I thought I'd made my peace with death, that if he came for me it was simply the way things had always been meant to end.
Now? Something snapped or clicked or I don’t even know. I want a life. That means he needs to be in jail or dead. It’s his turn to hide.
In Durham, I pick up a car. Technically, I steal it. I don't want to leave proof that I was here. The plane ticket was unavoidable. The ID I used isn't my real name. I think of the list of crimes that I will have to deny. I'll lie on the stand—or maybe it would be a different kind of truth if I say it right. Did I kill people? Technically, yes, but I killed them because it was an act of survival. Self-defense. Reid was in charge—has stayed in charge—but no more.
I stop at a neighborhood I haven't visited in years. The young men on the streets aren't the same ones, but they might as well be. If the police wanted to clean up the streets, they would. They don't. Far better to contain them to neighborhoods, and then if the police or some candidate needs a PR boost, they can do a "round up." Easy day. Easy targets. It's bullshit.
It's also convenient today.
I cruise past the men selling crack until I find one who catches my attention. I roll up and tell him what I need. The car is in gear, and my foot is ready to slip off the brake. There's not anywhere to box me in. There's no way for anyone to get in my passenger door without me seeing, not with the rear and side windows tilted right. Is it safe? More so than my next steps.
Aside from a too-long look at the gloves on my hands, the transaction goes smoothly. The seller calls a guy who brings a presumably clean gun. They wipe it down for prints and hand it over wrapped in a dirty shirt when they give it to me. I hope it has a ballistic history. Tying it to someone else's crimes isn't a bad thing.
Gun in a bag on the seat next to me, I drive to Reid's house. Technically, it is our house. I am his legal wife. Still. His house, his things, I would own half of them if I filed for divorce—and thanks to our marriage, he'd get all of my inheritance if I died. He threatened that.
I never threatened to divorce him. It’s the other reason why I stayed hidden. He does not deserve my money—not via divorce or my death.
There are no cars in the drive. There are no lights. I debate thinking that means no one is home. It might mean that. It might not. I still park in the road.
I check the 9millimeter that I just bought, slide the clip in, and make sure the safety is off. I'm not sure I can kill Reid, but it's either that or let the police handle it. I can't decide which is crueler.
I get out of the car, leaving it unlocked, and walk toward the house. I swore I'd never come back here. I swore I'd run until I ran out of places to hide. I guess I lied about that, too.
I don't ring the bell.
I walk around the side of the house and smash a window. Fuck it. He'll know someone was here. I'm not trying to hide it.
For a moment, I brace myself for him to come running at the sound of falling glass. The gun is out of the bag and in my hand. In that instant, I think I really could kill him.
But Reid doesn't come.
I climb inside, gun still held tightly, and walk to my bedroom. Our bed. The smell of it, of Reid, overwhelms me. Old memories wash over me.
He'd kill me if he saw me.
I'd kill him if I had to.
Inside the bureau is a box, and in the box are mementos of every pretty thing. His tattoo machine is there, too. So is our marriage certificate. I take all of it, shove it in my bag, and leave the room. I don't touch the bed. I don't take any of his shirts to sleep in like I did when I first left.
I walk through the house until I reach the bathroom. I'll grab the chains, too. I know about DNA. The chains will have DNA.
But inside the tub is a woman. She stares up at me, and too many memories crash over me at once.
"Help me. Please?" The words are more whisper than speech.
If there's a woman, he'll be back soon.
I pray to anyone actually out there that he won't come home and find me here with her. I’ll call the cops once I’m away from the house. I’ll— . . . there is a phone. I stare at it with a sort of remembered desperation. How many times had I prayed for that? How often had I wished there was a way to call for help?
I pick it up, hands shaking.
The phone works. I dial 911 as I walk back to the bathroom, and say, "Ambulance. Now."
I shove the phone into the woman’s hands, and I run. They're coming, or Reid will come first. Either way, I'm not ready. Death or prison. Neither sounds great.
I shove the door open, bag of evidence in my arms, gun in my hands, and I run to my stolen car. The gun I didn’t get to use is a liability now. I toss it in the first body of water I see—a farmer's pond by the looks of it. Maybe the police will arrest Reid, and that will be that. If not, I still have what I came for.
If he comes looking for me, I have proof—and our marriage certificate. It's probably not valid. The name on it isn't my real name, but it's proof that I was there. I don't want that in the police's hands. The evidence of my presence there is gone, and now they are coming to his house.
I drive toward the airport, carefully, and ditch the car. I'll watch the news, and once I know they have arrested him, I'll decide if I need to give them some of the things I stashed in my suitcase. Once again, the presence of another woman has saved my life.
35
Juliana
After I left Henry at the police department and headed back to the little apartment I'd rented, I tried not to think about the chemistry that’s buzzing between us since he arrived in New Orleans. Henry was putting it on the table, but it’s not who we are. It's not who we can be. I force the thoughts away, check my email, and stare at the window.
When I step out of the taxi, I find Andrew there waiting. It’s weird enough that Henry had found me, but to see Andrew here is more than I can handle. I want to know how.
And I don't want him here.
“Jules . . .” He looks as if he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since I left.
The driver, who doesn’t look bulky enough to withstand a strong wind let alone a fight, looks from me to Andrew and scowls. “You okay, miss?”
I hesitate before nodding. “Thank you.”
Andrew has made me uncomfortable, but I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me. He hasn’t ever acted in a threatening way. The simple fact that he’s here, that’s he’s traveled, alarms me.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” The driver asks as I hand him some cash.
I look away from the taxi driver and study Andrew where he waits on the street. I don’t trust easily, but I should trust him. He’s been in my life long enough that he’s earned it.
“I’m sure.”
The driver shakes his head. “Do you want me to wait for you to get inside?”
“I’m good.” I take my receipt and get out.
The car drives away.
Andrew and I are standing on the sidewalk, as awkward as if we’re strangers. This is a man who’s touched every inch of my body, a man who has shared my meals, a man whose bed I’ve slept in regularly. We shouldn’t feel like this.
Still, Andrew says nothing. I want him to speak, to give me an answer that would explain why he’s here. He shifts on his feet.