom asked, her voice deliberately cheerful. "We'll need road trip snacks."
"Crackers for you. The bland ones."
"Elena—"
"Mom." I met her eyes. "You can barely keep anything down. We're packing what your stomach can handle."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she just nodded.
I added granola bars, ginger candies, and bottled water to the pile. Everything easy to digest. Everything gentle.
Everything for someone who's dying.
I shoved the thought away and kept packing.
---
Later that night, after we'd finished packing, I picked up the small silver box from my bedside table. Inside, the locket lay nestled in white tissue paper—the one Mom had given me a few days ago. The rose pattern caught the lamplight, and I could just make out the initials A.M.H. engraved on the back.
I lifted it carefully, feeling the weight of it in my palm. Mom had said it was mine, that it had been with me when she found me. The only connection to the people who'd abandoned me on the side of a highway twenty-four years ago.
As I held it, my fingers unconsciously went to my throat, touching the thin gold chain hidden beneath my shirt. The chain that held Julian's wedding ring.
But we're already divorced, and I'm still wearing this damn necklace.
I pulled the chain out from under my shirt. The ring slid into view—simple band, nothing special.
"You're my wife. You belong to me."
"I don't know if I want this baby."
"You killed my child."
My throat tightened.
I should throw it away. Toss it in the trash or out the window or flush it down the toilet like the piece of shit it was.
But I couldn't.
My fingers closed around the ring, then I unclasped the chain. I walked to my suitcase and shoved the ring into the inside pocket. Zipped it shut. Out of sight.
I turned back to the locket in my other hand.
A.M.H.
Who were they? The people who'd left me on the side of a highway like trash?
Were they cruel? Desperate? Young and stupid and terrified?
Did they think about me? Wonder what happened to the baby they abandoned?
Or did they forget I ever existed the moment they drove away?
Twenty-four years, I thought. Twenty-four years, and they never came looking.
If they had a good reason—if there was some tragic story that forced their hand—wouldn't they have tried to find me eventually? Wouldn't they have wanted to know if I was okay?
But there was nothing. No letters. No calls. No tearful reunions.
Just this locket and three initials that meant nothing.
I fastened the chain around my neck. The weight of it settled against my sternum—cool and unfamiliar, but somehow right.
I don't want to find them, I told myself firmly. I don't care who they are or why they did it.
Mom is the only mother that matters.
But even as I thought it, a small voice whispered:
What if they had a reason?
What if they loved you?
What if they're still out there, wondering?
I pushed the thoughts away and focused on finishing my packing.
---
The RV rental place opened at eight. We got there at 7:45.
The guy behind the counter—name tag said "Rick"—barely looked up when we walked in. "Help you?"
"We have a reservation. Under Vance."
He typed something into his computer. "Yeah. Got you down for a... Class C motorhome. Four weeks, unlimited mileage."
"That's right."
He slid some papers across the counter. "Sign here, here, and... here. You ever driven one of these before?"
I shook my head. "First time."
"It's bigger than a regular car, but not too bad once you get used to it. Take your time with turns, give yourself extra space for braking." He handed me the keys. "Bay twelve. I'll walk you through the basics."
---
The RV was massive—white with blue stripes, looking like a small apartment on wheels. Rick showed us how to work the water system, the generator, the slide-outs that would expand our living space when we parked.
"Kitchen's fully equipped," he said, opening cabinets. "Fridge, microwave, two-burner stove. Bathroom's compact but functional. Sleeps four—queen bed in back, dinette converts to a bed."
Mom ran her hand along the small kitchen counter, smiling. "It's perfect."
The sky was absurdly blue when we finally pulled out of the lot. Not a single cloud. Just endless, perfect blue stretching out forever.
December in Florida, I thought as I adjusted the driver's seat and mirrors. Weather that makes you forget winter exists.
The RV felt like driving a bus at first—wide and unwieldy. But after a few miles, I started to get the hang of it.
Mom settled into the passenger seat with a small sigh of relief. "Ready?"
I looked at her. Really looked.
Her face was gaunt. Her eyes were tired. But there was something else there too—something I hadn't seen in weeks.
Hope. Excitement. Life.
"Ready," I said.
---
For the first hour, I felt like I could breathe for the first time in months.
No Julian. No memories of the penthouse. No ghosts of babies that would never be born.
Just the road stretching out ahead of us, and Mom humming along to some old Johnny Cash song on the radio.
This, I thought. This is what freedom feels like.
"You're smiling," Mom said.
I glanced at her. "Am I?"
"First real smile I've seen in... God, I don't even know how long."
I turned my attention back to the road. "Feels good to be moving, I guess."
"Feels good to be leaving," she corrected gently.
She wasn't wrong.
The highway opened up as we left the Miami metro area behind. Palm trees gave way to pines. Strip malls gave way to open fields.
I pressed down on the gas pedal, feeling the RV respond sluggishly.
Sixty. Sixty-five. The engine worked harder than I was used to.
"Elena," Mom said, but she was laughing. "The speed limit—"
"Is a suggestion."
"Is the law. And this thing probably gets terrible gas mileage when you push it."
I eased off the gas. A little.
The wind through the cracked window whipped my hair around my face. The radio played something upbeat and meaningless. Mom was looking out the window with an expression of pure contentment.
We're okay, I thought. Right now, in this moment, we're okay.
And then I saw it.
---
A black sedan. Several cars back.
I wouldn't have noticed it at all, except that I'd seen the same car in the parking lot of the RV rental place.
And again at the gas station where we'd stopped for coffee.
Coincidence, I told myself. Just a coincidence.
But my hands tightened on the wheel anyway.
I changed lanes. The sedan changed lanes.
I sped up. The sedan sped up.
"Elena?" Mom's voice was concerned now. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just—"
I took the next exit without signaling. The RV swayed slightly as I maneuvered it down the off-ramp—a risky move that earned me an angry honk from the truck behind us.
The sedan followed.
"Fuck," I muttered.
"Elena—"
"Someone's following us."
Mom twisted in her seat to look. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
My mind raced. Who would be following us? Julian? Alexander? Some random creep who'd seen two women traveling alone in an RV and decided we were easy targets?