Read Online Assumptions by C.E. Pietrowiak - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C.E. Pietrowiak
Tags: Suspense, Death, Paranormal, Twilight, Chicago, High School, Ghost, angel, loss, Novella, supernatural romance, Catholic, Saint, assumptions, emerson and quig, saint ita
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him.
She and Deirdre snickered and headed the opposite direction. Will
looked over his shoulder. The girls chatted, heads together.
Deirdre turned back toward him and smiled.
CHAPTER TWELVE: CLEAN
It had been days since Timothy Stillman
packed up his truck and left the comfort of Provident. From time to
time he stopped to eat or to rest, but mostly he drove, taking the
long way back to the city. The thumping of washboard grooves along
the side of the dark highway startled him from his half-sleep.
Tired and hungry, he checked into the nearest and cheapest motel he
could find.
The lobby vending machine would have to do
until the complementary breakfast. "Served 6 AM to 9AM," the clerk
explained. “Don’t be late. They take it all away right on the dot
and you’ll miss it if you’re a minute past. Alarm clock’s on the
nightstand.”
Stillman stood before the machine and
considered his options. He pulled out his wallet, empty except for
a single wrinkled dollar bill, an OTB receipt, and a check for
ten-grand, made out to him, dated six months earlier. The machine
rejected his dollar twice. Stillman tucked it back into place and
pocketed his wallet, the appeal of peanut butter and imitation
cheese crackers not tempting enough to warrant a third attempt, not
even on an empty stomach.
He wished the clerk a good night and walked
to his room a few doors down the hall. He dropped his duffel bag on
the foot of the bed and tossed his keys onto a small desk with a
miniature coffee maker, a thin bar of hand soap, and a brochure
with a watercolor portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the front. Welcome to Ottawa, Home of the Lincoln-Douglas Debates .
Stillman leafed through the brochure and
dropped it on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. He sunk onto
the edge of the worn mattress and kicked off his boots. The dingy
teal bedspread invited sleep despite its disagreeable color.
Unpacking nothing, he crawled under, pulling the covers close
around his unshaved chin. He clicked off the lamp and slept off and
on until the late morning light sliced through a crack between the
stiff vinyl curtains.
Stillman crawled out of bed, pulled a
toothbrush from his bag, and dragged himself to the bathroom, not
bothering to look in the small mirror mounted above the vanity. He
had missed breakfast.
He re-packed his toothbrush then fumbled with
the coffee maker. He ripped open the complimentary packet of
coffee, nearly losing the grounds to the olive shag. He snapped the
carafe into place, switched the machine on, and waited for the
aroma to fill the room.
Stillman guzzled a cup of weak coffee and
dumped the rest, collected his things, and checked out. He plugged
his phone into the charger in his truck and merged onto Interstate
80. He settled behind a slow moving minivan, camping gear loosely
bungeed to the top, clean Starved Rock bumper magnet on the dirty
liftgate, kids' eyes glued to the DVD.
Two hours later, he arrived on the north side
of Chicago and collected a thick bundle of mail from the local post
office where, he swore, the clerk snarled at him as she handed it
over.
Stillman circled the block near his apartment
twice before he found a spot big enough. He grabbed his mail and
his bag and walked down the street.
The sensor on the door of his neighborhood
mini-mart bing-bonged as he swung open the door. The store was
empty of customers. The clerk greeted him from the storeroom door.
"Afternoon, mister." His accent was thick and his English broken,
but he seemed eager to chat. "Help you, mister?" he offered.
"Just grabbing a few things, thanks."
Stillman gathered a small bag of coffee, white bread, packing tape,
and a quart of milk.
"Good weather today. No rain, only sun."
"Yeah. It's good." Stillman dropped his items
on the counter. "This'll be all." He paid with a credit card.
"Nice day, mister." The clerk pulled out a
paperback and a dictionary and sat down behind the cash
register.
"You, too." The door sensor
She and Deirdre snickered and headed the opposite direction. Will
looked over his shoulder. The girls chatted, heads together.
Deirdre turned back toward him and smiled.
CHAPTER TWELVE: CLEAN
It had been days since Timothy Stillman
packed up his truck and left the comfort of Provident. From time to
time he stopped to eat or to rest, but mostly he drove, taking the
long way back to the city. The thumping of washboard grooves along
the side of the dark highway startled him from his half-sleep.
Tired and hungry, he checked into the nearest and cheapest motel he
could find.
The lobby vending machine would have to do
until the complementary breakfast. "Served 6 AM to 9AM," the clerk
explained. “Don’t be late. They take it all away right on the dot
and you’ll miss it if you’re a minute past. Alarm clock’s on the
nightstand.”
Stillman stood before the machine and
considered his options. He pulled out his wallet, empty except for
a single wrinkled dollar bill, an OTB receipt, and a check for
ten-grand, made out to him, dated six months earlier. The machine
rejected his dollar twice. Stillman tucked it back into place and
pocketed his wallet, the appeal of peanut butter and imitation
cheese crackers not tempting enough to warrant a third attempt, not
even on an empty stomach.
He wished the clerk a good night and walked
to his room a few doors down the hall. He dropped his duffel bag on
the foot of the bed and tossed his keys onto a small desk with a
miniature coffee maker, a thin bar of hand soap, and a brochure
with a watercolor portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the front. Welcome to Ottawa, Home of the Lincoln-Douglas Debates .
Stillman leafed through the brochure and
dropped it on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. He sunk onto
the edge of the worn mattress and kicked off his boots. The dingy
teal bedspread invited sleep despite its disagreeable color.
Unpacking nothing, he crawled under, pulling the covers close
around his unshaved chin. He clicked off the lamp and slept off and
on until the late morning light sliced through a crack between the
stiff vinyl curtains.
Stillman crawled out of bed, pulled a
toothbrush from his bag, and dragged himself to the bathroom, not
bothering to look in the small mirror mounted above the vanity. He
had missed breakfast.
He re-packed his toothbrush then fumbled with
the coffee maker. He ripped open the complimentary packet of
coffee, nearly losing the grounds to the olive shag. He snapped the
carafe into place, switched the machine on, and waited for the
aroma to fill the room.
Stillman guzzled a cup of weak coffee and
dumped the rest, collected his things, and checked out. He plugged
his phone into the charger in his truck and merged onto Interstate
80. He settled behind a slow moving minivan, camping gear loosely
bungeed to the top, clean Starved Rock bumper magnet on the dirty
liftgate, kids' eyes glued to the DVD.
Two hours later, he arrived on the north side
of Chicago and collected a thick bundle of mail from the local post
office where, he swore, the clerk snarled at him as she handed it
over.
Stillman circled the block near his apartment
twice before he found a spot big enough. He grabbed his mail and
his bag and walked down the street.
The sensor on the door of his neighborhood
mini-mart bing-bonged as he swung open the door. The store was
empty of customers. The clerk greeted him from the storeroom door.
"Afternoon, mister." His accent was thick and his English broken,
but he seemed eager to chat. "Help you, mister?" he offered.
"Just grabbing a few things, thanks."
Stillman gathered a small bag of coffee, white bread, packing tape,
and a quart of milk.
"Good weather today. No rain, only sun."
"Yeah. It's good." Stillman dropped his items
on the counter. "This'll be all." He paid with a credit card.
"Nice day, mister." The clerk pulled out a
paperback and a dictionary and sat down behind the cash
register.
"You, too." The door sensor
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