Chapter 157: Chapter 157 - Route 9
Roxie barely slept.
Zac went home after she pretended to sleep.
But she couldn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, Miranda Prescott’s voice came back, calm and polished, like she had only been giving advice instead of opening Roxie’s life and pointing at the weak parts.
Smart girls usually are.
A complication.
Careless rumors.
Route 9.
When Roxie woke up, the room was gray with early morning light, and the folded paper was still on her nightstand.
She stared at it from her bed.
For a few seconds, she thought about throwing it away.
That would be easy. Grab the paper, toss it in the trash, and pretend Miranda had never handed it to her. Pretend Route 9 meant nothing. Pretend Claire was only gone the way Claire was always gone, in a way Roxie could survive by refusing to look too closely.
Roxie sat up, grabbed the paper, and walked to the trash can.
Her hand hovered over it.
Then she cursed under her breath and shoved the paper into the pocket of her jeans.
She went to work.
The Corner Grill was already loud when Roxie arrived.
Sunday shifts had their own kind of misery. Families came in after church, kids spilled juice under the tables, and men asked for refills before they finished the first glass. The kitchen smelled like grease, onions, coffee, and heat trapped in the walls for too many years.
Roxie tied her apron around her waist and clocked in.
The first hour was plates and pans. The second was trays, glasses, sticky forks, and a stack of bowls with soup dried along the rims. By noon, her hands were stinging from the hot water. By one, her shoulders ached. By two, the dish pit was so full she could barely see the counter.
She kept moving because stopping meant thinking.
Hot water. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Rack.
Again.
It should have helped.
It did a little.
Then her hand would brush her pocket, and she would feel the paper there.
Miranda knew about Claire. Miranda knew about Mr. Robinson signing her out. Miranda knew about Route 9, and she had said all of it like she had every right.
Zac knew something was wrong, but he did not know the worst part.
That sat heavy in Roxie’s chest all day.
Her phone buzzed during her first break.
She sat on an overturned crate behind the kitchen and checked it.
Zac: You awake?
Roxie stared at the message.
Roxie: Working.
Zac: You okay?
She almost laughed.
Roxie: Busy.
Zac: That’s not an answer.
Roxie locked the phone and went back inside before her break was even over.
By late afternoon, the restaurant slowed for about twenty minutes, then filled again for dinner. Roxie wiped counters, restocked plates, and carried a trash bag out back when the busboy vanished and returned smelling like smoke.
Ethan was working the front, running orders and refilling drinks. He passed the dish pit a few times without bothering her. That was one thing Roxie liked about Ethan. He noticed things, but he did not always make a production out of noticing.
At six, Zac texted again.
Zac: Did you eat?
Roxie looked at the message with wet hands and typed with one thumb.
Roxie: Yes.
It was almost true.
She had eaten half a piece of toast before work.
Zac: Can I pick you up?
Roxie: No. I’m going home early.
Zac: Roxie.
Near closing, Ethan came into the back carrying a stack of plates.
"You’re quiet," he said.
Roxie took the plates from him. "I’m always quiet."
"You’re usually mean first. Haven’t heard an insult from you today."
Roxie looked him up and down. "That is quite a nice polo you’re wearing. I would say it looks flattering on you, but I think my great-grandfather wore it better."
"That helps." He grinned.
Roxie slid the plates into the sink. "You’re annoying."
She looked down at the sink. Foam moved around the plates, and the hot water had turned her fingers red.
At nine, the last table left.
Marla locked the front door, the chairs went up, and the floor got mopped. The kitchen lights looked too bright after a whole day under them.
Roxie changed out of her apron in the back and pulled on her hoodie.
Her phone had two more messages from Zac.
Zac: I miss you.
Zac: Text me when you’re done.
Roxie read them, then put the phone away.
Ethan was near the back exit with his keys in hand. "You need a ride?"
Roxie stood there for a second.
She could go home. She should go home. She could put the paper back on her nightstand and pretend one more night was harmless.
The address pressed against her leg through her pocket.
She looked at Ethan. "Can you take me somewhere?"
He straightened. "Where?"
Roxie took out the folded paper and opened it enough to read the motel name again.
Her stomach twisted.
"Route 9."
Ethan’s face changed just a little.
He made no joke. He asked no extra question. He only nodded and went back inside for the extra helmet.
"Come on."
That was why she asked him.
It was not because she liked him. It was not because she trusted him more than Zac.
It was because Zac would stop her. He would ask questions, get angry for her, and try to protect her before she even knew what she needed.
Ethan would ride first.
The motel was worse than Roxie expected.
The sign near the road flickered in two places, and one letter was out completely. The parking lot had more cracks than paint. A vending machine stood near the office with a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign taped to it. Two people smoked near the stairs. A man in a sleeveless shirt sat outside a room with the door open, staring at nothing.
Ethan parked near the office and cut the engine.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Roxie took off the helmet and looked at the row of doors with the paper crushed in her hand.
Ethan’s voice stayed low. "You want to go inside?"
Roxie wanted to say no.
"Yes."
They got off the motorcycle.
The office smelled like stale coffee, bleach, and cigarette smoke that had been stuck in the walls for years. A man sat behind the counter watching a small television mounted in the corner. He looked up when the bell over the door rang.
"Need a room?"
Roxie stepped forward. "I’m looking for someone."
The man’s eyes moved over her face.
Then he paused.
Roxie felt the recognition before he said anything.
Her chest tightened.
The man leaned back in his chair. "You’re Claire’s girl."
Roxie’s mouth went dry. "What?"
Ethan shifted slightly beside her.
Roxie forced herself to stay still. "She’s here?"
The man scratched his jaw and looked toward the window. "You just missed her."
Roxie’s heart dropped so hard she felt sick.
"How long?"
"Maybe twenty minutes."
"Where did she go?"
He hesitated.
Roxie stepped closer to the counter. "Please."
The man looked at her for another second, then pointed down the road.
"Park’s that way. Past the gas station."
Roxie stared at him.
He lowered his voice. "She hangs around there with the others."
The others.
Roxie understood before she wanted to.
Ethan said, "Thanks."
The man looked at Roxie again, and for a second, his face almost softened.
"She comes back sometimes," he said. "You can wait."
Roxie shook her head and walked out before he could say anything else.
The cold air hit her face.
She stood in the parking lot with the motel sign buzzing above her and the paper crushed in her hand.
Ethan stopped beside her. "Roxxane."
"Ride."
The park was only a few minutes away.
The closer they got, the worse the road looked. Streetlights were spaced too far apart. The sidewalk cracked and disappeared in places. A shopping cart sat tipped near a drainage ditch. Someone had tied a tarp between two trees near the edge of the grass.
Ethan slowed the motorcycle near the curb.
Roxie stared past his shoulder.
Tents sat near the far side of the park. Blankets were spread under trees. Plastic bags hung from a fence. People sat on benches with their shoulders curved inward against the cold. A woman pushed a cart slowly along the path. Two men stood near the public restroom, talking too close and moving too little. Near the trash can, someone bent over and stayed there.
Roxie’s hands went cold.
This was not one bad night.
This was a place people returned to.
This was routine.
Ethan parked near the curb and cut the engine. "Are you looking for her?"
Roxie shook her head.
She did not know.
Why was she even trying to find her?
Claire was the one who threw her away.
Roxie bit her lip.
She begged, and Claire still walked away.
She looked past the trees, past the tents, past the people moving through the dim park.
Then she saw her.
A woman sat on a bench near the broken path, shoulders hunched, a familiar jacket pulled tight around her body. Her dark hair fell around her face. One hand lifted to her mouth, and the movement was so familiar Roxie felt it before she accepted it.
The whole world seemed to go quiet.
Roxie’s voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Mom."
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