Seeking Sanctuary_A Shelter Me Novel

by Annie Anderson

  I thought he was passionate, that he loved me.

  I was a fucking moron.

  Almost as soon as I moved in, he flipped the switch. I should have seen the signs earlier, but as soon as he raised a hand, I had a plan in place. Granted, that plan was so I could run away from Cole and not the police, but I would work around it.

  There was no way I was having this baby in prison just to be sent off to the same damn fate I had.

  No way. No way in hell.

  Scanning the well-lit parking lot, I hauled ass to the stairs. Bypassing the security cameras in the elevators, I huffed up five flights of concrete steps. I didn’t have anything here of value except for clothes. It was the only thing I hadn’t packed. I thought I was so smart. Day by day, I would bring things I would need to work so I could deposit them at the storage space I’d rented behind Cole’s back.

  Everything was ready to go. I only needed one damn day. I knew Cole wouldn’t invite me along on his family trip. His parents hated the thought of their precious son shacking up with the ‘help.’ Oh, did I forget to mention the owners of the real estate firm I worked for were his parents? Yeah. Those pearl-clutching, country club bastards had their noses so far in the air I’m amazed they could breathe. There was no way Cole would endure a week-long trip with his mother’s nagging. Which is precisely what Patricia Montgomery would do if I came along.

  It was the perfect time to leave, I thought as I let myself in the apartment and bee-lined to the closet. I would’ve waited an extra day to make sure he was really gone, and make my escape. I had a new ID, new social security card, and a new car under a different name. Yeah, it was illegal as hell, but I’d done it.

  I knew from that first slap what I was in for. Colton Montgomery was no better than the drug dealing trash that killed my mother. He’d just had more money and more reach. I’d been told time and time again while he laced his apologies in threats that I couldn’t leave him.

  Oh god. I’d killed him.

  My mind spun as I shuddered, the magnitude of it all hitting me like a sledgehammer. The burning prick of tears hit my eyes, but I shook the thoughts away as I dashed my cheeks, hissing in pain as I pushed them back in the recesses of my mind until I – no, we – were safe.

  I grabbed my suitcase off the top shelf of the walk-in, but a shoe box followed it down. Stacks of one-hundred, fifty, twenty, and ten dollar bills each bound in currency straps flopped out of the long boot box spilling onto the closet floor. A quick count tallied up the bills to over five hundred thousand dollars.

  My brain quieted, and things started adding up quick. A trip to Grand Cayman. Missing money in the escrow account. Large amounts of money in cash.

  Embezzlement flashed like a neon sign in my head.

  Nodding, I stuffed the money back in the box, replacing the lid and set it aside. I’d decide what to do with that later. Unzipping the suitcase, I pulled every single stitch of clothing I owned – not much in the grand scheme of things – from the hangers and stuffed them in the hip-height case. In another suitcase, I shoved my shoes, underwear, bras, and jackets.

  It took three trips and much debate about whether or not I should take the money. In the end, I counted it as hazard pay. I would worry about the guilt of it later. A quick trip to the storage facility that held my new car and identification, and I was out of there.

  I was jumpy as hell on the way to the run-down storage facility, but I knew the owner, Smitty, from my days in the group home. Smitty was the type of man very few got to know. People see the paunchy stomach only barely hidden by an atrocious Hawaiian shirt and gold chains and assume he’s either out to swindle them (maybe if they were assholes) or sell them some blow (never). Smitty was just stuck in the 1970s. One day he put on a floral shirt and pair of pleated polyester pants and never looked back. The bad comb-over was merely a side-effect of watching too many episodes of Three’s Company.

  I loved the old man. Smitty’s the only reason my fingerprints weren’t in the system, and I didn’t have a juvie record. He was also the reason I had a new ID and social. I didn’t ask questions. From what I gathered, Smitty either had mob ties, government ties, or both.

  “Hey, old man,” I rasped, my throat still on fire as I came in the back door of the front office, spying him relaxing in his ratty old recliner watching a re-run of some 70s TV show I’d forgotten the name of.

  “Jesus, fuck. Who the fuck did that to you?” Smitty roared as he kicked the footrest down, jumping to his feet as fast as his age would let him.

  It hit me just then that I had no idea what I looked like. I turned to the mirror hanging just behind the door and gasped. My honey-blonde hair was haphazard, falling out of the elegant twist I’d painstakingly put it in this morning. My outfit was wrinkled and bloodstained, dots of red marring the pale turquoise top. My makeup was smeared under my eyes, my right cheek was bloody and turning an alarming shade of eggplant, while my nose was only moderately swollen and likely not broken. It was bloody, though, and drips from it had leaked down my lip and onto my shirt mingling with the trail from the open cut on my cheek. My bottom lip was split, probably catching on my teeth from that last slap. A dark hand-shaped bruise spanned the pale skin of my throat accompanying the dots of darkening purple on my arms and other places the mirror didn’t show, but I knew were there.

  The woman in the mirror was a hot mess.

  “Isla, baby girl, who did that to you? Was it that rich fuck? I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him,” Smitty threatened, his chest heaving in such a way I knew he’d do it, no question about it. I’d never really had a dad, but Smitty at that moment made me feel like he was a damn fine replacement.

  I hadn’t let on to Smitty just how bad it had gotten with Cole. Sure, he knew I needed to leave, but he didn’t realize Cole was hitting me. I didn’t know why I kept it from him. Smitty already knew the rest. The controlling way Cole threatened me, telling me I couldn’t leave him – that he could find me anywhere. But I couldn’t tell him the most shameful part. Smitty was the only one who believed I wouldn’t end up on the streets or cooking meth somewhere.

  “Too late, old man. I already took care of it,” I murmured as I met his eyes in the mirror. Smitty’s eyes morphed from slack-jawed shock to proud to concerned in the span of a second.

  “How did you take care of it?” Smitty’s voice was low and direct, commanding in a way I’d only heard from him in my younger, more troubled youth.

  “He surprised me, and I dropped my purse. Everything spilled out, and he saw the pregnancy test box I’d bought. He was… choking me. He was trying to…” I couldn’t finish that sentence. “I-I stabbed him with a letter opener. He fell and hit his head on a filing cabinet. I don’t… I don’t know if he’s dead or not. I uh… couldn’t bring myself to check, you know?” I shrugged even though the guilt clawed at me.

  I turned, meeting Smitty’s eyes with mine, dashing the tears as carefully as I could so I didn’t rip my cheek open farther.

  “Can you take care of my car for me?” I said as my voice broke. “Junk it, chop it, I don’t care. I’m gone as soon as I can load my shit. I’ll call you when I’m set up somewhere.”

  This was always the plan – Smitty taking care of my little ten-year-old Jetta and giving me the three-year-old Ford SUV he got from who knows where. I had the distinct feeling the car I’d be taking was stolen, but just like with the ID, I knew it was clean. He’d done so much for me. I’d never in a million years be able to pay him back.

  “Of course, kid, but are you sure? Looking the way you look, the cops wouldn’t blame you.” His gentle voice was enough to do me in, and I had to suck back tears to explain.

  “Ninety million dollars is missing in one of the accounts I was trying to balance today.” Smitty’s whistle was answer enough, but I had to tell him the rest.

  “I’m knocked up, and I’d been planning to leave for a month – complete with fake ID, social, and what is probably a stolen car. You know as well as
I do, none of that is going to do anything to keep me out of jail. If I go to the cops now, after I left the scene, after I didn’t even call an ambulance… I’ll never see the light of day again. There isn’t a lawyer alive that could do anything for me.”

  Especially with the Montgomery’s reach.

  Smitty nodded. “I’ll take care of you, Isla. Always, baby girl. Why don’t you get cleaned up and I’ll load your stuff in your car, okay?”

  That sounded like the best idea ever, so I agreed. I had no idea how I was going to do it myself. The aches from my injuries were starting to settle into my bones.

  Smitty brought me the ‘go’ bag I’d made ages ago, and I managed to take a shower without sobbing despite the intense desire to do so. I needed to not break right now. Butterflying my cheek took some work, and I knew I’d have a scar when it healed. I dressed quickly, putting on a clean pair of drawstring shorts, a tank, and a thin hoodie. I slipped into flip-flops and got the hell out of there.

  I managed to give Smitty a hug and peck on the cheek without sobbing, but it was close. He handed me a new phone and held out his hand for mine. When I slipped it into his hand, he let it fall to his feet before smashing it with his loafer-clad foot. Well, that was one way to do it.

  “I filled that one with tunes for your trip,” he said smiling as he nodded to the device in my hand. I slipped into my new-to-me car with my brand-new phone – moving on to live a new life doing my best to forget how I got there.

  “Love you, old man,” I called out the window, and then hooked up the phone, and set the music to shuffle.

  I’d already pulled out of the lot before the cowbell of ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’ started playing. Despite all that had happened, all that had changed in the span of a few hours, I still managed a short bark of a laugh as I headed west to my new life.

  3

  ISLA

  There were times in my life that I wished the universe would just reach up and absorb me into nothingness. Pretty much since I woke up today, I have been waiting for the universe to do me a solid and just make me disappear. I would have stayed holed up in the sweet bed and breakfast I was staying at, but since I overslept the breakfast window by about three hours, I had to make it into town to grab a meal.

  This is what I got for not staying in a hotel.

  I’d been lucky in the pregnancy department so far. I hadn’t had too much nausea, but for the last week or so I’d been having spells of ravenous hunger mixed with bouts of dizziness. Dizziness plus driving didn’t exactly mix, so it took much longer than I’d wanted to make it to the great state of Colorado. What would normally be a two-day drive took over a week. It didn’t help that my other injuries were taking a toll on me. The first night on the road, I barely made it to Mobile before I had to call it quits.

  I really missed room service.

  If I didn’t eat, it became almost impossible to walk, so as soon as I woke up enough to read a clock, I slapped some makeup on the purple ruin of my cheek. Agonizing over my newly dark brown hair, I got dressed, covered my injuries up as best I could with a scarf, and hauled ass to find some food. Had food not been such a priority, I would have done a better job of my makeup. Alas, I did not.

  This was a mistake.

  I should have found a drive-thru, or better yet, picked something other than a small mountain town to settle down in. Walking through the main entrance of the bed and breakfast was awkward. I avoided stares as much as I could, but I could tell I was drawing attention. More attention than I’d already drawn just checking into this place. The town was small, and I caused enough of a stir being a newcomer. The purpling bruises on my face and neck only added to the buzz.

  Just wait until I had a baby bump.

  I picked the main drag of the town because it was a two-minute drive from the B&B and I was starving. Plus, I wasn’t sure there was anything other than the main drag as far as restaurants went. I parked my new-to-me SUV on the street behind a load of other vehicles – trucks and SUVs, mostly. Some were bigger than mine with heavy-duty tires. I’d probably need to get that seen to if I stayed here for the winter.

  If I stayed at all.

  I gingerly climbed down from the seat, beeping the locks like I was back home. I probably didn’t need to lock my car in this sleepy mountain town, but it was habit from living in the transient nature of a tourist town. I was a few steps from glorious food only to be stopped by a man on the sidewalk. He was eighty if he was a day and he wanted to know ‘what in tarnation happened to my face.’ He was probably a sweet old man with daughters or granddaughters and his ire at my face might be welcome if it weren’t embarrassing as hell.

  It shamed me to have such a private part of myself on display for all the world to see. I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t want someone mad on my behalf. I wanted to heal, to forget the way the blade of the letter opener just slid into Cole’s flesh like it was nothing. I wanted to forget that taking a life was so easy, so quick.

  Everything felt so fragile – especially me.

  If that whole situation wasn’t jarring enough, his wife, a tottering woman complete with shawl and a cane decided to weigh in on my appearance and wanted to know if I’d shown the man his ‘rightful due.’

  Oh, I’d shown him his rightful due alright, and it didn’t matter if he was going to kill me first or if I was protecting my unborn child. I’d still killed a man, and the guilt of it was weighing on my every move.

  I just stood before the elderly couple staring, and then mumbled something as I skirted past them to the diner. I couldn’t say what I muttered, but I was away from them and closer to food, so that was a plus.

  Seating myself at the direction of a cute yet rustic chalkboard sign in the entry, I picked a booth against the wall so my face wasn’t on display in the broad front picture windows, but close enough that I could still gaze out of them.

  A small town might not be what I was looking for, but the view I had was. Small shops and restaurants dotted the main strip. Craft breweries sat next to tiny galleries, bookended by outerwear shops and places to procure biker paraphernalia. The men and women here didn’t seem botoxed or fake. They wore real clothes – hardy clothes for working or the weather. Not a pearl necklace or twin set in sight. The air was crisp – even if I had to take three breaths here for every one I took in Florida. I didn’t smell seaweed and too much car exhaust, just fresh pine and clean air. Things here felt less commercial, less packaged, and for the first time in a while, I could breathe.

  This is what I wanted to feel in Denver but didn’t. I’d meant to stop there, intended to make Denver my home. But I just couldn’t stay. It was too loud, too busy, too much, and when I passed each hotel on the highway, none of them felt right. Each one I came to, I’d think ‘maybe the next one’ until I ran out of city and reached the mountains.

  The woman who waited on me didn’t wear a regular waitress uniform. Instead, she paired a lightweight green plaid button-up with boot-cut jeans and a pair of killer boots. They were the color of cognac with a semi-square toe and high heel. I didn’t know how she stood on them all day, but I commended her on the effort.

  Her hair was a brilliant white against her tan skin, and I couldn’t tell if she dyed it that way or it was natural. Her eyebrows and lashes were a lush coal black so the white might be the natural progression from age. Either way, she was striking. In fact, I was so busy staring at her white locks, I missed the fact that she was staring at the bruises on my face. Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes to the laminated menu under my hands. After a quick glance, I’d picked my breakfast.

  “Hi, honey. I’m Constance. What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll take an orange juice if it’s not too pulpy, and I’m ready to order if you don’t mind.”

  “It is pulp free, and sure thing, honey. Shoot.”

  “I’ll have the Mountain Man breakfast. Eggs over medium, bacon and sausage, pancakes not waffles, a large fruit cup, and a side of German potatoes,” I fin
ished. The size of my order surprised her given the pair of raised black eyebrows, but she made no comment on it.

  “I’ll have that right out for you. Let me know if you need anything else, honey.”

  “Will do. Thank you,” I replied and tapped my fingers on the table.

  I missed my eReader, but that along with my other phone went away when I left. Typically, my nose was either in a set of numbers or a book and to not have either to take my mind off of things, was killing me.

  Staring out the window helped. But my eyes wandered taking in the checked tablecloth and handcrafted wooden syrup holder resting against the wall. I studied the four different types of syrup as if I were about to take a test on it – anything not to have to look up and catch someone staring at my face.

  The plunk of a glass hitting the tabletop made me jump, and my eyes flew up to see Constance setting plates and bowls filled with food in front of me. She handed me a cloth napkin-wrapped bundle of utensils and then proceeded to plop down in the booth across from me.

  I had a hard time not asking her what the hell she was doing, but the smell of bacon smacked me on the ass, so I unwrapped my utensils and dug in.

  “So, you’re new here. You’ve obviously left a bastard of an ex. You need a job, honey? A place to stay?” The question took me off guard, and I raised an eyebrow at her while if finished chewing a deliciously crispy piece of bacon.

  “Yes to both, however, I don’t know if I’m staying here or not.”

  “Oh, you’ll stay,” she dismissed my words with a wave. “I’ve got a nose for these things. I can tell at ten paces whether someone has the mettle to be a local or not.”