Fear Thy Neighbor (9)
John, the jerk from Palmetto Island, she remembered. He’d followed her from the beach back to Matlacha Pass. They’d argued, but she didn’t remember what they’d argued about. She went back to room number two, but since she had no key to let herself in, she plonked down on the iron chair outside.
“Damn it!” The chair was hot as coals. Ready to explode, she tipped her luggage on its side, then sat on top. Who knew how long it would take for Betty to return? She shook her head in disgust. She’d made a stupid mistake accepting Betty’s invitation. This is why she didn’t make friends, didn’t need them. Trouble had followed her most of her life for whatever reason, and now it had returned once again, leaving her stuck with nothing to do but wait.
Maybe she should rethink her decision and purchase a cell phone. She could use one now, though she had no one to call other than a locksmith, and that would cost a pretty penny. But Alison had plenty of money. She’d worked her ass off all these years, saving every cent she could. Henry Adler had invested her money wisely. One day she planned to settle down, maybe buy a little house somewhere, but not now. She wasn’t ready, though knowing her money was safe gave her a sense of security. When the time was right, she would know. For now, all she needed were the keys to her Jeep so she could get the hell out of here and head for the Keys. Once there, if the islands’ magic was to be believed, she would think about her future, possibly making Key West her forever home. Maybe she’d add a dog to her newly found menagerie. She loved animals. Their love was unconditional. After working part-time at a pet shop during her last two years of high school, she’d fallen in love with every animal in the place, even the fish, the snakes, and birds. Yes, she would definitely look into getting a dog when she settled down. Living in crappy motels and even crappier tiny efficiency apartments would’ve been cruel for a pet. They needed sunshine, fresh air, a place to run.
For now, all she wanted were the keys to her frigging Jeep. Wishing she’d dressed in shorts and a tank top, she opened the suitcase and took out a pair of khaki shorts and a navy top. Checking to make sure there were no weirdos lurking around, she made fast work changing into the cooler clothes. She folded her jeans and T-shirt, then closed the luggage again. This was ridiculous. How in the hell did one own and operate a business without being there to run the damned place? Hadn’t Betty told her checkout time was at noon? Yes, she remembered that, telling her she would be long gone by that time. Unable to account for a big part of last night was beginning to frighten her. She was a woman alone with only her wits and her gun for protection.
Her gun. Where in the hell was her gun?
It was not in the room. Not in her luggage, and it wasn’t in her purse. Something very strange was going on, and she intended to find out exactly what it was. Resigned, she had no other choice except to wait for Betty to return.
Had the old woman ripped her off? Taken her keys, her gun? Her purse still had the cash inside. Wouldn’t a thief want that, too? She was beyond angry at her own stupidity. Alison knew better. She’d keep to herself as she’d done for the past fifteen years. If Betty had done something to her cats, she would have hell to pay.
Alison had spent her entire life with people who were supposed to care for her and failed to do so. She had no idea who her parents were, if they were dead or alive. She didn’t give them much thought until she was old enough to understand that the only parents she had known were actually her first set of foster parents Craig and Martha Sterling, and they weren’t exactly like a normal family. She’d been nine years old, in third grade, when her world shattered. Her class had to make a family tree. They were studying ancestry, so they had to ask their parents to help with the assignment.
She’d been so excited; she couldn’t wait to go home, so her parents could help her. Alison had three older brothers, Tommy, Steven, and Philip, and a baby sister, Mandy. She would fill up the leaves on the tree really fast. That evening at the dinner table, when she told her parents about the class assignment, they laughed at her. She remembered the words as clearly now as she did then: “We aren’t your biological parents, Alison. You’re nothing but a foster child. You have no real family. I’ll contact your teacher and explain why you can’t complete your assignment.”
The next day, when she woke up to get ready for school, her eyes had been all red and puffy from crying all night. She went through all the motions of her normal morning routine: a bowl of oatmeal, a half slice of dry toast; sometimes they had orange juice, but most of the time she drank water. But she didn’t care today. At the bus stop, her three brothers teased her for being stupid. “That bitch ain’t your mom, or ours either, Alison. The only reason they take care of us is for money from the government.” They’d all laughed at her then. Later that day, when it was time for the class to show their homework project, she was so scared, but her mom had said she would call her teacher to explain why she didn’t have her project completed. When it was her turn to share her family tree, she realized her mother hadn’t made the phone call she’d promised, so she’d stood up, her legs shaking like a dried-up leaf in autumn, and said, “That bitch ain’t my mom. She just takes care of me because of the government.” She hadn’t a clue what this meant, but she’d been yanked out of the classroom and taken to the principal’s office.
Alison spent the rest of that day waiting for her mom to pick her up. When she didn’t show up at the end of the school day, the principal, Mr. Cleveland, had walked her to the bus. All the kids laughed at her, pointing at her. One of them, a girl from her class, said, “She called her mom a bitch in class!” All the kids on the bus laughed at her. If that hadn’t been enough, she’d tried her best to hold her bladder all day, afraid to ask Mr. Cleveland for permission to go to the restroom. Tears streamed down her face as she searched for a seat on the bus. None of the kids wanted to sit next to her, so she started to cry, and as she’d stood in the center aisle of the bus, she’d peed all over herself. For the rest of the year, the kids who rode the bus and those in her classroom called her a “piss-pot-pecker-head.”