"Need any help?"
I heft my bag over my shoulder and squint at the guy in front of me. I'd been asleep since the last stop, and I don't recognize him so he must have gotten on then.
"Thanks. I've got it."
"Some view, huh?"
He isn't wrong. Even through the blacked-out windows of the bus, Los Angeles is stunning. Crowds of people traverse the sidewalks near the bus depot, and I can't wait to lose myself in them. The isolation of Upper Michigan was so complete that having so many people around should debilitate me with anxiety, but it doesn't. I wait impatiently for the others to disembark, and as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I lift my face to the sun and luxuriate in its warmth and imagine myself being bleached clean by the heat. It helps alleviate the suffocating guilt, but only marginally.
I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to, but it doesn't scare me. The overwhelming relief wars with that guilt and the struggle carries me away from the bus depot and toward the increasingly strong scent of salt on the air. I don't know how long I walk or where I'm going, all I care about is losing myself. Maybe if I can do that, I'll somehow find myself, too.
I hear the waves before I see the beach. The sound of them crashing against the shore fills my head, blocking out the replay of warm blood splattering against the tile, of a bullet tearing into the fragile framework of skin. My knees wobble as I come to a red light. Those around me jostle with impatience, but I pay them no mind. I move forward with the crush as the light changes and let it carry me across the road to the boardwalk.
The weight of my bag digs into my shoulder and knocks rhythmically against my thigh as I stumble my way down the weathered stairs to the spill of brown sugar sand. I kick off my shoes, roll up my pants, and shed the light sweater I'd been using to battle the frigid air conditioner on the bus. After I stow the items in my bag, I bee-line for the surf and sink my toes into the sand with a loud sigh of pleasure.
Maybe I'll be okay, and maybe I won't. Either way, I'm going to stop being the victim and start fighting back. No one will ever make me feel like Vic did again, not even Gracin.
I stay at the beach until my toes are blue from the chill and the beach is nearly empty of families and teenagers. The burner phone I picked up is almost dead, but there's enough life left in it for me to track down a cheap hotel to crash in for the night. On the way there, I snag some fries, a hamburger, and a coke from a street vendor, which turns out to be the best food I may have ever eaten in my entire life.
I wish I could say my luck held out, but it doesn’t. The hotel looks straight from an episode of American Horror Story, but it's cheap and I'll only need it for a couple of nights. Cracked, water-stained stucco and scuffed floors are the least of my worries. The receptionist doesn't bat an eye at my rumpled, stained clothes, and I prepay for a three-night stay and request a room on the first floor near the busy side of the street in case I need to make a quick exit. After a quick shower in the small, but thankfully clean bathroom, I change into clean clothes and pass out on top of the comforter, my gun within reach, just in case.
It takes all of the three days to locate a suitable furnished apartment and arrange for the change of utilities. I give them a fake name and a forged passport I bought off the internet. The landlord doesn't question it, and neither does the utility company. On the fourth day after arriving in LA, I have a place to live and have landed a job as a waitress at a nearby restaurant.
While I wait for my first day of work, I clean the apartment and set up an exit plan. I don't want to be caught unawares and trapped. I'm not sure if Gracin cares enough to come after me. He probably couldn't care less.
I use a portion of the money to stock up on ammo for the gun I purchased on the way to LA along with mace and a Taser. I keep the mace and Taser in my purse and the gun in an accessible drawer in my living room. With permission from my landlord, I purchase extra deadbolts and chains for the doors. The windows are already painted shut, but I test each one to make sure they aren’t going to budge. The preparation makes the days and nights go by quickly. Despite my trepidation, I sleep like the dead each night without the threat of Vic's presence by my side.
On the morning of my first day of work, I get up extra early to dress and navigate the bus route. I turn to lock the deadbolt on my front door and come face to face with a drawing.
I freeze.
Nearby a child screams with laughter, and I flinch away from the sound. Heart jack-hammering, I spin and scan the area for anything out of the ordinary, but the tenants in the nearby apartments are still fast asleep and there isn’t a single sign of Gracin.
The picture shows me on my first day in LA at the beach with my feet in the water. I'd been so entranced I hadn't even thought to look for anyone. Why would I have? I was all the way across the country and I hadn’t left any clues as to where I was headed.
For a long moment, the urge to get on a bus and escape overcomes me, but my already short supply of cash is rapidly dwindling. I can't keep running forever. Once reason returns, it occurs to me that if Gracin wanted to see me, he would have just found a way into my apartment while I was sleeping.
He hadn’t, which told me that while he knew where I was and wanted me to know that, he wasn’t going to force me to see him.
I just didn’t know why.
I can’t be sure, but I think someone is following me.
In the eight weeks since I arrived, I’ve been paranoid to the point of insanity. I always triple check my locks, take roundabout routes when I go to and from work, and religiously scour the news for signs of Gracin, any leads about the police investigation into the deaths at Blackthorne, or my disappearance. There haven’t been any successful leads, but that doesn’t mean I should be any less vigilant.
For good reason, apparently.
The man sitting in my section has requested to be seated in my section for the past week straight. Regulars aren’t out of the ordinary, but there’s something about this guy that has my whole body going on high alert. It’s nothing he’s done, per se, but after being cornered by one violent criminal, I don’t want it to happen again. Everyone is a possible connection to Gracin.
“I think someone has a fan,” another waitress, Melinda, says as she sidles up to the window to wait for her order. “You don’t ask for his number, I will,” she adds as she sails away through the crowd with a platter of food lifted over her head.
Her brash attitude and bluntness make me smile, even if it feels a little out of place on my lips. She’s exactly what I love about this city. The sheer number of people, cunty ones included, makes me feel safe. After years living in the desolate isolation of Upper Michigan, the warmth and anonymity appeal to me. At least the people here are upfront about it when they’re complete and utter assholes.
It doesn’t even bother me that my rent for a one-bedroom apartment is outrageous or the Van Nuys neighborhood it’s located in borders Hispanic gang territory. After what I’ve been through, the thugs on the street don’t even faze me. In fact, they’re almost reassuring. I’d much rather have a gun in my face than a sweet-talking, good-looking man who will stab me in the back with false promises.
The man leaves by the end of my shift. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for him, which will be almost impossible since he looks a lot like any other Californian. Nondescript jeans, leather sandals, and a button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves. His hair is neither blond, nor brown, and he’s of average height. But I’ve learned in my two-month crash course to find one feature that sets each person apart. For my lunch companion—it’s his eyes. Not the color, like Gracin’s unnatural green, but their shape. Specifically, his brows.
I noticed them because they reminded me of the caveman from that car insurance commercial. They emphasize his deep-set eyes and lend a brutality that reminds me all too much of everything I’m trying to run away from. More than likely he’s a perfectly nice guy, and I’m overreacting.
Still, I keep a mental picture of him.
Just in case.
Melinda returns with a scowl on her face. “Damn kids are more trouble than they’re worth,” she gripes, slamming the cash register closed and pocketing her tip.
I clip the order up for the table I was just at and turn to her. “Some customer giving you trouble?”
She snorts. “I wish. If that were the case, I could just tell them to fuck off, but no, they are my kids.”
The napkins I’m folding suddenly take all my attention. “Oh?” I pray my voice doesn’t sound as scratchy to her as it does to my ears.
“I hate to ask you this since you’re still getting on your feet, but can you take my afternoon shift?” Her pained expression darts to the phone, and I shrug. It isn’t like I have anything else better to do.
“Of course I can,” I tell her.
The work will keep my mind busy and put more money in my pocket, two things I desperately need. The measly amount I managed to scrape together didn’t last long, and I’m living paycheck to paycheck. I won’t be able to stay in LA forever. I need to keep moving.
My plan is to work and save enough money to risk traveling south to Mexico. After that, who knows? Eventually, the under the table job here is going to fall through, so I’ll also need to save enough to purchase a new identity. The crappy one I landed when I got here won’t hold up under intense scrutiny, but it’s good enough for my hiring manager and good enough to lean on in the interim.
“You’re a doll,” Melinda says and squeezes my arm. “I can’t thank you enough. As a matter of fact, I’ll leave the hot guy to you.” She turns away with a wink and a laugh, and I forget about the hot guy for the rest of my shift.
The city is quiet—or at least as quiet as it’ll ever be—when I wave goodbye to Jean-Paul, the line cook for the dinner shift. I’d been shocked when I first met him because I recognized him from several commercials and syndicated television shows. I learned quickly that most everyone in this city is an out of work actor. Maybe that’s why I feel like I fit in. We’re all playing a part here.
It’s when I reach the bus stop that I feel the niggling between my shoulders that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. I grip my purse tighter to my body and school my face to show no reaction.
When I look up, I don’t immediately see anything out of the ordinary. There are two families, a mother and her children, and a gaggle of girls waiting at the stop with me. Still, I don’t brush off the sense of alarm and keep my guard up as I get on the bus. The stop and go trip across the country wasn't enough to lose Gracin, and I don't let myself forget the fact for a second.
I haven’t received any more pictures, or even caught a glimpse of him, but I know he’s there, watching. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. I’m not sure that I care as long as he stays away from me. What I do know is that this feeling, this person who is watching me, isn’t him.
The sense of being watched doesn’t diminish throughout the long ride back to Van Nuys. I chew on a nail—a new habit I’ve taken up instead of something worse like drinking myself into oblivion. No one on the bus swivels in my direction. No one even tries to lure me into pointless small talk.
I have to just be paranoid, I decide. I must have finally snapped. I’m so lost in thought, I almost miss the call for my stop, and then I hustle past the crowd of people and practically throw myself off the bus. It’s dusk, but the streets are still steaming hot. The heat will likely cling overnight. I lift my face up to the sky, and even though the smog is particularly thick today, I soak in the last of the day’s rays. It took weeks for me to feel like I finally thawed from the bitter Michigan winter. Even now, when I get out of bed, it takes me a few minutes to realize I don’t need to brace myself for the chill.
My feet drag as I trek from the bus stop down the couple blocks it takes to get to my shabby little apartment. If it can be believed, it’s in even worse shape than the house I shared with Vic, but it’s mine, and it’s cheap—well, at least by California standards. I’ll never get over how less than one thousand square feet of living space can cost as much as a five-bedroom house in Michigan.
I unlock the door and push inside and find myself crashing toward the floor as a weight pushes into me. I curl up instinctively, using my hands to break my fall and cry out when they give under the strain.