Chapter 4
Mary
“Disgusting.” I cringe as I use a plastic fork to scrape off the used condom that’s stuck to the mirror.
“Mary?”
I peek my head out the door and smile at the only person in the world who knows where I am. My savior, Betty, walks down the cracked sidewalk, shaking her head as she leans down to pick up an empty pack of cigarettes.
Betty offered me a job and a home when I was at my lowest twelve years ago. She knows all the details of my past, and she supports my decision to stay hidden.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She’s a little . . . okay, a lot overweight, and her gray hair is always up in a bun. With her age, she should be a mother figure, but she’s really my only friend.
“Here.” She waddles closer and sticks some money in my hand, which I immediately shove back.
“I’m not taking it. It’s not part of our deal.”
“Quit your yapping. I know by now that you won’t take it. It’s for you to pick me up that book everyone’s been talking about for so long.”
I raise my eyebrows because, clearly, this sixty-year-old woman could not want to read that. Just no. And gross.
She huffs and taps her foot. “You know? The one with the handcuffs?”
Oh, God. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll grab it. Anything else?”
“No. Unless you want to get a copy for yourself.”
No need to tell her that I already have a copy and have read the series four times. So, I just take the money and tuck it in my shoe.
“I’ll grab it on my way to the salon tomorrow.” Whenever I need to run to the store for anything, I do it as early as possible on Sunday mornings. Most people are either still sleeping or at church. It’s the best time to slip in and out of a store unnoticed. Of course, I hide my hair under a baseball hat and wear sunglasses, too. I remain hidden for several reasons. Some of it is fear of Scott Smith’s revenge, some just partly habit, and most a need to do everything in my power to keep the family who loved me safe. And safe means I need to be invisible.
Even though I’m still in Chicago, this is where I feel safest. And if Scott were to ever find me, this is the city where he would be most well-known. Me, too. Because if he does find me, he’ll kill me. At least this way, being in my hometown, it should be easy to identify my body.
I contemplated going to another state. But then I realized that my life was not a movie. I couldn’t just hitchhike two thousand miles to the other side of the United States, find a job in a diner, and remain anonymous. This was my best option. My only option, really . . . so I took it.
“Okay, dear. Thank you.”
“Sure.”
Since Betty doesn’t actually pay me, I’ve picked up some other cleaning jobs. The pay is shitty, but I had to have something so I can eat. The salon, bar, and tattoo shop all pay me in cash and let me work either before or after business hours. All three of the buildings are on the same block, so every Sunday I clean them all.
I don’t spend a lot, other than for food and the essential clothes and shoes. The only thing I splurged on, ever, was my Kindle. It’s the only time I can forget about my shitty life. I get absorbed in a story, lost in the words, and for those couple of hours, I can pretend. Running clears my head, but reading makes me forget.
Brandon’s face always pops into my head when I read. Dark brown, almost black hair. I wonder if he still has it too long or if it’s clipped short to his head. I’m sure his blue eyes have gotten more seductive with age and experience. He was so handsome at eighteen; I can only imagine what he looks like now.
I finish changing the sheets and cautiously walk to the laundry room off the office in the main building. This motel is cheap and seedy. It’s on the outskirts of town and a lot of truckers come here. Literally.
The buzzer from the washer makes me jump. I move the sheets to the dryer and slam the door shut. Then walk back to the next room that needs cleaning to do it all over again.
* * *
The garbage bag in my hand reeks, and I hurry out the back door of the tattoo shop to toss it in the dumpster, cursing whoever decided to have tuna for lunch yesterday. Tuna is gross enough as it is, let alone sitting in a garbage can overnight.
I’m about to grab another bag, but a girl crouching in the alley, who looks to be in her early twenties with blonde hair, catches my eye. Her body is shaking, and it’s not hard to tell that she’s crying. Before I walk over to her, I look at my surroundings. I’m hesitant to approach her, but knowing that I’ve been there before, alone and scared, I have to help her. There’s no way I can walk away.
“Hey, are you all right?” I ask.
“Umm, yeah.” She stands and winces, looking around the alley. “Where are we?”
“Almost outside the city.”
“Oh. Shit.” Her shoes scrape along the concrete, and she wraps her arms around herself. “Do you have a phone I could use?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t. But if you want to come back with me to my place, I’ll let you use that one.” I was let in the building to clean and don’t have a key to get back inside. The garbage is the last thing I need to do on my way out. I try to offer kindness, knowing she could use it. She looks so out of place in her cute outfit and purple flats—a sharp contrast from the dirty ground and broken brick wall.
“No offense, but I don’t know you.” She rubs her fingers at her temples. “I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I had the worst day of my life, and I’m all fucked up.”
“Hey.” I soften my voice and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been there, honey. I promise I just want to give you a hand. When I was at my worst, someone did that for me, and it saved my life.”
When she hesitates, I roll my eyes. “Listen, I want to help you out. You’re obviously not from this neighborhood; you’re sweating, have make-up running down your face, and you look scared as hell. If you don’t want to come with me, fine. But I need to get back so if you’re coming with me, you better do it now.”
I toss another bag of garbage in the dumpster and pull my car key out of my shoe. Before I walk away, I ask, “You coming or not?”
“Yeah. I guess I am.”
She follows me through the alley to my car. I point at the steel pile of crap on wheels.
“That’s my piece of shit. Can’t believe it’s lasted this long.”
Really, it’s Betty’s car. I paid her and she put it under her name. Just another step to remaining untraceable.
I put the key in the ignition. “Cross your fingers.”
The engine makes a loud screech before rumbling to a start on the first turn.
“Whew. It normally takes a few tries; you must be a good luck charm.” I smile and punch her shoulder lightly. Then I ignore the silence and try not to make the drive awkward.
About twenty minutes later, we pull into the motel. A gravel parking lot, bricks falling off the foundation, and half of the ‘no vacancy’ light burned out.
“Umm . . .”
“I know. It’s a shit place, but it’s my home. Come on, I’ll tell you once we get inside.”
She hesitates, but only for a second. As we walk to the door, I look around again. Her eyes catch mine and she asks, “Are you looking for someone?”
“No, I’m just cautious.” Ridiculous for a thirty-year-old woman to be afraid of the boogie man, I know, but it’s a nasty habit that’s hard to break.
I unlock the door with four different keys to match the deadbolts. After opening it, I motion for her to go ahead of me. It’s clean. I bought my own sheets. One twin-size bed pushed against the far wall and a rack with clothes on the opposite wall. Across from the bed is a dresser with an old TV on top. There’s also an electric griddle and microwave next to the TV. A small refrigerator sits next to the dresser.
“Welcome to my humble abode!” I say cheerfully as I relock the deadbolts and slide three chain locks in place, and then apply a safety bar across the middle of the door. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Yeah, right. Hey, what’s your name?” she asks looking around.
“Mary. What about you?”
“I’m Charlotte.”
She sits on the bed and fiddles with her fingers. “So, you live here?”
“Yeah. It’s a long story, but the short of it is that I was down on my luck. Like, I had nobody. Betty, the owner of this place, needed a maid and offered me a room in exchange for cleaning.”
“Oh, so you get cheap rent or something?”
“No, she doesn’t pay me, but I get the place for free. I also clean other businesses to get cash; that’s what I was doing when I found you. I don’t need much.”
I throw my purse on the dresser and plop down next to her.
“What’s your story, Charlotte?”
“My story is long, too. The condensed version is that I found out my . . . I don’t even know what he is- boyfriend, maybe? We reconnected recently. His mom is my therapist.”
“Ouch. That one’s gotta burn. Why are you in therapy?”
“Umm, it’s kind of personal.” She snaps.
“Cliff’s notes version then.”
“Look, I don’t know you. I appreciate—”
“Whatever.” I cut her off and rummage through a drawer filled with Ramen noodles and Easy Mac. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m hungry. Want some Ramen?”
“No. I’m fine, thanks.”
I put the dry noodles in a bowl and add water from the bathroom sink. Once it’s in the microwave, I sit on the bed and chew my fork while watching the timer count down.
She must get bored with the silence because she takes a breath then begins talking. “My parents both died, and I got involved in a fucked-up relationship. Todd was basically a wannabe Dom. I did all sorts of shit with him. He’s fourteen years older than me and my mom’s oncologist back in Texas.”
Wow. That’s pretty messed up. “Dang, girl. So you got out of the relationship and started seeing a therapist.”
“Yeah. When I moved back here, I reconnected with an old . . . fling. Turns out, my therapist is said fling’s mom.”
We continue talking for about an hour. She explains a little more, especially about the guy she reconnected with, and I sympathize with her. Everyone has a story. They have skeletons in their closet and a past they want to keep hidden.
We laugh a little bit, and she cries.
I tell her what she needs to hear because there’s a part of me that wishes someone told me, and I’ll regret it if I don’t give her a chance to make it right. “If this guy, the love of your life. If he’s it for you. You can’t let that go. What you went through was not your fault. His mom understands that, and you need to, too. Tell him. Let him know. Once it’s out in the open, I bet you’ll feel much better.”
“How do you know? How am I supposed to believe that once he knows, he won’t be disgusted by me?” She rests her hand on my arm, the one with the scar.
I jerk it away and stand. My scar stares at me every day. It reminds me of why I live the life I do. It’s a permanent reminder, my own battle scar. I wish I had been the one shot. He should have shot me, not Steve. I was the one fighting him. My parents were the ones who owed him.
“I know because what you did is not disgusting. Trust me. I’m not negating the fact that you went through some shit. Some things can’t be forgiven, some things you do result in life-altering changes for other people.” Hands on my hips, I close my eyes before speaking again, trying to compose myself. Even though it sneaks up on me, usually on a daily basis, I avoid thinking about the past as much as I can. It hurts too much.
“Those are the kinds of things that can’t be forgiven. When your choices affect someone like that, then you hide. Then you run away and never look back because you know you don’t deserve anything more than living in a motel for the rest of your life.” I quickly wipe the tears that unwillingly fall for the first time in years and shake my head as I back away. “You need to call him. He’s probably worried.”
“Hey!” she calls before I can shut the bathroom door to take a shower. “Whatever you did, whatever you think is unforgivable? I bet you’re wrong. You’re a good person, and mistakes can be forgiven. Was what happened a mistake?”
Without turning back to look at her, I answer. “The only mistake was that I survived.”
Guilt is my best friend. And she’s chosen this moment to plan an unsuspecting visit. Hopefully, the sound of the water covers my cries. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried, since I’ve talked to someone about my feelings.
I often think back to the nights I would sneak into Brandon’s room. He would hold me and tell me everything would be all right. I would go back outside in the morning and walk home to a house with strangers passed out all over the floor. Half the time they were naked, too. Brandon’s parents always told me that I was welcome anytime, so I tried to help by cooking dinner every once in a while. I pretty much lived there, especially on the weekends. Elizabeth always shoved money in my pocket when I bought food, which wasn’t often. And when I did, it was on sale.
They were the closest thing I had to family. Steve treated me as if I were his daughter. If Brandon touched me, his dad would give him a dirty look, and Brandon would remove his hand. I never understood that. I guess Steve didn’t think I was good enough to be with Brandon. Not that I blamed him. Steve loved me, though. That I do know.
Brandon begged me to tell him what was going on at my house. I begged him not to make me. I gave him as little information as possible, just enough to shut him up. He eventually agreed but wasn’t happy about it.
I loved him for not pushing me. I loved him for respecting my wishes. I loved him. I miss him.
Schooling my features and trying to forget the shit storm that is my life, I turn the water to cold before getting out. The chill on my skin clears my foggy brain, and I dry off and get dressed.
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” I come out of the bathroom and sit down next to Charlotte.
“I’m worried that Travis’ mom told him—”
My mind races and I cut her off. Travis is not a very common name, and a Travis whose mom is a therapist? Even more uncommon. “Wait. Travis. What’s his last name?”
“Parker.”
No. No. My heart falls to my gut.
“Oh shit, oh shit. Fuck.” I jump up out of the bed and throw on a pair of socks and shoes. “Does he have an older brother?” I fumble with my laces and mutter under my breath, “Please say no, please say no,” even though I already know the answer.
“Yeah, Brandon. Do you know him?”
“Shit!” I pace then finally stop and take three huge breaths. I need to calm down. Think. “Okay. Okay.”
“Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
Maybe he won’t come. Why would he? It’s not like she’s Brandon’s girlfriend; she’s Travis’ girlfriend. He’ll be the one to come and pick her up. “Did you call Travis? Is he on his way?”
“No, I called my cousin. I told her to let him know that I was fine but not where I was. What’s going on?”
Travis will be here. I have to leave. He can’t see me. He’ll tell Brandon. Or Brandon could be with him. Or Steve. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go. I can’t be here in case he comes.”
“Who?”
“Brandon. He can’t know where I am. I stayed away. I live in a fucking motel, I can’t-”
A knock on the door stops my frantic rambling. “Chicago PD. I need to ask a couple questions.”
Brandon. I’d recognize his deep voice anywhere. He always wanted to be a cop like his dad, so it doesn’t surprise me. I freeze. My hand stills in my hair and the rapid movement of my chest . . . stops.
“It’s the cops; you have to open the door,” Charlotte tells me from the bed.
“It’s not the cops. It’s Brandon.” My words come in a rush.
“They’re probably looking for me. I’ll answer the door.”
“I swear to Christ, Charlotte, if you don’t open this damn door, I will break it down.” I don’t recognize the other voice, but I’m assuming it’s Travis. Even though I haven’t talked to him for over a decade, I know an angry Parker when I hear one.
“Shit. Open it, Mary,” Charlotte whisper yells.
I nod very slowly and start the process of unlocking the door. My hand freezes on the knob. I can’t.
“It’s okay, Mary. Just open it.”
My hands shake, and I finally turn the knob, knowing that I can’t avoid this any longer.
When the door opens, my eyes lock on Brandon and he stumbles. At least I had a few minutes to prepare. He had no clue. Walked into this completely unaware. The wide eyes and gaping mouth is evidence of that. Travis grabs Brandon’s arm and looks at me with a confused expression.
“No. No.” My voice is so soft, barely audible.
“Mary?” Travis asks.
Brandon’s bright blue eyes never leave mine, and he takes a step toward me. I take a step back. He flinches like I slapped him but keeps walking until he’s in the room and I can feel his breath on my face.
I was right; he is even more handsome. His almost black hair is clipped short, a five o’clock shadow covers his face, and his lips are now slightly parted.
Brandon’s hands reach up and hold onto my face, gently rubbing his thumbs across my cheekbones.
I try really, really hard not to cry. But when he pulls me close, wraps his arms around me, and whispers, “I thought I lost you,” I lose all resolve.