BY THE TIME I reached Rolla, Missouri, the afternoon after I realized I needed medical attention, the infection in my arm was so severe that I doubted that I would survive even one more night. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t concentrate. I could barely stay upright for more than a few moments at a time.

Still, I reasoned with myself, it was a better choice than staying and allowing Clay, the man I had loved with all of my heart—the man I still loved—to discover I was awake and ready to face the full fury of his vengeance.

Even though I needed more than anything to find a doctor, the first thing I did was use one of the cards I’d stolen months earlier to book a motel room. When the clerk gave me an odd look, I made up a story about having a fight with my boyfriend while we were camping in the Mark Twain National Forest. About how I couldn’t spend even one more night out in the middle of nowhere with him.

The old woman gave me a cautious look over the top of her glasses.

Arranging my face into a smile, I added, “I just really need a shower and a bed for the night. Hopefully, a night alone out there will make him come to his senses.” I forced out a chuckle and hoped it sounded at least somewhat believable.

Dumping my bag onto the bed, I took a quick shower and washed off the grime caked on my skin. There was a small private hospital I’d seen signs for on the road to the motel, and I planned to be at least partly presentable before I arrived so that no one called the police. When I dressed, I left the wound uncovered. It was a risk, but safer than wrapping it back in a dirty bandage.

Clutching my arm to my chest, I stopped only when I spotted an ATM. I drained the remaining funds available from the plastic, tossing the card into the trash once I had.

I tucked the cash into my pocket, trying not to consider the fact that after the relatively small pile ran out, I would have to find another option for getting more money.

If only I’d paid more attention when learning this stuff.

A fresh stab of pain drew my attention to my worsening wound. A reminder that I really shouldn’t have left it for so long before seeking medical assistance, but part of me had refused to believe I could have escaped from the life-threatening situation of the Rain’s capture only to end up at the mercy of my body’s own defenses.

During the walk to the hospital, I struggled to stay upright. Despite my foggy head, and churning stomach, I made it eventually.

The hospital was relatively small. Only a few stories high. The sheer potential for questions and paperwork was enough to give me heart palpitations on top of my myriad of other symptoms. The thought was enough to force me to retreat away from the building, which loomed larger with the mere possibility of the dangers that might lurk inside the clinical walls.

While I assessed my best options for seeing a doctor, I leaned against one of the trees that ringed the parking lot for support. I couldn’t risk going inside the hospital, but I could try to get the attention of a doctor outside. I observed the lot, hoping to find someone who was just arriving or preparing to leave to help me.

To avoid suspicion and raising alarms, I ensured my hoodie was still in place over my distinctive multihued hair and held my wrist hidden as close against my body as I dared. I didn’t have anything to cover my lilac irises, so I could only hope avoiding eye contact would be enough.

I used the tree to hold myself upright, trying everything I could to hide the fact that I was swaying while I stood still. Even though I knew I probably appeared to be a drunken vagrant, I didn’t have it in me to care. This was the only way to get the help I needed as quickly as I could.

Eventually, a youngish man with sandy-brown hair tinted with highlights and slicked back with product stepped out of the hospital. I watched him as he said something to some nurses loitering in a group by the entrance to the hospital. His hospital employee badge was illegible from my distance, but I took faith just from the fact that he had one. Added to the fact that his suit looked well cut, possibly even tailored, I thought he was a good candidate to approach. Undoubtedly the best option I had.

I pushed myself away from the tree and set off toward him, hoping that my instincts about him being a doctor were right. Whistling as he walked, he pulled a key from his pocket and pushed a button. The lights of a silver BMW parked in a reserved spot flashed in time with a trill beep and click that indicated the car was unlocked. My pulse raced as I hoped his expensive taste confirmed my assessment. The hard part was next though, convincing him to help me off the books.

I rushed to move between him and his car, blocking his escape.

“Help me, please,” I begged, allowing tears to flood my eyes as I moved my arm away from the shelter of my body. The effort of extending my arm almost toppled me off-balance, and I staggered in place.

Even though he was probably used to seeing the worst injuries, the doctor’s lip lifted in disgust as he looked at my wound—perhaps because of the state of the infection—but he’d hidden it by the time he met my gaze. His eyes were kind as he assessed me, but his next words made my heart plummet. “The emergency department is on the first floor. Someone there will be able to help you.”

“I . . . I can’t go in there,” I sobbed. Reaching out my hand, I gripped my fingers around his cotton shirt and held him carefully, hoping he’d assume my heat was purely a result of the infection in my arm. “My . . . my husband . . . he . . .” I broke down in tears.

I’d planned a few alternate stories to help sell my inability to enter the hospital, and I hoped that I’d selected the right one based on my quick judgment of the doctor in front of me. The car, the tailored suit, his hair, and his perfectly manicured nails had all made me assume that money would be a primary motivator for him before I had approached him. The soft set of his eyes as he watched me holding my arm and swaying on my feet made me think that it was possible he might have gone into medicine with a nobler purpose as well—one which I fully intended to capitalize on if I could.

“He’s a cop and . . .” I looked down at my arm and released what I hoped was a believable, gut-wrenching sob. The grief over my recent losses that I’d been holding in—a constant presence that I had carried with me since I left Detroit—bubbled to the surface. I hoped it gave me an air of credibility.

The doctor frowned, his eyes flashing with rage as his gaze assessed the wound on my arm again. “He did this to you?”

I sniffed and allowed a few more tears to streak my cheeks before nodding. “He told me that he’d find me if I ever tried to leave him,” I wailed. Part of me worried that I was pushing the story too far, but the doctor’s attitude toward me appeared to soften by the second, and he shifted his stance closer to me. “He’s tracking my—” I sobbed. “—my cards and social security. I just know that if I go in there that he’ll come after me.” I took a few deep breaths before wailing, “I can’t let him find me.”

Even though I’d fabricated the story, there was enough truth in it—enough fear and sorrow in me—to make it realistic. Clay had proven before how effective he was at tracking me when he’d turned up on my doorstep in Charlotte. Back then, he’d found me for a wondrous purpose. Now, I was squarely on his personal “wanted” list.

“If she doesn’t pull through, I’ll never forgive you.”

I tapped into my fear to fabricate my story and hoped my sorrow was believable enough to convince the doctor of the truth in my lie.

Across the parking lot, a car door slammed.

My heart leaped, and my muscles contracted. I twisted in place to scan the area for danger. My breathing sped, but I tried to get it under control again as I turned back toward the doctor.

“I’m sure we can find someone to help watch you,” he said. “We’ve got security—”

“No!” I cried, cutting him off. “I can’t. Just the sight of a man in uniform is enough to . . . to . . .” I burst into tears. “Please! I just—” I paused as a wave of heat and nausea washed over me. “I just need some antibiotics. I can pay you.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the stash of bills I’d withdrawn from the ATM. He glanced over his shoulder, and I worried he was going to alert someone to what I was trying to do, but when he looked back with greed in his eyes, I figured it was to ensure no one was watching our interaction.

He curled my fist over the money I offered. “Put that away,” he hissed. “You’ll get me into serious trouble trying to do this out in the open.”

“Please?” I begged again after hiding the cash back into my pocket.

He sighed. “Okay, I’ll help you. But you have to promise to get help from a proper shelter soon. I’ll give you the details of one nearby. All right?”

I nodded. “Thank you, so much.”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

His car chirped behind me as he locked it again. Once his back was turned, I rushed away back to the relative safety of the thin ring of trees. If he brought security back with him, I would be able to disappear before they spotted me.

My worry turned out to be unwarranted. Just as he’d promised, he returned a little over ten minutes later with a small box and a fresh set of bandages. After leading me to the trunk of his car to give us some semblance of privacy, he gave me the box of antibiotics and some instructions on when to take them. Then he carefully cleaned the wound with saline, applied some cream, and redressed it.

“These dressings need daily changing,” he said before giving me a list of instructions. “I’d like to see this again in a few days to be certain the infection is clearing. Can you come back here on Tuesday?”

“Okay.” I sniffed and gave a curt nod—even though I had no intention of returning. I would stay the night in the hotel and then disappear once more.

“Have you got somewhere to stay in the meantime?”

I nodded.

“Somewhere safe?”

Instead of answering him, I pushed the money toward him again. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I’ll never forget it.”

“I really shouldn’t have. It’s highly unconventional.” He folded the notes and slid them into his pocket. His demeanor told me it wasn’t the first time he’d accepted a bribe for something not entirely legal. “I’m sure you understand that if anyone found out about this, I could be in serious trouble.”

“I swear, no one will find out.” Who would I tell?

After assuring the doctor once more that I’d return and that I’d seek out a proper woman’s support group to help me find my feet away from my “husband,” I took the medicine he’d given me and headed back to the motel.

As I walked past the office toward my room, I spotted a familiar sight in the corner of my eye and froze in my tracks.

I watched through the window, and my heart raced faster as I confirmed my worst fear.

Clay had found me.