The only way I have a shot in hell at saving the place is to make sure that every single trailer is inhabited. So, like it or not, this crazy number is my only real lead to finding an interested, paying tenant.
I open the web browser and reopen the e-mail so I can jot the number down. “You’re right, Birdie. Something is better than nothing at this point.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Iris. We’ll find someone soon.”
It’s crazy, but all my hope now rests on this one strange number.
ACE
After blowing up a map of Ohio on my phone, the small town of Sarahsville catches my eye. It’s almost like fate calling to me, since my mother’s name was Sarah. What better place to hide in? It’ll almost be like she’s protecting me.
I make one last major purchase with my black American Express, a black Harley-Davidson Sportster, because it’s better than hitchhiking. I also pick up a guitar from a local pawn shop and withdraw five thousand dollars from the bank. Hopefully Columbus will be the last place they can trace my whereabouts to before I disappear. Walmart is last on my list to hit before I take off. I purchase a prepaid cell with cash and then look online to find a place to rent. I find only one, and it seems like it’s probably a dump, which makes it perfect. No one would ever expect me to be living in some broken-down trailer park in the middle of nowhere.
I quickly fire a reply to the ad and leave only my phone number before I set off on the hour-and-a-half trip to my new little city.
The ride is cold, and maybe I should’ve rethought my plan on using a motorcycle as my form of transportation, considering it’s October in Ohio. The temperature here can fluctuate all over the place this time of the year. It’s been a long time since I’ve lived here, and I want to kick myself for not remembering this isn’t the California weather that I’m used to.
I turn off the main interstate and head down a county highway for the last thirty minutes of my drive and then coast into the small town of Sarahsville, reading the sign alerting me to the fact there’s a population of only 168 people. I may have found a more anonymous place than expected.
I pull into a local grocery and park my bike. The Oakley sunglasses covering my eyes darken my vision as I step inside, so I push them up on top of my head. A cowbell hanging over the door rings to announce my presence.
“Hello?” I call, a little uneasy being alone in here.
“Be with you in a minute,” an older man’s voice calls from a little room behind the counter.
A moment later, a gray-headed man pokes his head out of the room. “Can I help you, son?”
I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Willow Acres. Can you tell me where to find it?”
“Willow Acres, you say?” He steps out of the room and I take in the lanky man who’s probably in his sixties. His faded flannel shirt and jeans about two sizes too big tell me he’s either lost a lot of weight suddenly or he doesn’t have enough money to buy proper sizes. He narrows his green eyes at me, causing his bushy white eyebrows to pull inward. “You ain’t from the state, are you, because if you are, you’ll just have to find it on your own.”
I laugh at the old man’s protective tone. “No, sir. I’m just looking for a place to rent.”
He scratches at his day-old beard. “Well, in that case, I’ll write down the directions for you. The name’s Pete.”
I extend my hand to him, which he gives a hearty shake almost immediately. “Ace Johnson.”
Pete grabs a scrap piece of paper from under his counter and draws me a detailed map of how to get out to the trailer park. After explaining the directions to me thoroughly, he hands me the paper. “Tell Iris that Pete sent ya. I’ll warn you, Willow Acres isn’t much to look at, but Iris Easton is a good girl and she’ll be fair with you, so try not to judge it too harshly when you first pull up.”
I give him a small smile. “Yes, sir.”
I take the paper, feeling pretty confident that I can find my way, and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans. I fire up my bike and take the roads as directed, and it takes me only about five minutes to make it the entrance of Willow Acres as labeled by an old, faded green sign with white lettering.
The trailers in the park are much older than I expected—most appearing like something built back in the seventies and not much upkeep done on them since then. It’s clean around the place, no garbage or anything lying around, but everything just looks so worn down. Windows are taped shut with duct tape to fix broken glass panes on a couple of the places, and it makes me think twice about wanting to stay here. It makes me think some seedy characters live here, and I have no desire to live in a crack den.
I wanted to hide, but this place may be too obscure and backwoods even for me.
I make it to the second trailer in the lot. It’s all white with a little plot of flowers surrounding the small patch of Astroturf that’s laid out over the concrete in front of the place. A green-and-white sign matching the one out front hangs by the door and reads Office. I park my bike out front and walk up the small wooden porch steps and knock on the front door.
“Just a minute!” A woman calls as I hear some rustling inside.
The lock on the door clicks and the door opens, revealing one of the most breathtaking women I’ve ever seen. Her long, dark hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves; her makeup is light, revealing her naturally smooth complexion, which causes her green eyes to sparkle. Her V-cut T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans hug her body’s hourglass curves like a glove.