by L. G. Davis
He’s watching me tied to a chair, unable to move. The chains around my wrists and ankles cut into my skin.
He pulls on his cigar again, then takes one step toward me.
“Try to run now,” he says menacingly. “You can never outrun me. I’ll be right behind you.”
He blows the next puff of smoke into my face. I choke on it, my lungs rejecting the foreign particles.
Cole grabs me by the throat, cutting off my air supply. I gasp for air, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. It’s only when my head starts to spin from lack of oxygen that he steps back and reaches into his pocket.
He removes a lighter and flicks it on.
My eyes widen and my insides curl with fear. I want to beg him to let me go, but I can’t speak. My mouth is not covered, but fear kills the words before they can surface.
I push my feet against the floor, trying to slide away from him. The soles of my feet slide against something wet. A toxic smell engulfs me, so strong that it burns my nostrils.
He wants to set me on fire.
I start to kick and force myself to scream.
He doesn’t care. He tosses the lighter at the floor and it meets the alcohol in a burst of flames that lick their way to me.
When the fire reaches my skin, my screams finally erupt. I scream and cry until a soft touch on my cheek makes me open my eyes.
I sag deeper into the mattress with relief when it hits me that I was dreaming. Cole is not here.
“Wake up, Mommy,” Clark calls, touching my sweaty cheek again.
We sleep in the same bed because I never want to be apart from him. I don’t want to wake up one day to find him gone.
“Mommy, you were crying again in your sleep.” His voice is still sleepy. I woke him with my struggling.
“I’m so sorry, baby.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead and pull him into my arms. “I had a bad dream.”
“Don’t be scared. It’s not real.”
I bury my head into his little body, wishing he could protect me from my inner demons. I used to have nightmares at least once a week, but the past few days they have been happening almost every night. I hate that I scare Clark with my night terrors.
After I release him, I take my anxiety medication to calm me down.
It’s already 7:00 a.m. on Saturday and I have the day free.
“Go brush your teeth. After my shower, we can bake. How about cupcakes for Mrs. Foster?”
I still feel guilty about being angry with her two days ago when she took Clark out for ice cream.
In addition to my new hobby of extreme couponing, baking calms me down. Growing up at a group home in New Jersey, my main task used to be helping out in the kitchen. At first, I hated it, but then Virginia, the cook, taught me how to love cooking and baking. It soon became my escape. It still is.
When I create a beautiful sweet treat, I convince myself that I’m not as useless as I think I am. Even a broken person is capable of creating something beautiful.
Creating something from nothing gives me a sense of purpose, but the good feelings only last until the oven is switched off, the flour is wiped off the counter, and the baking tools are put away.
Clark loves to watch me bake and I love that at that moment, his little mind is focused on something more beautiful than the dark memories of his father’s death. He doesn’t talk about it, but he can’t have left Fort Haven unscathed.
“What kind of cupcakes should we bake?” I ask him after my shower.
“Mrs. Foster likes chocolate. You know that, Mommy.”
“You’re right. Sorry, I forgot.”
We go to the kitchen hand in hand, where I disappear into the tiny pantry. I gather everything I need and get out before I become claustrophobic. Some people might find my fear of being trapped inside small spaces ridiculous, but it’s a fear I’d had since I was a child and haven’t managed to shake off. That’s why I keep the ingredients we need most of the time inside the kitchen cabinets.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen is transformed into our own personal bakery.
It’s strange that even though I’m a baker, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I taste what I bake only to see if I’m headed in the right direction, but I never enjoy the final product. I just bake for other people, who happen to be Clark and Mrs. Foster at the moment. Sometimes I bake at Lemon, but usually, Tasha purchases her baked goods from Jody Sweet, a local bakery.
When I pour the flour into a bowl, flower dust floats upward into my face.
Clark laughs. For a split second, I allow myself to join him. I don’t know what horrors today will bring, but this moment is ours alone. We don’t get to go out much, but we get to do this.
The red and white ‘50s diner-style kitchen with its checkerboard floors and vintage-inspired backsplashes makes me feel like I can escape to another time and place and pretend my problems don’t exist.
Clark helps me stir the cupcake mixture and fill the baking tray. Once the cupcakes are in the oven and I’m cleaning up, he gets his coloring book to make the time go faster.
When the cupcakes are done, and the aromas of chocolate, lemon zest, and vanilla swirl around the room, he helps me decorate them with buttercream, lemon slices, and mint leaves.
Now that we’ve finished baking, dread wraps itself around me. I can’t help feeling that something bad is about to happen. It’s the same feeling I had the night Brett died, seconds before I found him in our room.
But I pretend for Clark that I’m in a good mood, and we grab the cupcakes and drive them to Mrs. Foster to surprise her.
We find her sitting out on the porch, knitting something that looks like a scarf. She says it’s for Clark and puts it away quickly.
I’m touched, but I wonder if Clark will ever wear it. Will we still be in Willow Creek when winter comes around?
“Is that for me?” Mrs. Foster asks, pointing at the tray in Clark’s hands.
“They’re cupcakes!” Clark says before I can answer.
“You really like to surprise me, don’t you, Clark?” She smiles brightly.
“I helped Mommy bake them.”
“You are one talented boy.” Mrs. Foster takes one of the cupcakes from the tray. She brings it to her lips and bites into it. “Delicious as usual.” She raises her gaze to mine. “Have you thought more about what I said?” she asks, chewing.
She has been telling me often to open up my own bakery or restaurant. I’m always flattered that she thinks my baked goods are good enough to charge for.
“Yes.” I pull my gaze from hers. If only she knew how complicated it is. I can never tell her what’s standing in the way of my dream. “Maybe someday I will.”
I simply smile, hoping she will drop the topic. I’m relieved when she goes back to chatting with Clark, telling him stories of her childhood, as if he were her own grandchild.
“Unfortunately, we have to go,” I say after the third story.
“Why don’t you leave Clark with me? He can keep me company.”
“I’d love to, but I promised him another ice cream because he was so good in the kitchen today.” That’s not the whole truth. Mostly, I want to spend time with my son instead of handing him over.
“Well, in that case, off you go, young man.” Mrs. Foster ruffles Clark’s hair and he slides down off the porch swing.
When we get back into the car, she gives us a small wave and returns to her knitting, the tray of cupcakes next to her.
Although Clark would have loved to sit at an ice cream shop, I can’t risk being out in public for too long. That’s why we never eat at restaurants, except occasionally when he comes with me to work on days when Mrs. Foster is unable to babysit.
Instead, we drive to the grocery store to pick up a tub of ice cream.
I’m about to pay when my body senses a strong presence behind me, a tingling sensation as if I’m being watched.
I spin around and scan the faces behind me, but there are none that I recognize, and no one co
mes across as suspicious.
Still feeling uneasy, I pay for the ice cream and grab Clark’s hand.
What if he had been watching me and stepped out of sight when I turned around? What if the reason I’m having so many nightmares is that he’s getting close?
What if Cole is in town?
But then, why didn’t he come sooner? What stopped him from hiring a detective to track me down? It’s been a year and he hasn’t managed to do it.
Maybe he wants to punish me from a distance.
Inside the car, Clark wants to start eating the ice cream right away. I tell him he can’t because he doesn’t have a spoon. He insists on using his finger. Usually, I stand my ground, but I don’t have the energy to right now.
I give him the tub of ice cream and he digs into it, licking his fingers with glee.
Once we get to the cabin, my stomach is in knots. As always, I tour the entire cabin, making sure everything is in its place.
Inside the kitchen, a cold shower of dread washes over me when I notice that one of the three cupcakes, we left behind is missing. I had meant for Clark to eat them for dessert tonight.
I call Clark and he comes running.
“Did you eat one of the cupcakes?” I ask him, trying not to think the worst.
“No.” He shakes his head.
“I left three cupcakes for you to eat for dessert, remember?”
He eyes the cupcakes on the table and shakes his head again. “No, Mommy, I think you only left two.”
He can’t be right. I’m pretty sure I left three cupcakes.
“Sweetie,” I say, turning him to face me, “did you just forget? It’s okay to tell mommy if you don’t remember.”
“I didn’t forget.” He stomps one of his feet. “I’m not lying, mommy. I’m not.”
“Of course not, baby. Of course not.” Feeling terrible, I pull him to me and kiss the top of his head.
A moment later, he leaves me standing in the kitchen, wondering whether I’m finally losing my mind.
10
As soon as Clark falls asleep, I put away the book I was reading to him and tiptoe out of the room, closing the door softly.
The online newspaper articles I printed out at the restaurant today are sitting in the living room.
I don’t own a laptop, so Tasha gave me permission to use the computer in her office whenever I want, but I’m always nervous that I might leave behind some clues about who I am. I only use it once a month and always make sure to delete my history after I’m done.
I can barely breathe as I spread out the articles related to Brett’s and Janella’s murders.
Two days later, I’m still haunted by the missing cupcake, still wondering if I was being paranoid or if someone was inside the cabin.
I asked Clark several times more if he is sure that there were only two cupcakes. The answer was always yes.
I want to believe him, but something won’t let me.
I brace myself and pick up the first article. It’s an old article I already read not long after I left Fort Haven. I put it down again and sift through the papers to find a more recent one that would give me more accurate information about how close the law is to catching up with me.
I find one that’s only two days old, and my breath catches in my throat.
They haven’t given up. They’re still searching for me.
Photos of me grace the page. My fingers stroke the birthmark on my collarbone. When changing my looks, it’s the one thing I cannot change, but I keep it well hidden underneath clothing and makeup.
My breath is shaking as it goes in and out of my lungs. Each word I take in feels like a dagger to my heart.
The new police chief of Fort Haven has vowed to find Brett Wilton’s murderer. Apparently, the previous chief of police died in a car accident two months ago.
I scan the article, but I am not able to read every word, only the sentences that spring out at me.
Meghan Wilton is wanted for the murder of her husband, Brett Wilton, and their housekeeper. Cole Wilton, Brett Wilton’s father, is offering a reward of $20,000 to anyone who informs him of his former daughter-in-law’s whereabouts. He refuses to give up hope that she will be found and brought to justice and he can be reunited with his only grandson.
The tragedy of Brett Wilton’s death had shaken the small town of Fort Haven. He was found dead in his home on June 20 last year. Only hours later, the housekeeper, Janella Soriano was also found dead, poisoned to death with cyanide, the same poison that is believed to have killed Brett Wilton. After being initially questioned by police, Meghan Wilton disappeared from Fort Haven with her son and was never seen again.
If you or anyone you know has any information pertaining to her whereabouts, we urge you to contact the police or Cole Wilton as soon as possible.
The piece of paper flutters to the carpet. My gaze follows it. It’s the first time I’m hearing what killed my husband. How he died does not matter anymore. What matters is that I’m still wanted by the police.
I thought the case was running cold, that they had given up on me. But then again, a year is not a long time, especially when it comes to murder. And I never really expected Cole to give up. He’s not that kind of man.
I’ve managed to hide for a year, but it feels as though I’m reaching the end. Now that there is a reward on my head, people will be more motivated to search for me. Someone here in Willow Creek might recognize me and notify the cops.
I don’t understand why they’re asked to contact Cole as well. Why not just the police?
My mouth goes sour. Cole would prefer them to contact him so he can get to me first. He would want to have enough time to torture me before handing me over. I’m also guessing that if someone is greedy, they would contact him first in order to negotiate a higher amount.
I stare at the piece of paper at my feet into the eyes of the man I used to call my father-in-law. There’s a small photo of him along with one of Brett. The confidence in Cole’s eyes makes me want to throw up.
Without thinking, I snatch up the page and tear it to shreds.
I want to cry so much, to scream out, but I don’t want Clark to hear me. I rush out onto the porch, my fingers pressed hard against my throbbing temples, my teeth grinding against each other as I replay every word I read in my mind.
What do I do? Do I run again? And if I do, where would I go? I feel safer in the cabin that has protected me for several months now. The thought of starting over in another town without anyone’s help terrifies me.
I force myself to calm down, filling my lungs with as much air as possible. I need to think. I cannot allow myself to come apart. I have Clark to think about.
There’s only one thing for me to do right now. I need to lay low for a few days. I need to stay out of the public eye. Being seen anywhere right now is dangerous.
I lower myself onto the porch swing and put my head into my hands only for a moment before it snaps up again. I don’t know if it’s my paranoia, but I feel as though I’m being watched.
I search the darkness and find nothing. The only thing I can make out are the sounds of small animals skittering in the underbrush. Still, I go back into the cabin and lock the door. I also make sure every single window is closed.
Then, I go to the bathroom and open the cabinet, removing one of the hair color boxes stacked inside. Blonde is my next look.
When I left Fort Haven, I was a long-haired brunette. Now I aim to have a different look every few weeks. Sometimes I cut my hair shorter or allow it to grow longer. I alternate between the two.
It’s important I don’t look the same for too long. I also wear various shades of contact lenses to disguise my amber eyes. Changing up my look when my gut tells me to, makes me feel safer, less recognizable. But on the other hand, it has caused Tasha to ask questions. I told her I get bored and like shaking things up a bit.
People at work, except for Tasha, have started to guess what color of hair I’ll have next. They have
n’t said it in front of me, but I’ve heard the whispers.
I’ve become such an expert at coloring my hair that it doesn’t take long. Finally, I’m standing in front of the small round mirror, studying my new look. The blonde hair makes me look pale and washed out, but I don’t care. Deep down, I know that I still look like myself. Can I truly ever look different? Or do I only feel this way because I know myself better than anyone else?
An untrained eye might not recognize that the woman whose photo is displayed in the articles is the same one who walks the streets of Willow Creek.
The colors I choose for my hair and my eyes aren’t flashy. Right now, I’m choosing velvet brown for my eyes.
When I return from the bathroom, smelling of ammonia from hair dye, I can barely walk with exhaustion, both physical and mental.
As soon as I enter, Clark coughs and I freeze in the doorway. I hold my breath, expecting him to go back to sleep after stretching out a bit, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits up in the dark and calls my name.
Kicking myself for being too loud, I head over to the bed and switch on the nightlight on my side.
“Sweetie, why are you not sleeping?”
“I heard sounds.” He rubs his eyes with his fists.
“What sounds?” I frown and glance frantically at the window.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Sleep disappears from his eyes the longer he looks at me. “Mommy, you did it again.”
I bring my hand to my hair. “You don’t like it?”
He shakes his head. “I liked the other one, the red hair.”
I sigh with disappointment. Sometimes Clark likes my looks and sometimes he doesn’t. I do hate that when he starts getting used to the way I look, I change myself again. It has to make him feel insecure.
But there’s nothing I can do. I need to keep running.
The next few days will be critical. We will be more careful than we have ever been before.
I pray that no one will recognize us. The good thing about Clark is that he has changed so much in the past year. He looked so small in the photos that were originally circulated on the news and by the police.