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been drunk on the lifestyle, on the money
McLaren had paid him. On the lie.
    He never wore
a borrowed suit ever again. He'd died in a tailor made jacket that
cost more than a year's worth of Daisy's and my rent.
    "Damn you, Rick," I whispered. My head shook softly as I
curled up into a ball on top of the bed. The bedside lamp was still
on, the television flashing silent images, but I couldn't stand the
thought of making the room dark.
    The world was
dark enough and getting so much darker.
    The sound of
cartoons blaring out of the television woke me at some God awful
early hour. Quickly followed by Daisy's carefree giggles as the
characters on screen did something amusing to her young mind. I
rolled over and smiled. She beamed at me from her position in the
other bed, but when I patted the sheet next to me, she scuffled
over without hesitation and burrowed under the blankets, snuggling
into my side.
    "I'm hungry,"
she announced and the first hurdle for the day was uncovered.
    Thankfully
this was one I had come prepared for. I reached into my handbag and
pulled out a muesli bar and small box of juice.
    "Breakfast of
champions!" I declared, handing over the stash, then watched on
with a heavy ache setting up home inside my chest as my child
willingly ate her makeshift breakfast without so much as a
complaint.
    Was this how
it was going to be from now on? Breakfast on the run in some scuzzy
motel in a neglected suburb of a big city? How is this being a good
mother?
    I couldn't
stifle the sob before it escaped, so covered it up with quickly
rolling over and slipping out of the side of the bed. I was at the
door to the bathroom by the time I could speak without sounding
like I was about to break down.
    "Don't answer
the door to anyone, OK?"
    A muffled,
"Wokay," was offered up in reply.
    No miraculous
epiphany came to me under the hot stream of water in the shower. No
solution to our dire situation flashed inside my mind as I brushed
my teeth with a new toothbrush and toothpaste I'd picked up
yesterday on our way here. Only more fears and worries and
heartache as I dressed in my hastily dusted down and spot cleaned
clothing that had been airing on the rail in the bathroom
overnight.
    When I came
back out into the main room I was presentable, refreshed and clean,
but none the wiser.
    "Your turn,
Missy," I instructed, herding Daisy into the bathroom and helping
her through her own morning routine.
    By the time we
were done it was eight-thirty. Check out wasn't until 10am. So, I
didn't see the need to hurry. Besides, where would we go? I sat
down at the small table in the corner of the room and blindly
watched Daisy laughing at the TV. The shoebox was sealed again, all
the mementoes tucked away for another day of bitter-sweet.
    I was at a
complete loss. I didn't have that much money saved, but every time
I accessed it, would it place us in more danger? How far would
McLaren go? He'd sent one tattooed freak after me because of a
visit from a cop. What would he do now that I had run and given him
reason to believe I still had what he wanted? And even if I did
think handing it back would help us, I couldn't contemplate doing
that with Daisy counting on me to keep her safe.
    And there
wasn't anywhere I could put Daisy, anyone I could put Daisy with,
who would make me feel safe enough to leave her and confront
McLaren's man to hand over the goods.
    No matter what
way I looked at it, McLaren now thought I still posed a threat.
He'd obviously believed I'd learned my lesson all those years ago.
It was a harsh lesson to learn, after all. And I'd led him to
believe I no longer possessed what I took, at the cost of my
husband's life. Bile rose up my throat at that thought and I gagged
slightly as I swallowed the bitterness back down.
    McLaren
clearly didn't think that anymore, did he?
    He'd sent the goon, as soon as the cop showed interest in me,
to check. And I'd run. Of course now McLaren would move heaven and earth to get back what I took,
what