It isn’t his cock or his hands or even the violence that takes me over the edge this time. It’s a kiss. He pulls his hand away, and I release his finger from my mouth with an audible pop. With his palm cupping my jaw, he turns me to accept his mouth, and I do, greedily. There shouldn’t be anything right about what I’m letting him do to me, but there isn’t a single brush of lips or thrust that feels wrong. It’s more right than anything I’ve ever done.
As soon as I have that thought, I whimper against his mouth and the orgasm overtakes me, washing away all doubts, all fears, and all common sense. Something in him breaks as I constrict around him, and the tension in his muscles drains away. In one long, slow drag, he removes his thumb, causing my orgasm to double over on itself. He hisses in response and fills me with his own pleasure as he follows me over the edge.
Sometime later, I come to realize we’re still on the floor. My extremities don’t respond when I tell them to move, but it’s okay. The heavy weight of Gracin on top of me is an anchor securing me to earth. Reality intrudes, along with the cold as he shifts to the side, his arms and legs still entangled with mine.
“We have to get out of here,” he says eventually. My brain still isn’t quite working, but when he adds, “The police will get here soon, and we don’t want to be here when they do,” it jump-starts.
“We have to go,” he says and stands to pull his pants up and buckle them.
I look around for my scrubs and underwear, but I can’t see them in the near absolute darkness of the hallway. The darkness is probably a good thing. As the cold steals over my rapidly cooling frame, the memory of Vic’s dead body is enough to clear my thoughts of what just transpired between us. I tuck it away for . . . later. Way, way later when I can’t still feel the aching emptiness inside me.
Gracin returns with my scrubs in hand, and I dress, my cheeks alternately burning and blanching as I vacillate between embarrassed and horrified.
“Get dressed. I’ll go get a car.” He kisses me and leaves me with the taste of myself lingering on my lips.
As soon as he leaves, I’m up and getting dressed. I can’t be here when he gets back. Regardless how he made me feel and how much I want to do it again, I can’t let him.
I thought my marriage to Vic was the definition of abuse, but Gracin has taught me there is something much worse than physical violence.
There were times when Vic would leave me broken and bloody at his feet, and I was certain I could never reach a lower point.
I was so very, very wrong.
How I feel now? Knowing that Gracin has thoroughly destroyed everything good in me and made me like it? It’s so much worse than any punch I’ve ever taken.
I get to my feet and get dressed just a room away from where my dead husband’s body still lies, growing colder and colder with each passing second. I take care to keep my eyes diverted. The house is so quiet each sound is magnified, making my ears strain for any sign of the police or Gracin coming back.
But the only sounds are my footsteps and the harsh sound of my labored breathing.
I wince at the soreness in my thighs as I bend down to get my duffel bag. I look for the gun but don’t see it and realize Gracin must have taken it with him. The excitement and adrenaline that had been crashing through me, urging me to leave Vic and start over is practically nonexistent now. I feel like I’m just going through the motions because I know getting caught here would be worse than being on the run. Some part of me still recognizes that, at least. I could spin the whole thing on Gracin. He stalked me at work, forced me to help him escape, and then killed my husband and raped me, but even if I could lie my ass off, there’s still Salvatore’s body and Annie’s eye witness testimony. No doubt that the moment she woke up, she told everyone about what happened. If confronted, I’d have a hell of a time explaining how I was complicit in not one but two murders.
I start to shoulder the bag and then realize I need to change my clothes. The scrubs are spattered with blood from the blowback and are wrinkled and even ripped on the shoulder. If I walk out the door in this outfit, all I’ll do is draw attention to myself. Even though it costs precious time, I go to the bedroom and pick the most nondescript clothes I have left in my closet. A plain pair of worn jeans, an average T-shirt, and a pair of old sneakers.
My face is streaked with tears and ruddy, so I give it a quick wash with fresh water. While I’m in there, I throw my hair up in a ponytail. Since I don’t have to worry about Vic coming back, I work up the courage to do the one task I’ve been dreading the most. Originally, I was going to leave without it, but now that he’s dead and I’m desperate, I don’t have another choice. He kept a safe he didn’t know I knew about, and the code for the combination lock is stored inside his wallet. I don’t know if I’m in shock or if I’ve seen so much death and horror in the past twenty-four hours that I’ve grown used to it, but once I settle on my course, I’m able to block out his body as I shove him over on one side so I can reach his wallet.
Once it’s within my grasp, I stumble back on my butt, shivering as I crawl as far away from him as I can get. It might make me a monster, but I don’t feel anything now that he’s gone. Maybe I am every bit as bad as Gracin, after all.
I spin the combination lock to the numbers listed on the little piece of paper and take the cash he kept stashed there. It isn’t much, maybe a couple grand, but I’ll need anything I can get my hands on if I’m going to disappear. I stuff it into my purse along with the jewelry he gave me when we were dating. I hesitate by the front door but end up taking the drawing against my better judgment.
I don’t know where I’m going to go or what I’m going to do next, but I know I have to get as far away from this house and the prison as possible. I don’t dare take my phone or computer in case there is some way to track me from the signal. The car isn’t an option either because the plates are registered in Vic’s name, and that’ll be the first thing the cops look for when they discover his body and my involvement in Gracin’s escape.
My only option is to steal a car.
I study the surrounding houses from the cover of shadows on the porch. I don’t want anything so close to the scene that it’s noticeable. The neighbors in the immediate vicinity are out of the question, so I focus on those three or four houses down and try to recall any information about them.
Marriage to Vic didn’t allow much time for socializing, but from what I can recall, there was one old couple who used to vacation down south during the winter. If nothing else, it’s a good place to start since my options are pretty fucking limited.
I curse Vic, curse Gracin, and especially curse myself as my feet sink into the snow as I take my first step off the porch onto the sidewalk. A thin layer of snow crunches under my feet as I try to make my way as casually as possible to the house. It’s only two blocks down, but in the sub-zero temperature, it feels like two hundred. I don’t worry about leaving tracks because the wind is blowing so strong any I leave will be covered within a matter of minutes.
I check my watch and swear under my breath. It isn’t even six o’clock. Already it feels like a century has passed, when in reality, it’s only been a couple of hours. Most of my neighbors are hiding in their houses to beat the cold, their windows are dark, and the houses are cemetery silent. The one I think belongs to the old couple is on a corner lot, and the garage is locked up tight.
Most of the houses in the development are left over from an old abandoned military base. Eventually, they were put up for rent for a low price. So most of them aren’t wired with security systems, which is a stroke of luck for me. The one in question is practically identical to our house, so I quickly find the side door to the garage and push my way inside.
The musty smell characteristic of disuse is substantial, and I bring up a hand to cover my mouth as dust mixes with snow flurries. For the first time all day, fortune is on my side because sitting in the garage is a little truck that I hope is in working condition. It isn’t much, but
if it cranks, it may be my salvation.
I duck in the garage and close the door behind me, letting the darkness envelop me. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and even then, I have to keep my hands out in front of me to keep from running into the walls. My fingers brush against metal, and I feel my way up to the driver’s side door, which is locked. I curse under my breath and start making my way to the entrance to the house. If they left the car, there’s probably another set of keys.
My luck runs out as I try to open the door and find it resolutely locked. Fuck. I peer around the shadowed garage for something to help. There isn’t much. The old guy who lives here must not be a Mr. Fix It because the only thing resembling a tool is a lone metal pipe, which won’t do me any good when it comes to picking a lock.
“Shit,” I whisper and look up at the ceiling, feeling heavy with despair.
A flicker of movement catches my eye, and I duck behind the car. My heart leaps when I realize it’s a window. Of course. We have the same one that leads to a small utility room off the kitchen. The motion was the shifting of the curtain from the howling wind. I scramble up to a table with the lead pipe in my hand.
When I’m sure I’m not going to fall, I slip off my jacket and wrap it around the pipe, hoping to muffle most of the sound. It’s crude, but it does the job, and the window shatters. After muttering a brief apology to the owners, I smash the rest of the glass out of the frame and heave myself up and through the window.
Like most of the owners in the area, the garages were added on after the homes were built to entice more buyers. It works for me since it allows me to get inside undetected. Crawling down from the window is awkward, and I land on my knees on the cold tile, jarring all the tender places from the beating Vic gave me. Has it only been twenty-four hours since then? It feels like years.
I don’t dare turn on the light, so I have to hunt in the dark kitchen. When my hands land on a key ring hanging from a hook by the back door, I nearly shout in triumph. I give a passing thought to looking through the house for anything valuable to pawn along with my jewelry but don’t want to risk getting caught. There is a stack of mail on the counter that I scoop up. If there is a credit card offer in it, it could come in handy later.
Feeling increasingly desperate to put this place behind me, I hastily unlock the door and retrieve my bags. It takes several tries before I find the right key, but once I do, I toss my stuff in the passenger seat and crank the engine to warm up while I pull the garage door open. I spend a minute watching my house for any sign Gracin has returned, but it’s quiet. So is the rest of the neighborhood, which can’t last for too much longer. The cops will show up eventually. Another stroke of luck is my neighbor’s driveway. I have no idea who’s been keeping it clear of snow, but someone has been, and for that, I’m grateful.
Pulling the car out of the garage and putting it in park to close the garage door takes precious time I don’t have, but I also don’t want to reveal my getaway if I don’t have to. The more time and distance I can put between the cops and me, the better. By the time I make it across town, the snow is steadily falling again and the truck whines when I go over fifty, so my getaway is painfully slow.
I turn on the radio, and the first announcement causes my stomach to swoop.
“Police are on the search for an escaped inmate from Blackthorne Correctional Institution. Listeners be advised the escapee is considered armed and dangerous. A recent photo may be found on our website and social media. Please be vigilant and report any sightings to the police immediately.”
They’ll be looking for him on the main roads, so I stick to back roads. They aren’t looking for me, but they will be soon enough, and I’d rather not take the chance of running into the police. It adds hours onto my journey, but I manage to avoid all but one checkpoint, which I clear with surprising ease. Considering I’m in a stolen vehicle, I decide that I’m finally being repaid for all the bad luck I’ve had for the last three years.
I drive throughout the night, making stops when I need gas or have to use the restroom. Once I hit the outskirts of Detroit, I stop at the first open store and skim off enough money for a burner phone and something to eat. I don’t have an appetite, but I get a premade sandwich and soda from a vending machine anyway. As I sit in the parking lot and activate my phone, I scarf down the food without tasting it. Once the phone is ready, I reserve tickets for the next bus out to the farthest destination possible, which happens to be a one-way to Los Angeles that’s leaving in two hours.
The thought of sunshine almost—almost—dispels the constant ache of dread that burns through my stomach. I stow away the food wrappers in a plastic bag as queasiness rolls through me. I’d managed not to think about what I left behind on the long drive south, but now that I’m not focused on getting away, it all hits me at once. The sob that wrenches from my chest reawakens all my aches and pains.
I give myself ten minutes to succumb to the battering emotions, but that’s it. When my time is up, I carefully wipe my face and press the cold soda bottle to my cheeks. I can’t afford to fall apart now. That can wait until I get wherever I’m going. I stop at a pawnshop in town, the first I come to since I don’t have time to be picky, and pawn my wedding ring and jewelry for quick cash. The surly man behind the counter gives me the eleven hundred in crinkled bills. He doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t complain at the amount because it’s eleven hundred more than I had.
Morning traffic snarls cut time close, but I manage to make it to the bus depot with twenty minutes to spare. I park the truck in the long-term parking area and resist the urge to leave the owners an apology note. Best not to give the police any help if they manage to track me this far. I shoulder my bags and keep my head down as I wait in line to pay for the ticket I reserved. The crowd is thin, and I linger near the loading bay as I wait for the bus to board.
My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but I’m still wired at the same time from the boost of caffeine and adrenaline. Each time a security guard walks by, I tense, waiting for him to spot me and place me under arrest. By the time they call for my bus to load, I’m a complete wreck.
The attendant checking tickets gives me a curious glance. “Long day?” he comments, chuckling to himself.
You have no idea, I think, but I give him a bland smile and take the ticket stub he hands back.
The bus smells like leather, feet, and disinfectant, but the seats are plush, and the heater works. I stow my bag in the area above the seat but keep my purse beside me. The next stop isn’t for two hours, and I plan to spend every second of it sleeping, so having my purse anywhere but right next to me makes me uncomfortable. All the money I have is in it, and if it goes missing, I may as well just turn myself in.
As the bus pulls away from the stop and I start to drift off to sleep, my last thought is of Gracin’s face and just how mad he must have been when he came back to an empty house.
"Need any help?"
I heft my bag over my shoulder and squint at the guy in front of me. I'd been asleep since the last stop, and I don't recognize him so he must have gotten on then.
"Thanks. I've got it."
"Some view, huh?"
He isn't wrong. Even through the blacked-out windows of the bus, Los Angeles is stunning. Crowds of people traverse the sidewalks near the bus depot, and I can't wait to lose myself in them. The isolation of Upper Michigan was so complete that having so many people around should debilitate me with anxiety, but it doesn't. I wait impatiently for the others to disembark, and as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I lift my face to the sun and luxuriate in its warmth and imagine myself being bleached clean by the heat. It helps alleviate the suffocating guilt, but only marginally.
I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to, but it doesn't scare me. The overwhelming relief wars with that guilt and the struggle carries me away from the bus depot and toward the increasingly strong scent of salt on the air. I don't know how long I walk or where I'm going, all I care about
is losing myself. Maybe if I can do that, I'll somehow find myself, too.
I hear the waves before I see the beach. The sound of them crashing against the shore fills my head, blocking out the replay of warm blood splattering against the tile, of a bullet tearing into the fragile framework of skin. My knees wobble as I come to a red light. Those around me jostle with impatience, but I pay them no mind. I move forward with the crush as the light changes and let it carry me across the road to the boardwalk.
The weight of my bag digs into my shoulder and knocks rhythmically against my thigh as I stumble my way down the weathered stairs to the spill of brown sugar sand. I kick off my shoes, roll up my pants, and shed the light sweater I'd been using to battle the frigid air conditioner on the bus. After I stow the items in my bag, I bee-line for the surf and sink my toes into the sand with a loud sigh of pleasure.
Maybe I'll be okay, and maybe I won't. Either way, I'm going to stop being the victim and start fighting back. No one will ever make me feel like Vic did again, not even Gracin.
I stay at the beach until my toes are blue from the chill and the beach is nearly empty of families and teenagers. The burner phone I picked up is almost dead, but there's enough life left in it for me to track down a cheap hotel to crash in for the night. On the way there, I snag some fries, a hamburger, and a coke from a street vendor, which turns out to be the best food I may have ever eaten in my entire life.
I wish I could say my luck held out, but it doesn’t. The hotel looks straight from an episode of American Horror Story, but it's cheap and I'll only need it for a couple of nights. Cracked, water-stained stucco and scuffed floors are the least of my worries. The receptionist doesn't bat an eye at my rumpled, stained clothes, and I prepay for a three-night stay and request a room on the first floor near the busy side of the street in case I need to make a quick exit. After a quick shower in the small, but thankfully clean bathroom, I change into clean clothes and pass out on top of the comforter, my gun within reach, just in case.
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