by Dori Lavelle
Two frayed quilts cover the bed. I peel one off and use it to cover the windows, tying the ends around the empty curtain rod. I make sure the door is locked, then place the chair underneath the handle for extra security.
The windows are large enough for me to climb through, should it come to that. But if I’m able to climb out, what would hinder someone from climbing in from outside?
The thought leaves me cold, but I’ll lose my mind if I worry too much. At least I can see the small parking lot from my room. I’ll know whenever a car drives in.
There’s nothing I want more than to throw myself onto the bed and go to sleep, but instead I go into the small bathroom. The shower is barely big enough for one person to fit inside, the basin is cracked, and the toilet cover is missing.
I peel my clothes off as quickly as possible and jump into the shower. The jet of cold water shocks me, but I recover quickly. I allow the cold water to run over my hair and skin, then scrub as much grime off as I can with the one tiny bar of soap I found near the sink.
Finally, feeling a bit more refreshed, I turn off the shower. Even though a faint stench lingers in the air around me, it’s not stomach-turning. Another shower in the morning should chase off any additional smells.
Before leaving the shower, I touch the bracelet on my ankle, trying for the millionth time to remove it. I could sell it along with the diamond ring. But the piece of gold metal is as tough as ever.
Dripping, I glance around the bathroom for something to dry myself off with. A rough towel on a rusty hook next to the toilet beckons for me. When I’m done drying my skin and hair, I wash my clothes in the sink, after removing the now soggy photo of Damien and me from the back pocket of my pants. I also rinse the kitchen towel I had wrapped around the knife. I’ll tuck the blade under my pillow before I go to sleep.
My clothes might not be able to dry completely before morning, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep with the window open. But that’s fine. Clean, damp clothes are better than dry clothes soaked in rotting food.
Wearing my damp but freshly washed panties and bra, I climb under the quilt, pulling it up to my chin. I keep one eye on the door, and one hand on the knife under my pillow.
Despite my exhaustion, I toss and turn for hours, imagining Damien bursting through the door and dragging me back to my prison. At times the images are so vivid inside my head that I sit up in bed, trembling with fear. But the hours tick by and he doesn’t show up.
When the clock strikes 3 a.m., I drift into a troubled sleep. An hour later, voices in the corridor outside disturb my sleep. Head swimming and heart pounding, I sit up and listen.
The voices belong to a man and woman. They’re getting closer.
It hasn’t even been one night and he’s already found me.
I jump out of bed and get into my cold, damp clothes, which still smell sour. I glance out the window. Before I went to sleep, a single car had occupied the parking lot—a beaten-down white Toyota Corolla. Now there’s a taxi parked next to it. No one is inside.
The voices get louder for a moment, and then silence returns. Could it be a false alarm?
I have two choices: relax and go back to sleep, or assume Damien is standing outside my door right this minute and make a plan. Maybe I should run for it. But what if I jump out the window and someone in the lobby sees me through the window? How far would I be able to run before he catches up?
I’m holding my makeshift curtain with one hand and my knife with the other when I hear the voices again. It sounds like an argument, and the voices don’t sound familiar.
No footsteps approach my room. A few minutes later, the argument stops. Not long after, I detect movement outside. A man dressed all in black exits the motel and heads for the taxi. He gets in and drives off.
Ten minutes tick by, then fifteen, then thirty. Deciding it was a false alarm after all, I undress again, hanging my clothes over the chair at the door.
An icy shiver touches the base of my spine as I climb back into bed. Under the covers, I consider my options.
If I manage to get out of Mexico, where will I go? I’m desperate to return home, but where is that, exactly? The dorms? My mother’s place? Where do I belong? Everyone I used to know believes I’m dead. And Damien is no fool. He knows I’ll seek safety somewhere familiar.
No, I can’t go anywhere familiar until I’m one hundred percent sure that Damien is behind bars and cannot come after me. Until the coast is clear, I have to find a safe place somewhere far away from Boston and Oaklow. My old life as I knew it has crashed and burned. I’m never getting it back. I’m not the same person I was before he kidnapped me.
Right now, my focus should be on getting out of Mexico. I hope the cops will be able to connect me with a U.S. embassy or consulate. Surely they can issue me temporary travel documents and facilitate my safe return.
Chapter Twenty-Six
An impatient rap on the door yanks me from sleep. It can’t be long since I closed my eyes. It’s still dark outside.
Two voices seep in through the cracks in the door, along with light from the corridor. One of the voices belongs to the motel owner, the other to a woman. Could it be someone sent by Damien? Anything is possible at this point. Maybe he’s standing right there next to them.
My body is heavy as I pull myself up and cower near the headboard. Despite the fact that I’m shaking with cold, fear-induced sweat dampens my armpits. It’s a struggle to think straight. But I have to think fast—act fast.
The knocking gets louder and more persistent. Knock, knock, knock. Thud, thud, thud, my heart responds.
“Open the door right this second.” The woman’s husky voice is angry. I detect a British accent.
A quick glance out the window reveals nothing new. No new cars parked in the lot—but that doesn’t mean anything.
On tiptoes, I hurry to the door, lift my damp clothes from the chair, and get dressed in the semi-darkness, ignoring the coolness of the fabric. In my rush I almost trip, but I get my balance back in time before I fall.
I’ve just finished dressing and am pulling back the curtain to make my escape through the window when a key slides into the lock from the other side. After a few metal clashes in the lock, my own key, which I’d left in the lock, falls to the ground and bounces away from the door.
Trying to keep my hands still, I fumble with the window to open it, but it’s stuck.
A key turns, the door bursts open, and the light flicks on. A tall, freckled woman with a blond halo braid glares at me, eyes spitting fire. The man I met at reception cowers behind her, but his head is tipped to the side so he can see past his companion. Is that fear I detect in his eyes?
During the few seconds we eye each other from across the room, I wait for Damien to reveal himself. But he doesn’t.
I turn away from the window and face my visitors fully. “Is… is something wrong?”
“Yes,” the woman barks. “This is a place of business. No one stays here for free.” She rolls up the thick sleeves of her cream bathrobe as though she’s readying herself for a physical fight.
I wrap my arms around my body. “I... I don’t understand.” I point at the man’s pale face. “I didn’t have cash so I gave him my wedding band. It should be worth... something.”
“Are you talking about this useless piece of jewelry?” She holds up the wedding band. “This is fake platinum... worthless. My son here might be incapable of telling the value of a piece of jewelry, but I know what I’m talking about. I used to be a jeweler back in England.”
“It can’t be. I thought...” My words turn to dust in my mouth.
“This is a business, not a homeless shelter.” She tosses the ring across the room, and it lands at my bare feet. “If you don’t have money to pay for your stay, then get your things and go.”
I glance at the blanket of darkness on the other side of the window pane, my stomach clenching. My eyes film with tears as I glance back at the woman.
“
I’m sorry about the ring. I had no idea. My husband... he gave it to me. He...” I almost tell her that Damien can afford expensive jewelry, but I bite my tongue. The last thing I want is for them to get in touch with him. Not that I would even know how to contact him. Or want to.
“I’m tired of tourists coming here and trying to take advantage of the locals. Get your things and leave.”
“Please, let me stay till the sun comes up. I have other jewelry on me. I’ll sell it somewhere and give you whatever I owe you.” My eyes shift between her and her son. “It was not my intention to trick you. My life is in danger. I don’t know where to go.”
The woman’s eyes remain stony. “Sorry. No free stays here. We work for a living. There are other motels in this town.”
I’m sure if I refuse to leave, she’ll drag me off her property. Left with no choice, I nod and pick up the ring from the floor.
I take two steps toward them, ready to leave, when I remember the knife under my pillow. As my single form of protection, I cannot go without it. But if I take it out now, they might feel threatened.
I look around the room. “Can I have a few minutes to get my things together? I promise I’ll leave after that.”
The woman raises a hand, fingers splayed. “Five minutes. Nothing more.”
“Okay.” I blink away tears. “That’s all I need.”
They leave the room but don’t close the door. As soon as they’re gone, I get the knife, wrap the kitchen towel around it, and return it to my back pocket.
Guilt gnaws at me as I wrap the ratty towel from my earlier shower around my body, under my blouse, and push it into the waistband of my pants. Who would have thought I’d turn out to be such a good thief?
I find them downstairs at the main entrance, one on each side of the door. The man averts his eyes, while his mother holds the door open for me, gaze unwavering.
“Thank you.” At least I managed to get a few hours of sleep, disturbed as it was.
My gratitude doesn’t get a response, not that I expected it to.
Outside, I retrace my steps, following the path that led me to the motel. The moment I’m a safe distance away from my temporary shelter, I pull the towel from under my blouse and throw it over my shoulders. The damp clothes make the air feel even cooler than it was a couple of hours earlier.
As I push my way through the night, I think back to the moment the woman and her son barged into my room.
Why would Damien give me a worthless ring? Considering the deep, albeit sick, feelings he has for me, it doesn’t make sense.
The diamond ring weighs heavy on my finger. I’m tempted to remove it, to study it in the light of a street lamp. But that’s a bad idea. Much as I want it off my finger, there’s still a chance it’s the real thing, in which case it’s safer on me until I find a jewelry or pawn shop.
The world is sleeping. There isn’t a soul on the street but me and a few stray dogs. Prickles of fear shower my spine every time I walk past a dark corner, expecting a figure to spring out of the shadows.
I try not to think of what’s lurking as I hurry back toward Marissa’s liquor store. The chances of it still being open are slim, but I have to see for myself. To my disappointment, I find the lights off and the door locked.
With nowhere left to go, I head in the direction of the beach, in the hope that a wide open space will be safer than all those corners that could hide unknown dangers. The rush of the waves and the taste of salt in the air tell me I don’t have far to walk.
Ten minutes later, my soles touch the pebbled beach. I drag my heavy feet along the edge of the inky water, stepping over empty beer cans, shells, and what looks in the moonlight to be a condom wrapper.
I try not to think of the night of Chelsea’s engagement party, when I was safe—close to happy, even. Now I’m homeless and struggling to survive in a foreign country. I push the memories and images of the past to the back of my mind.
I find shelter between two large boulders, where I lay my towel down and sink onto it.
Gazing out at the waves rolling in and out, I allow myself to cry until I’m so empty and exhausted that sleep threatens to steal me. But falling asleep is the last thing I want to do. I need my eyes and ears open for any signs of danger.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sunrays crack through the sleepy morning sky. My body aching, I pull myself up off the ground. At least the night is behind me and I can start searching for help from people who are trained to offer it.
My stomach groans with hunger as I pull out my map. Hunger won’t kill me—at least, not yet—but Damien might if he finds me again. I’m a threat to his freedom, as he is to mine.
I look up from the map, and my gaze roams the deserted beach. It’s as isolated as it was hours before. Not much of a surprise there; the trash seems to have multiplied overnight, and the smell of dead fish alone is sure to keep swimmers away.
My first step of the day lands my right foot on a broken shell.
“Ouch,” I groan and fall onto one of the boulders to pull the shards from my skin. The damage isn’t as bad as I anticipated—no blood in sight.
I fold up my map and make my way back to the buildings. Everything looks different in the daylight, less threatening.
San Maureo is a charming town full of buildings with white-washed exteriors. It reminds me of Santorini, Greece, a place I visited during my old life as a model. It’s hard to imagine such an innocent place harboring a criminal like Damien Steel.
According to a church clock towering above most of the buildings, it’s 6 a.m. and the sidewalk is already packed with pedestrians, early risers spilling onto the streets to start their day. Shopkeepers fling open their doors or shake out rugs from windows.
The town is bursting to life around me, and yet I feel dead inside. No one is able to see my pain. Surrounded by people, I have never felt more alone.
The cacophony of sounds make my tired head ache. The screeching of tires, honking horns, the yelling so early in the morning—it all hits my eardrums hard. I wish I could turn off the volume or filter out the noise somehow.
My relief is palpable as I turn onto a quieter street lined with mostly closed bars and nightclubs and a few restaurants.
As I try not to step on broken glass, chewing gum, or other kinds of grime on the pavement, I catch a whiff of brewing coffee and delicious food smells. Hunger twists my stomach.
The map, marked by Marissa’s highlighter, leads me past a construction site.
Heeding the safety signs, I cross the street to the opposite side of the steel-framed walls, support columns, and stacks of lumber, distancing myself from sounds much worse than those I left behind. My hands itch to cover my ears, to shut out the clank of metal against metal, the high-pitched sound of a saw, and the catcalls from the construction workers. Who in their right mind would find me attractive in this state?
Dust and dirt shoots into my nostrils and mouth. I succumb to a coughing fit. Once it passes, I wind my towel around my shoulders and hurry away.
Less than two minutes later, I catch sight of the police station, another white building. My lungs almost collapse with relief. The sound of sirens is music to my ears.
A police car is parked on the curb outside the metal fence. Two policemen are sitting in a stationary car, deep in conversation. I’m approaching from behind, so the only view I get is of the backs of their heads.
I’m about to walk past the car to get to the wide gates, which are yawning open to let a police van through, when I change my mind. Talking to the two policemen in the car might save me a whole lot of waiting inside.
A glance into the side mirror of the passenger’s side brings me to a screeching halt and the blood drains from my face.
The shock of silver hair and handlebar moustache are unmistakable. There’s only one police officer present in the car. The man he’s conversing with is Adrian.
Turning my back on the car before Adrian spots me, I give in to my natural instinct
to flee.
The possibility that Damien, or his right-hand man, would come looking for me at the police station never crossed my mind. It should have, though. The station is one of the few places I could turn to for help.
Of course he’d have some kind of connection to the police.
Did he tell them his mentally fragile wife has disappeared and he needs help finding her? Did he pay them to hand me over to him like a lost parcel once they find me? Is he inside the station now, a broken husband concerned for his wife’s safety?
Good thing I spotted Adrian first. I need to get away, to get lost among the residents and tourists. I remove the towel from around my shoulders and cover my head with it, the way I do after a shower. My shock of red hair is my most distinctive feature.
I break into a run, the sounds of the morning rush no longer a nuisance. Tears blind my eyes as the realization hits me that without the help of the police, I’m in serious trouble. Where do I go now? Who can I turn to?
Marissa, the voice inside my head whispers. I obey my instinct and find myself back at the liquor store. The store is open, and Marissa’s eyes light up when she sees me enter.
She’s dressed in a white tank top that shows off her abs, and tight black jeans. A pink ribbon still decorates her hair.
Marissa hands change to an old man with a poodle, then walks around the counter to shake my hand.
“My friend.” She gives me a grin that warms my heart. “I think you go to police.”
“Police station is a bad idea.” I glance at the door behind me. “A bad man is waiting there. He’s a friend of the police. Can I stay here for a bit, please? I need time to think.” I don’t know if she understood everything I said, but I’m too flustered to think about simplifying my English even further.
“Here?” Her eyes widen.
