paranoia, everybody's coming to get me

For the first time in days, Beth became conscious mentally before opening her eyes. If she'd been dreaming, whatever it was had faded from her memory as soon as she remembered where she was. She was still lying on her side, facing the alarm clock. The green numbers reminded her of what she'd been staring at before she drifted off, but hours had passed since then. Now it was 8:43. The apartment was light again from the sun pouring into the windows, as she could see from the cracks of her bedroom door. But there were no sounds outside. It seemed that everything was completely still and silent.

She stood up from bed, stretching out her aching muscles. She was still feeling the effects of all the running and walking she'd done over the last week. Everything around her looked the same as when she'd gone to sleep, which relaxed her. Lately, she seemed to wake up tense and fearful of her surroundings until she could assure herself.

The sounds of the city were louder than they'd been the night before as they drifted up from the streets and through the walls and windows. Beth ventured out into the apartment to find it just as empty as it had sounded. Daryl and Malachi's door was open to reveal two perfectly-made beds and Malachi's daily scene of toys. The bathroom smelled like someone had recently showered and shaved. And the kitchen had two bowls and glasses sitting in the sink, along with the three glasses left behind by Beth and Daryl. There was also a note on the fridge:

Forgot to give you the spare key last night. It's in the bowl on the bar. Lock up if you go anywhere. The kid's across the hall at 3B with Carol if you need anything. I'll be home around 6. There's only 1 remote for the TV and you have to press the TV button or CABLE button depending on which one you want to turn on. If you can't get a hold of Carol for some reason, my number is 212-366-3160. Don't call or text unless the apartment is on fire. I'll be working.

She read the note about three times over, memorizing the phone number quickly. She didn't even contemplate going to the neighbor's to introduce herself. The less people who saw or knew her here, the better. She glanced at the decorative bowl that sat on the bar, near the front door. She could see that the only thing sitting inside was a single, silver key to the apartment. She opened the fridge, peering in to see what options she had for breakfast.

Daryl hadn't stocked up on groceries very well. Or maybe he was running low. Beth wasn't sure, but she settled with a bowl of oatmeal and an English muffin, finding mostly water and milk to drink but craving caffeine. She glanced at the coffeemaker to see that there was still a cup's worth in the pot that Daryl hadn't emptied out, so she helped herself. It was still lukewarm. She took her breakfast to the small table and sat down by herself, beginning to eat. She realized that she was sitting in complete silence and it was almost unnerving. But in a way, it was nice. No people, strangers, crowds, or police. She could definitely get used to being by herself this often.

When she finished her oatmeal and English muffin, she picked up the mug of coffee and sipped it slowly as she stood and wandered around the living room. She walked along each wall, gazing at each framed photo and decoration. They were mostly photos of Daryl and Malachi together at different stages of their lives. There were a couple photos that were older, before Malachi ever existed. Beth couldn't find a woman in any of the photos, except one: a very old photo that looked like it was from the early eighties. A baby boy sat on a mother's lap – the boy could've been Malachi's brother judging by his features. The woman was smiling and holding a cigarette in one hand, the other hand on the boy's waist. They both looked happy. Peaceful.

Beth stared at it for a moment before it clicked in her mind that it was Daryl and his mother. She didn't see any other photos with her, or any pictures that were this old. It must've been the only picture he had left of her.

It made Beth's heart ache for a moment, reminding her that she didn't have any photos of her mother, either. She hadn't thought to grab any on her way out. She might have her wedding ring, or some other material item that didn't really mean anything, but she didn't have any photographic proof that her mother existed. All she had now was her memory to go by. She envied Daryl for just a second, thinking how lucky he was to be able to look and easily see the beautiful brown in his mother's hair any time he wanted.

She feared she'd forget their faces. Would she have to rely on what the news sites online posted to have pictures of her family? How did she know she'd remember what they all looked like in a decade, or two, or three? She had nothing. Not even her journal.

Another photo – this one sitting in a modest black frame atop the bookcase – caught her attention. She gazed at it closer, leaning in and staring intently. There was a younger Daryl, maybe only a couple years older than Beth was now, standing with his arm around a man who was similar height. She didn't notice the resemblance in them both for a few minutes, then she realized that they had the same eyes. But the other man looked familiar to Beth in a different way, and she couldn't quite pinpoint it. She could feel his name on the tip of her tongue – she wanted to say that it started with an M. But her memory was a foggy, disorganized mess, and she simply couldn't place him right now.

She continued wandering around the living room, sipping her coffee and looking at all the pictures of the fun things Daryl and Malachi had done together. They'd gone to the beach, ridden on a ferry, taken a train ride, went to the carnival, and they even visited Disneyland. But as much as she looked, she didn't see any sign of Malachi's mother.

She followed the trail of photos to find only a couple hanging in the hallway. One was of Daryl pushing Malachi on a swing, and the other was of Daryl – with shaggier hair and messier clothes – holding a very, very small newborn, who had just a small tuft of blond hair atop his head. Daryl's face looked like he'd been crying, but he was grinning with delight.

Beth smiled to herself and continued down the hall to the boys' bedroom, stepping lighter on the carpet as she tiptoed into the room, mug gripped in her hands. She knew she wasn't doing anything wrong, besides being nosey, but she still felt guilty being inside the room while Daryl was out of the house. Nevertheless, she continued gazing around at what hung on the walls.

He hadn't decorated the bedroom on his side much, and Malachi's was covered with childish interests. But there was a framed photo sitting on Daryl's nightstand, and Beth stepped closer to peer down and study it. She was shocked to find a woman who was unmistakably Malachi's mother.

Beth's mouth fell agape just the slightest bit as she studied the photo closer, staring at the woman who stood with Daryl, holding a blond, infant boy in her arms. Her face was smiling, but her eyes were not. They were a piercing green, and they stood out against her hair, which was so blonde it was almost white. It went down past her shoulders, and she had porcelain skin, decorated with tattoos here and there, and stood nearly as tall as Daryl. They both looked happy: the picturesque family. But Beth felt like there must've been a reason that he didn't have any other photos of her in the house. Did he want to forget her just because she died? She didn't know this guy very well yet, but he didn't seem like the completely cold-hearted type to just pretend that someone didn't exist as a way to deal with losing them. That was no way to raise a child who lost their mother… was it?

She told herself that she had no business worrying about any of this and it wasn't even her problem to begin with. She wasn't sure why it intrigued her, or why she wanted to know anything about this guy. The way she saw it, if she knew more about him, then he'd want to know more about her, in all fairness. And she didn't want that. So maybe if she just kept her mouth shut and didn't ask questions, he would do the same.

She wandered back into the living room, deciding to distract herself by looking through the bookcase. She could use the escape of a book right now. It had been so long since she'd had the time or energy to sit down and actually read a whole book. She started reading the title on each spine, one-by-one, as her eyes scanned the shelves, starting with the top and making her way down. There were quite a few novels that Beth had actually heard of, and she got excited at the prospect of multiple titles that she'd be excited to read. There were several books about motorcycles and general bike mechanics, which was expected. There was, of course, an entire shelf dedicated to children's books – most of which were about bugs or Ant-Man. And then there was the very bottom shelf, which held dusty, old books that looked tattered and like they hadn't been touched in years. One of these was What To Expect When You're Expecting. Another was a poetry book by a famous poet that Beth had learned about years ago in school. There was a thick, old Bible that was dustier and more worn than any of the other books. A couple of the others were titles like Understanding Postpartum Depression, Healing After Loss and Talking To Your Child About Death and Grief. And then there was a blank book, seeming to have no title or author. She couldn't help herself and reached out to pull it from the shelf and examine it, setting her coffee mug down on the floor beside her.

It was dusty, too, and hadn't been touched in quite a while. She opened it to reveal that it was a photo album, and she realized it was full of all the photos that weren't hanging on the walls. For a second, she thought of how nosey she was being, but wondered if it was really snooping if he left it out in the living room bookcase like this. She decided that he probably wouldn't notice either way and as long as she didn't mention anything, it wouldn't matter. So she began flipping through the pages.

Surprisingly, and somewhat disappointingly, it was only the first two or three pages that had photos of Malachi's mother. But there was no Malachi in sight. It was a handful of photos of Daryl and the woman, both of them looking younger than they did in the photo with baby Malachi. They looked happier, too. Or at least, the woman did. Her eyes were bright with life, and Beth noticed that the woman's son had inherited her smile as well as her nose. There was one where they stood on a beach, kissing and glowing with love. Another showed them on a Ferris wheel, the wind blowing through their hair as they grinned in enjoyment. Another was taken by the woman herself from an angle, as they were lying in bed together, looking sleepy with matching bedheads, but happy.

She flipped to the next pages and found that the woman had simply disappeared. There were no other pictures from the hospital, none of Malachi as a newborn in his mother's arms – or his father's, for that matter. The pictures seemed to have nearly a year-long gap before it was strictly Malachi's milestones and Daryl doing activities with his only son. She flipped all the way to the end of the book, watching Malachi age from about a year old to now. So it seemed that the photo on Daryl's nightstand was the only picture of all three of them before she passed away.

Her curiosity was burning and all thoughts of the other books in the bookcase had fled her mind. More than anything, she was yearning for her own photo album of her family. Why hadn't she thought to grab pictures?

But that was a stupid question because she already knew the answer. She could still vividly remember the panic she felt that night, the urgency in her sister's voice. The very last thing on either of their minds was whether they'd have memoirs of the family that had been demolished. She had depended on Maggie. She'd relied on her to have a plan, to be with her through all of this. But she was locked up now. They all were. And Beth didn't even have a fucking picture of them.

She put the photo album back where she'd found it in the bookcase and left the living room, heading to her bedroom. She went to her bag and opened it to retrieve the few toiletries she had, but the wads of cash were taunting her. She wondered what lay at the bottom, in the shadowy depths of the bag. What had Maggie thought to scrape from the safe? What had her daddy found to be of enough value to keep in the safe? And how identifiable were the items to the police?

She bit her lip and turned away, heading to the bathroom and pushing the thought from her head. But the entire time she was showering, brushing her teeth, and dressing, the bag kept nagging at her. It seemed to call her from its spot on the dresser. She wanted to look through it – needed to look through it. But she wasn't sure how much more stress she could handle right now. What if she found something she didn't want to know about? A part of her wanted to chuck the bag over a bridge and never think about any of it again. But the larger, more logical part of her knew that it was in her best interest to know what she'd taken across several state lines. She needed to make an inventory if she ever intended on taking the next steps towards figuring out where she should go and what she should do. She still didn't know how long she'd be safe in New York City, despite its distance from Georgia. The news could go national any day now, and she'd be totally fucked.

She stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a few minutes, brushing what little hair she had left. It barely covered her ears, and she silently longed for her long, blonde hair. Yes, it had been a pain in the ass to take care of sometimes, but it was times like this when all she wanted to do was run a brush through it and let the relief flow from her scalp down through the rest of her body. Her eyes were bright blue in the light, and she remembered how Daryl had noticed the difference from the contacts last night. She had to remember to put them in whenever he was home, even when she went out in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. She couldn't risk being any more suspicious. She could tell he wasn't a stupid guy, and she knew she wouldn't be able to slip much past him without raising some questions.

She made a mental note to run out to the store sometime in the next few days and buy new toiletries. She'd had to resort to using Daryl's shampoo and conditioner because she'd forgotten to buy some. That reminded her that she would have to check her phone again to find nearby stores and check up on the news sites again. As much as she didn't want to see what they had to write, she had to know what she was dealing with before she dared to leave the safety of the apartment. If there hadn't been any more updates, she might not have given it another thought before wandering out to the store today. But now that she knew they were still actively looking for her, she needed to keep looking over her shoulder and lay as low as possible. And she had to wonder if Daryl kept up on Georgia news. She was praying he didn't.

The last few sips of coffee were cold by now, so Beth poured it out into the sink. She went about grabbing the sponge and dish soap that sat next to the faucet and turning on hot water to clean the dishes. She set them in the dishrack next to the sink one by one, then wiped down the sink before rinsing and drying her hands. When she was finished, she walked over to one of the windows in the living room and gazed out at the city that lay before her. There were a few people on the sidewalks, going about their days. The sun was bright and the birds were still chirping energetically. Beth noticed that some of the leaves on the trees were beginning to change, and everyone was wearing a light jacket in the crisp morning air. Autumn was coming, and she'd be spending a new season in a city she'd never been to before. August had passed by in an emotional, confusing blur. Would she still be here come October? Being so unsure of her own plan was unsettling to think about.

As she walked back to her bedroom, she counted the nights and days in her head. It felt like it'd been an eternity since she left the farm. But it had only been five nights and four days since she'd killed Detective Shane Walsh. Four nights and four days since the news had broadcasted her picture with the title "murderer" on television. Four long days since she'd run for as long as she could while her father, sister, and brother-in-law were probably taken into interrogation rooms and half-tortured for God only knows how long. She still wondered if they were sitting in cells in peace, or if they were still being interrogated by police and beaten for every bit of information they had. That should be her right now.

She shut the door behind her, even though she knew Daryl wouldn't be home for quite a few hours. This left her in the silence of her bedroom, the sounds of the city just whispers from the windows of the living room. She turned on the light hanging from the ceiling and spotted her bag on the dresser, still glaring at her. But this was step one, and she had to get it over with. And what better time than while she knew she'd be alone for hours on end?

She grabbed it and unzipped it, opening it wide and turning it upside-down in front of her. The contents spilled onto the soft carpeting, a few objects rolling to the sides while the numerous wads of cash fell with loud flopsonto the floor. Beth got down to her knees and rested on the back of her legs, beginning to dig through the stack of money and items. Her face was heating up as she kept pulling out stacks of cash and setting them aside in their own little area, finding more and more money appearing even when she thought she'd found it all. The wads were all kept tight by multiple rubber bands, and some of them were so tightly compacted that Beth wondered if she could ever count that many bills.

It took a few minutes, but she set all the money aside in its own pile. She then gathered every item that had fallen from the bag, or rolled to the side or nearby. When she laid them all out and began examining them, she realized that she recognized the heirlooms she'd ended up with in the panic of that night. One was a small, gold band with an inscription on the inside – it was her mother's wedding ring, with Hershel and Annette's wedding anniversary inscribed. The other was a small, gold cross on a thin, golden chain. Beth had to examine this one a little closer, squinting and studying it until she remembered: this was her grandma's treasured crucifix necklace – Hershel's mother, who had passed about a decade ago. She'd had this necklace since before Hershel was born, so it was at least seventy years old. She'd left it to Beth in her will, and Hershel had agreed to keep it safely locked up until Beth turned eighteen and decided to move out. She was glad she'd ended up with it – it was a tiny piece of the family and its history that she'd left behind, but a piece nonetheless.

As she stared down at the rest of the scattered objects – a couple pairs of underwear she hadn't pulled from the bag, the spare box of hair dye that she hadn't thought to throw out, the scissors she'd used to cut her hair – she wondered what had been in Maggie's bag. What kind of Greene family heirlooms were being held as evidence right now? She'd probably never know. She also wondered how Maggie had thought to put so much of the money into the two bags that would actually escape the crime scene. Or had it just been luck?

The money sat in its own pile a couple feet away, and Beth glanced at it with apprehension. She turned away from it and distracted herself with putting her momma's wedding ring onto the same chain as her grandma's gold crucifix. When she'd finished, she put it around her neck and carefully latched the clasp, then tucked it under her shirt and let the cold metal rest against the warm skin of her chest. She waited a few moments. But no, she didn't feel any closer to her family members – dead or otherwise. Yes, it was nice to have pieces of them, but these pieces didn't keep the sounds of their voices and the colors of their eyes fresh in her memory.

She sighed and turned to look over her shoulder at the money once more. She felt guilty having it. What could one person possibly need with all this money? But then again, she'd have been really struggling without it. And she couldn't exactly get a job without any ID while her face was plastered all over news sites and papers. It was such a complicated relationship with the few possessions she owned.

She hesitated a few more moments, finally standing up and leaving the room to find a pad of blank paper and a pen on the bar in the kitchen. She returned to her spot on the floor, having shut the bedroom door tightly again. With the pad of paper and pen at her side, she began sorting the money into piles and counting each stack by its bills, some of the rubber bands busting and flying off into different corners of the room as she slipped them off the wads of cash.

Slowly and steadily, she counted the bills in each wad of money, writing down the numbers in the form of a list as she went and setting aside the counted bills to their own separate pile, sloppily wrapping them back up with rubber bands. She was lost in a world of numbers and addition, the list on the paper getting longer and longer. Most of the numbers she wrote down were in the thousands, sometimes the tens of thousands.

Beth had been meticulously counting the money and organizing it for about half an hour when something slipped from the stack of cash currently being held in her hand and landed in her lap. It was a bit heavier than any of the bills and white, but it had been tucked in between and hidden well. It was white and folded in half, and for a second, Beth thought it might be some kind of note. But when she picked it up and unfolded it, the breath caught in her throat and her whole chest tightened up.

She blinked away tears as she stared down at the old photo in her hands. It was her family – all of them. The feeling in her chest was a hurricane of happiness and sadness, bringing back a flood of memories and emotions she'd been shoving off. Could it really be? Could that really be her momma, her daddy, her precious Shawn and her beloved Maggie? All in one photo that miraculously made its way across state lines to join Beth in this strange place?

It was. She kept searching it to convince herself that it couldn't be them, that no one would've thought to keep a family photo. Maybe this was a similar family, some kind of mistake. But it wasn't. It was the Greene's, unmistakably. They were all gathered on the front porch of their home on the farm. Sitting in a wooden chair was the beautiful, youthful, brown-haired Annette Greene. On her lap was a baby Beth, just short of two years old, all chubby cheeks and blonde hair. Standing behind Annette was a younger, more handsome Hershel – clean shaven and smiling politely, his blue eyes still sparkling and some of his hair revealing the blond that it used to be. His hands were resting atop his wife's shoulders, and to his left stood an eight-year-old Maggie. The young brunette was all tomboy, including the scowl on her face. Finally, to the right of Hershel, stood a four-year-old Shawn, who was wearing the same big smile that Beth could still vividly picture when she thought about him.

She hadn't realized her hands were trembling until the picture began shaking so much that she could no longer make out her momma's face. She set it down on the floor in front of her, tears pouring down her face as she tried to calm herself. The pit at the bottom of her stomach was growing deeper and emptier, longing for something she'd never have again. She knew she should be thankful for this small gift, especially after the way she'd envied Daryl's photo of his mother earlier. But somehow, finding it had brought all the pain back in a rush.

She sat in silence, the picture lying on the floor just a few inches away. She stared at it, eyes still full of tears. She didn't know how long she sat there, just gazing and trying to remember what their faces looked like now. When she finally sniffled and wiped away her tears, clearing her throat, she picked up the photo once more and held it against her chest like it was a treasure she'd lost long ago and only just found. This was her new prized possession, besides her daddy's pocket watch. This was something irreplaceable that would mean nothing to police but everything to Beth. This would probably be the only photo she'd ever have of them. It had a crease down the middle from being folded and tucked between the money, but other than that, it was in good condition. She was already thinking of how she could get it laminated for preservation and keep it in a safe place at all times.

When she finally decided to set it aside, keeping it very close to her on the carpeted floor, she realized that she'd completely lost count of the stack with which she'd been previously occupied. With a sigh, she gathered the contents of the stack up again and started counting from the beginning. But her chest felt significantly lighter, and glancing over at the photo every few seconds eased her mind each time.

As the minutes passed and the pile of already counted bills grew larger and larger, Beth found herself checking on the photo less and less. At this point, she was looking forward to having the bills counted so she could stuff them all back into the safety of her bag. She began counting one of the last dozen wads of money, mouthing the numbers silently as she pulled each crisp bill apart. But once again, she was stopped abruptly. A small piece of paper, folded into a tiny square, fell out from between the bills and floated down to the carpet right in front of Beth's legs. She set the cash aside and picked up the paper carefully, unfolding it to read the contents.

It was Maggie's handwriting. The note was short but precise. It read:

BURN all IDs, passports, birth certificates, SS cards, RX labels – ANYTHING!
Washington, D.C. craigslist
post ad seeking Jesus in casual encounters
only reply if email says "follow the North Star"
password is Mary Magdalene Refuge
NEVER give real name – cash only

She read and reread the simple sentences, staring at the handwriting and knowing it was Maggie's but second-guessing herself. It was, though. She could even hear her big sister's voice in her head as she read the loopy L's and the uncommon G's. The sentences didn't make sense at first. She wondered what this could be for. What would she be getting herself into if she tried to follow this note? Was this meant to be left for her, or was it something that only Maggie would truly understand?

But then she reread it again, and suddenly everything clicked. Her sister's voice echoed in her head, but this time it was something she'd actually said… on the last night at the farm. When they had been scrambling around and gathering everything to make a run for it, Maggie had looked at Beth and told her, "…I planned for this."

Is this what you meant? She thought, wishing she could telepathically communicate with her sister now more than ever. Did you know that when things went bad, they'd go completely bad? How could you plan for us to run away and completely change our identities…? Why didn't you make us leave sooner?

She had a million and one questions, but the relief flowed through her as she thought about how this was at least one of her questions – and her biggest problems – solved. She silently thanked both Maggie and God over and over for letting her find this within the stacks of money. It was beginning to explain why Maggie had ensured that Beth got away with most of the cash.

She slid her finger down to the bottom of the small piece of creased paper, readying to fold it back up and tuck it away safely for the time being. But her fingernail budged the edge of the paper, and suddenly another fold appeared that she hadn't noticed before. She quickly realized there was one more line at the bottom of the note that had been folded up and hidden. And it was possibly the most crucial part:

LEAVE COUNTRY – EUROPE (?)

Beth's breath caught in her throat as it dawned on her that her future had just been decided for her; she had no choice but to get a new identity and then use it to flee the country. Even Maggie knew it was the only option. Logically, there was no safe way to stay in the United States and avoid ever being identified or caught, even with a new identity and different hair color. In the back of her mind, she'd known the whole time that there was really only two ways for this whole thing to end. And one of them was prison.

It took Beth about an hour to finish counting and reorganizing all the money, but once she'd finished, she was relieved to be able to place it safely back inside the bag. She shoved the extra items – hair dye, scissors and whatnot – into one of the empty drawers in the dresser. Then she placed the bag, now zipped and latched tightly, beneath the bed, where the dust ruffle hid it from view. It was within easy reach, but at least now it wouldn't be taunting her from atop the dresser. And as for the photo and note, those were placed carefully beneath her pillow right beside the Beretta and pocket watch.

She returned to the notepad that still lay on the floor, about twenty-five different numbers scrawled down in her own handwriting. She retrieved her phone and opened the calculator, then went about adding up all the amounts she'd counted in each stack to see what the grand total was. She had an idea of what it would be, but once she'd punched in and added each number and the total appeared on the screen, it shocked her. The number looked so much bigger in real life than it had in her head. And she was still trying to come to terms that it was all dollars. And all hers.

She swallowed the knot in her throat and cleared the calculator, tossing her phone back onto the bed. She tore the piece of paper from the pad and ripped it into about fifty different pieces before letting all the pieces float down into the small trash can that sat in the corner. Then she returned the pad and pen to their original spots on the kitchen bar, as if she'd never even used them. At this moment, she was wishing she hadn't. She should've just let herself remain blissfully ignorant to the amount of money she actually had.

It was past noon now, about lunchtime, but Beth didn't have much of an appetite. The oatmeal and coffee were still churning in her stomach with each new discovery she made, and now the thought of contacting some mystery person via Craigslist was weighing on her mind. Her curiosity burned and she wanted to know if it were really as good as it sounded. But she also knew that it could be a setup of some kind, or maybe the person wasn't even around anymore. What if they'd been recently busted, too? Beth reminded herself that she had no idea how old this note was or how long ago Maggie had made it.

But through all the questions and scenarios and what-if's, Beth finally decided that it wouldn't hurt anything to at least try. She had no other choice at this point. And she knew that she certainly wasn't going to find someone who could make her a new ID and passport off the streets of New York. What were the chances anyway?

She sighed to herself in defeat and plopped down on her bed, pulling out her phone once more and bringing up the Craigslist page. She found the section for Washington, D.C. and wondered for a moment if this meant that Maggie had some sort of connection back in D.C., and if she did, had she always intended for them to go north, towards D.C. and onward? Had Beth actually made the correct guess when she fled Georgia? Or was this guy only checking this page while he lived in some other far-off place? She hoped he had someone in New York City, because she wasn't sure if she could risk travelling anywhere else for a long time.

The "casual encounters" section of the website was a spelling and grammar mess, riddled with abbreviations and acronyms that Beth didn't understand and had no desire to understand. She created a new post and made the title simply, "Seeking Jesus." In the body of the ad, she repeated, "I am seeking Jesus." She had no idea if this was what the note had meant for her to do, but it had been very vague and all she could do was try. She clicked the Post button and held her breath for a second before watching her ad appear on the list. It was connected to the email she'd recently set up, so she exited the website and opened her email to check the inbox. There was only a confirmation email from Craigslist, but she continued to refresh the page for a few minutes in anticipation.

When no replies appeared, Beth moved back to the news sites that she had been dreading. She checked the Georgia news first, finding her story moved down on the front page by a couple of other headlines about recent events. She was relieved to see that it hadn't been updated again since the last time she checked.

Before moving to the Atlanta news, she checked her email again to find a reply to her ad. She opened it to find a crude and suggestive message, which she immediately deleted. Disappointed, she went back to the Atlanta website.

The Greene Family Farm story was the third headline listed on the front page, which left Beth unsettled. She clicked the article to read the same information that she'd found on the Georgia news site, posted around the same time. Yet there was still no mention of a press conference by police, which was something Beth could certainly be grateful for.

With the fear of national coverage weighing heavily on her shoulders, she navigated her way to the national news sites and searched them thoroughly, scouring every page and every recent news story within the last five days. But every site, including CNN and Fox, was reporting on politics and tragedies – just another day in America. Somehow, they still weren't getting wind of the Greene story. Or maybe they didn't think it was interesting enough?

Beth counted her blessings and silently thanked God for the millionth time as she refreshed her email once more. She'd received a couple more replies, which she clicked on eagerly. However, they were just more sex solicitations. She deleted them with a grunt, resenting the fact that she couldn't really be angry about the types of emails she was getting.

The rest of the afternoon passed by slowly. Beth spent most of her time refreshing news sites and her email, as well as staring at the photo of her family and gazing out the window to the huge city sprawled before her. She thought about reading a book or turning on the TV, but she felt that she was too distracted to give anything else her full attention right now. She was enjoying the silence and solitude for now, as well as a mug of hot tea from the bags she'd found in the back of Daryl's cupboard. At one point, she ventured into Daryl and Malachi's room and got down on the floor to inspect the toy scene that Malachi had left out for the day. She wasn't sure, but it appeared to be a train robbery that was being stopped by three of the X-Men and six tiny Minions, all accompanied by ants wearing battle armor.

It was nearing 5 o'clock and Beth was beginning to get hungry. She'd finished her tea and had found some crackers to snack on, but she didn't know what Daryl had planned for dinner. She kind of wanted to eat before he got home so she could hide away in her room and avoid speaking to him altogether. However, there was nothing that she could prepare for herself in one serving. It seemed that the only entrée he had the ingredients for was spaghetti, which Beth happened to know how to make very well.

She resigned to choosing spaghetti and gathered the ingredients onto the counter, boiling a pot of water for the noodles while she prepared the sauce. It didn't take long, but by the time she was done, she'd filled the sink with more dirty dishes. So she set about washing everything she used, putting away the dried dishes from the rack as well. When she finished, it was still a quarter to six so she filled a plate with the hot spaghetti and sauce and then covered the rest of what she'd made so it would stay hot on the stove.

She ate at the table, but was behind the closed door of her bedroom before 6 o'clock. Amongst her many paranoid thoughts, she decided to put in a new pair of brown contacts before Daryl arrived home. She didn't plan on seeing him, but she had to be prepared. Almost exactly on the hour, Beth heard the sound of the front door being unlocked and opened. Seconds later, Daryl's voice and Malachi's voice drifted through the apartment, shattering the silent shield Beth had constructed. She lay in her bed, staring at the screen of her phone as she waited for an email or a news update. She listened as footsteps moved about the living room, getting closer to her door and then farther away. Minutes later, there was a light knock on her door.

Her eyes shot to the closed door and she hesitated. But when another light knock came, she set the phone down and stood from the bed, walking over and opening the door just wide enough to show her face. Daryl was standing in the hall, wearing clothes that were just as dirty as yesterday's.

"What's up?" Beth asked, eying him quizzically.

Thank God I put in the contacts, she thought.

"You make that?" Daryl asked simply, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the kitchen area.

She nodded. "Yeah, it was all I could really find. I already ate, y'all can have the rest."

He lowered his hand and gave a brief nod of his head in understanding, then gave her a stern look. She was a bit taken aback by his stoic gaze, but stood silently, waiting for him to speak.

"'Nother thing," he said, staring into her eyes so intensely that she was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

"Yeah?" She quirked a brow, waiting. It felt like he was hesitating to say something important.

"Last night, you said yer mom died last year," Daryl recalled. Beth nodded to show that she remembered. He went on, "And yer brothers raised ya till you were eighteen?"

Beth nodded, recalling the story she'd constructed on the spot the night before. She wondered why he was asking her to repeat these things, but then the realization hit her.

Her lie didn't make sense.

"But yer twenty-one, so… why'd they have t'raise ya?" There it was. He had picked up on her inconsistency and figured out that she was lying. The only thing she could grasp onto now was which part she'd been lying about.

Her mind raced. How could she play this off? She needed to figure out a way to make it all fit in just a split-second, but it was a gaping plot hole that she hadn't planned for. She wasn't good at improvising, why had she gotten herself into this mess? Daryl was staring at her like he'd caught her doing something she'd specifically been told not to do, and that's exactly how she felt.

Her mouth was shut tight and her gaze drifted away from Daryl as she searched for something to say. But he must've interpreted it as being too painful for her to speak of, because he filled in the pieces for her within moments.

"She left ya?"

Her eyes shot back up to meet Daryl's again, and he watched her expectantly. She nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in her throat. She had the urge to smile, but pushed it down because she knew it would completely fuck up the God-given blessing she'd just received. She was almost shaking from the close call she'd just had. What she'd thought was accusation was really his hesitation in confronting her about an uncomfortable fact. This man's expressions were nearly unreadable.

"How'd you know?" She said quietly, knowing that her voice was only contributing to the façade of pain.

He shrugged, "Just guessed. Sorry, didn't mean t'bring up old shit."

She shook her head, assuring him, "Nah, it's… I'm past it."

Silently, she hoped she wasn't disrespecting her momma's memory by lying about her.

There was a second of awkward silence, during which Beth had no idea what to say. Should she continue the lie and get elaborate? Or should she let him do the talking so she didn't dig herself any deeper? But he resolved it for her by chuckling lightly, a smirk appearing on his face.

She looked at him quizzically, but he explained, "Y'know, fer a second, I thought ya mighta lied about yer age. 'Cause, I mean, ya look about sixteen. Neighbor says I'm paranoid. Guess she might be right."

Beth couldn't contain the small, amused smile that appeared on her own face, matching Daryl's. He was so fucking right and he had no idea. Whoever this neighbor was, Beth was deeply grateful for them.

"Yeah, I get that a lot," she lied, adding a small chuckle.

He glanced back to check on Malachi, the sound of the TV being turned on coming from the living room, then said, "Thanks for makin' dinner. Did ya wanna watch TV or anything?"

She shook her head, "No thanks, I'm good. I'm just gonna hang out in here."

He nodded and gazed behind Beth into her bedroom for a second before looking back into her eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it again and waved his hand in a small gesture before turning and walking away, heading toward the kitchen. As soon as he turned, Beth shut the door and retreated back to her bed. She wondered if he'd try to get her to socialize more since they spoke the night before. Maybe she should've made it clear from the beginning that she didn't want to talk or get personal with him. But then again, he didn't seem like the type who wanted to talk and get to know someone new, even if they were living in his apartment. So maybe this had been a one-off occurrence.

She changed back into her sleeping clothes and relaxed in bed, phone in hand as she routinely refreshed her email in between absent-mindedly scrolling through news articles. She could hear the TV in the living room and the boys' voices every now and then. The sun set slowly, but once it did, the apartment was back to being dark and calm.

Beth took out her contacts and set them aside on a small dish she'd gotten from the kitchen, turning off her beside lamp and shutting her eyes. She tried to think about all the memorabilia from her family that she had now, and how things weren't turning out quite as badly as she'd thought. The whiskey above the fridge was almost calling her name as she struggled to slow her mind down. Then a sound dinged from her phone, and her eyes immediately popped open.

It was an email from an encrypted address, in reply to the Craigslist ad. The subject was blank, but when she opened it, she read:

Follow the North Star.

Her hands were trembling as she composed a reply and typed out, "Mary Magdalene Refuge." Then she hit Send.

to be continued…