It takes all of the three days to locate a suitable furnished apartment and arrange for the change of utilities. I give them a fake name and a forged passport I bought off the internet. The landlord doesn't question it, and neither does the utility company. On the fourth day after arriving in LA, I have a place to live and have landed a job as a waitress at a nearby restaurant.
While I wait for my first day of work, I clean the apartment and set up an exit plan. I don't want to be caught unawares and trapped. I'm not sure if Gracin cares enough to come after me. He probably couldn't care less.
I use a portion of the money to stock up on ammo for the gun I purchased on the way to LA along with mace and a Taser. I keep the mace and Taser in my purse and the gun in an accessible drawer in my living room. With permission from my landlord, I purchase extra deadbolts and chains for the doors. The windows are already painted shut, but I test each one to make sure they aren’t going to budge. The preparation makes the days and nights go by quickly. Despite my trepidation, I sleep like the dead each night without the threat of Vic's presence by my side.
On the morning of my first day of work, I get up extra early to dress and navigate the bus route. I turn to lock the deadbolt on my front door and come face to face with a drawing.
I freeze.
Nearby a child screams with laughter, and I flinch away from the sound. Heart jack-hammering, I spin and scan the area for anything out of the ordinary, but the tenants in the nearby apartments are still fast asleep and there isn’t a single sign of Gracin.
The picture shows me on my first day in LA at the beach with my feet in the water. I'd been so entranced I hadn't even thought to look for anyone. Why would I have? I was all the way across the country and I hadn’t left any clues as to where I was headed.
For a long moment, the urge to get on a bus and escape overcomes me, but my already short supply of cash is rapidly dwindling. I can't keep running forever. Once reason returns, it occurs to me that if Gracin wanted to see me, he would have just found a way into my apartment while I was sleeping.
He hadn’t, which told me that while he knew where I was and wanted me to know that, he wasn’t going to force me to see him.
I just didn’t know why.
I can’t be sure, but I think someone is following me.
In the eight weeks since I arrived, I’ve been paranoid to the point of insanity. I always triple check my locks, take roundabout routes when I go to and from work, and religiously scour the news for signs of Gracin, any leads about the police investigation into the deaths at Blackthorne, or my disappearance. There haven’t been any successful leads, but that doesn’t mean I should be any less vigilant.
For good reason, apparently.
The man sitting in my section has requested to be seated in my section for the past week straight. Regulars aren’t out of the ordinary, but there’s something about this guy that has my whole body going on high alert. It’s nothing he’s done, per se, but after being cornered by one violent criminal, I don’t want it to happen again. Everyone is a possible connection to Gracin.
“I think someone has a fan,” another waitress, Melinda, says as she sidles up to the window to wait for her order. “You don’t ask for his number, I will,” she adds as she sails away through the crowd with a platter of food lifted over her head.
Her brash attitude and bluntness make me smile, even if it feels a little out of place on my lips. She’s exactly what I love about this city. The sheer number of people, cunty ones included, makes me feel safe. After years living in the desolate isolation of Upper Michigan, the warmth and anonymity appeal to me. At least the people here are upfront about it when they’re complete and utter assholes.
It doesn’t even bother me that my rent for a one-bedroom apartment is outrageous or the Van Nuys neighborhood it’s located in borders Hispanic gang territory. After what I’ve been through, the thugs on the street don’t even faze me. In fact, they’re almost reassuring. I’d much rather have a gun in my face than a sweet-talking, good-looking man who will stab me in the back with false promises.
The man leaves by the end of my shift. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for him, which will be almost impossible since he looks a lot like any other Californian. Nondescript jeans, leather sandals, and a button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves. His hair is neither blond, nor brown, and he’s of average height. But I’ve learned in my two-month crash course to find one feature that sets each person apart. For my lunch companion—it’s his eyes. Not the color, like Gracin’s unnatural green, but their shape. Specifically, his brows.
I noticed them because they reminded me of the caveman from that car insurance commercial. They emphasize his deep-set eyes and lend a brutality that reminds me all too much of everything I’m trying to run away from. More than likely he’s a perfectly nice guy, and I’m overreacting.
Still, I keep a mental picture of him.
Just in case.
Melinda returns with a scowl on her face. “Damn kids are more trouble than they’re worth,” she gripes, slamming the cash register closed and pocketing her tip.
I clip the order up for the table I was just at and turn to her. “Some customer giving you trouble?”
She snorts. “I wish. If that were the case, I could just tell them to fuck off, but no, they are my kids.”
The napkins I’m folding suddenly take all my attention. “Oh?” I pray my voice doesn’t sound as scratchy to her as it does to my ears.
“I hate to ask you this since you’re still getting on your feet, but can you take my afternoon shift?” Her pained expression darts to the phone, and I shrug. It isn’t like I have anything else better to do.
“Of course I can,” I tell her.
The work will keep my mind busy and put more money in my pocket, two things I desperately need. The measly amount I managed to scrape together didn’t last long, and I’m living paycheck to paycheck. I won’t be able to stay in LA forever. I need to keep moving.
My plan is to work and save enough money to risk traveling south to Mexico. After that, who knows? Eventually, the under the table job here is going to fall through, so I’ll also need to save enough to purchase a new identity. The crappy one I landed when I got here won’t hold up under intense scrutiny, but it’s good enough for my hiring manager and good enough to lean on in the interim.
“You’re a doll,” Melinda says and squeezes my arm. “I can’t thank you enough. As a matter of fact, I’ll leave the hot guy to you.” She turns away with a wink and a laugh, and I forget about the hot guy for the rest of my shift.
The city is quiet—or at least as quiet as it’ll ever be—when I wave goodbye to Jean-Paul, the line cook for the dinner shift. I’d been shocked when I first met him because I recognized him from several commercials and syndicated television shows. I learned quickly that most everyone in this city is an out of work actor. Maybe that’s why I feel like I fit in. We’re all playing a part here.
It’s when I reach the bus stop that I feel the niggling between my shoulders that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. I grip my purse tighter to my body and school my face to show no reaction.
When I look up, I don’t immediately see anything out of the ordinary. There are two families, a mother and her children, and a gaggle of girls waiting at the stop with me. Still, I don’t brush off the sense of alarm and keep my guard up as I get on the bus. The stop and go trip across the country wasn't enough to lose Gracin, and I don't let myself forget the fact for a second.
I haven’t received any more pictures, or even caught a glimpse of him, but I know he’s there, watching. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. I’m not sure that I care as long as he stays away from me. What I do know is that this feeling, this person who is watching me, isn’t him.
The sense of being watched doesn’t diminish throughout the long ride back to Van Nuys. I chew on a nail—a new habit I’ve taken up instead of something worse like drinking myself into oblivion. No one on the
bus swivels in my direction. No one even tries to lure me into pointless small talk.
I have to just be paranoid, I decide. I must have finally snapped. I’m so lost in thought, I almost miss the call for my stop, and then I hustle past the crowd of people and practically throw myself off the bus. It’s dusk, but the streets are still steaming hot. The heat will likely cling overnight. I lift my face up to the sky, and even though the smog is particularly thick today, I soak in the last of the day’s rays. It took weeks for me to feel like I finally thawed from the bitter Michigan winter. Even now, when I get out of bed, it takes me a few minutes to realize I don’t need to brace myself for the chill.
My feet drag as I trek from the bus stop down the couple blocks it takes to get to my shabby little apartment. If it can be believed, it’s in even worse shape than the house I shared with Vic, but it’s mine, and it’s cheap—well, at least by California standards. I’ll never get over how less than one thousand square feet of living space can cost as much as a five-bedroom house in Michigan.
I unlock the door and push inside and find myself crashing toward the floor as a weight pushes into me. I curl up instinctively, using my hands to break my fall and cry out when they give under the strain.
I don’t give my attacker a moment to plan their next action because I’ve been waiting for them. Spinning underneath them, I wiggle my feet free and plant them on their broad chest. I heave with all my might and manage to free myself from their hold. Their hands scrabble at my uniform and bruise my arms in an attempt to keep ahold of me, but I kick my attacker in the face and grin as they howl in pain.
It allows me enough time to scoot backward on the slick linoleum floor and dig through my purse for the can of mace I always have on me.
I train the canister on their prone form with one hand, and just as they get to their feet, I shoot them—him, I realize as I note it is the guy from the diner—with a face full of mace. He chokes, his eyes and nose automatically streaming.
There’s only a split second for me to escape, and I use it to my full advantage. I grab one side of the pullout couch and shove it so it blocks his path. Without the use of his eyes, the guy stumbles over it and crashes headfirst into the wall, denting the drywall.
I don’t stick around to see if he’s okay. I dart down the hallway that leads to the back door, leaving a smaller obstacle course in my wake to slow him down even more. Laundry baskets full of clothes, small shelving units I used as a makeshift pantry, and bookshelves scatter their contents all over the floor.
The attacker is still howling and crashing around in the living room as I dive out the back door. I didn’t have money for a car for a quick escape, but I do text out an emergency Uber order for a coffee shop a couple of blocks down. I timed it out after I moved into the apartment. If I book it, it only takes just under five minutes, about the same time it’ll take for an Uber in the area to arrive.
I’m halfway down the alley when he charges out the back door. I can hear his thundering steps following after me, but I’m lighter on my feet, and his bulky form is no match for it. My heart is in my throat as if I know somewhere deep down in the primitive parts of me that if I don’t escape this man, I may as well slit my throat. It’s a pure kind of fear that drives me to keep going past the point of exhaustion.
I turn a corner and see the coffee shop within the next block. The sight spurs me to pump my legs faster, despite the burn in my lungs. The sound of my pursuer begins to fade, and I slow to check my phone, finding the Uber alert that my car is waiting for me.
The sidewalks are full of people, and there’s no way he’ll do anything when there are witnesses everywhere. I try to slow down and look ordinary, but I’m shoving through tourists and hipsters as I speed-walk to the curb where the Uber is waiting.
Without stopping for pleasantries, I dive in the car and say, “Lakeland and 5th, please. And hurry.”
He grumbles and gives me a curious look, but he, thankfully, doesn’t argue. When he pulls away from the curb, I look behind me and scan the crowd, but the man from the diner is nowhere to be seen. I heave a tentative sign of relief, but the vice around my insides is still tight with fear.
Traffic is still horrific as we merge with long, snaking lines of cars, but being surrounded by them on all sides makes me feel somewhat safe. Once we get to the storage locker I rented, I’ll be able to retrieve the go-bag I stored there for just this occasion. I didn’t know if I’d have to use it, but I didn’t want to be stuck without a means of escape again. I vowed I wouldn’t be helpless again the second I got to LA. I’d realized it would be possible for the most experienced criminal to track me if they had the means, motive, and money. I wasn’t altogether certain Gracin had the last, but I knew he had the first two in spades.
The storage locker has a couple of changes of clothes, most of my cash, more weapons, and the jewelry I hadn’t pawned yet. I take in the scenery in greedy gulps as we inch along the freeway. I’m going to miss this place. Maybe I’ll go to Florida, keeping to areas where sunshine is prevalent. I don’t think I’ll ever go back up north if I can help it.
As the adrenaline begins to wear off, I wrap my arms around myself to stave off the shakes that wrack me all the way down to the bone. A part of me, the part that wanted to believe in the lie Gracin had spun, wants to break down and cry, but that part of me is shriveled up, a husk of who I used to be. The woman emerging from the ashes of my past life is harder, less trusting, and determined.
I won’t let them beat me. Won’t let him be yet another mistake I let ruin my life.
As I begin to crash, the weariness from a long day of work makes my eyes droop, and my mind goes fuzzy. That’s why I don’t notice we’re going in the wrong direction until it’s too late.
“Excuse me,” I say to the driver, a little annoyed. “You’re going in the wrong direction. You should have gotten off at the last exit. Can you please take the next one?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“Thanks.”
I blow out a breath. Just what I need. Another delay in getting out of the city. I nearly laugh. Making an escape at seven in the evening is pretty much a fruitless endeavor. Travel between four and eight is practically gridlocked, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
At the slow crawl, we’re forced to make it takes another thirty minutes before we make the next exit. I strain to catch a glimpse of the sign, and then relax when it comes into view.
“Right here,” I tell the driver, who either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care to follow my directions. “Uh, sir? That was the exit. Can you hear me?”
He doesn’t respond, and unease prickles at the back of my neck.
“Excuse me?”
When he ignores me again, I try the doors, but they’re locked, and no amount of pushing the buttons will unlock them. Panic spurts inside me, and I almost whimper. Suddenly, being cornered and surrounded by vehicles doesn’t feel as safe as it did a few minutes ago. I pull the gun from my purse where I’d stowed it after the attack in my apartment.
I steady my hands and keep the gun close, just in case. I don’t think I’m overreacting, but if I am, I’ll end up as just another crazy chick in a city full of them. I won’t take any chances, even if I have to take another life.
To think just a few months ago, my only concern was saving lives, and now it’s taking them to protect my own.
We drive in silence, picking up speed as the traffic slowly begins to clear. I don’t know the rest of LA as well as I know the area around my apartment, so I don’t recognize where he’s taking me. He eventually gets off the freeway, which drops us somewhere downtown moving too fast for me to risk an escape without potential injury.
“Please,” I say to the driver. “Please just let me go. I’ll give you cash, whatever you want.”
I learn something then that’s more terrifying than a man’s bare fists.
Silence.
Not knowing what’s going to happen.
The
anticipation is a thousand times worse than the actual violence.
It claws at me, taunts me.
His lack of response tells me there isn’t anything I could offer him that would deter him. I can’t think of a single person who would kidnap me besides Gracin, and I decide he must be paying him a shit-load to fetch me. I don’t know who Gracin was involved with, and I didn’t want to know. I have a feeling I’ll find out anyway.
I don’t dare risk shooting him while we’re driving. If he crashes, there’s no guarantee I’ll make it out myself. I’ll just have to save my escape for when we stop. The gun gives me an advantage. I just have to be smart about using it.
When we pull to a stop at a nondescript warehouse, my whole body tenses, and the gun is slippery in my damp palms. There are no lights outside, so I can only see the faintest outline of the massive building. Nothing about it is reassuring. I have to get out of here.
My first shot clips the soft tissue of his arm, causing him to emit an inhuman shriek. The second buries itself into his throat. I’ll never forget the gurgling sound he makes as he chokes on his blood. I push it to the back of my mind because I don’t have time to think about that.
I climb over the center console and unlock the front door, avoiding his grabby hands as I shove at his body to dump him out the driver’s side door. He’s heavy, and the angle is awkward, but I manage to topple him over. I’m about to pull the door closed again when three men in expensive-looking suits jog out of the building and toward the car.
The car’s still running, so I slam it in reverse, but before I can gun it, the passenger side door opens and a fourth man points a gun at my face.
Toxic Page 12