Prologue
Four Years Ago
sage
I pushed my foot to the floor, laying on the gas.
The Jeep’s engine roared, accelerating with my heart rate.
It was pitch black, the moon and stars hidden by thick clouds promising a storm.
A storm I was trying to beat, a storm I was running away from.
A storm, that if I’d stayed a moment longer would have torn me to shreds and swallowed me life and limb.
My headlights bounced across the dark country roads, illuminating only yards in front of me. My eyes shifted nervously to the rearview mirror making sure I wasn’t followed.
I just needed to make it across the border. I just needed to make it to Washington.
My heart pounded in my chest. I was sweating despite the cool spring temperatures that were dropping with the approaching rain. I tried to take a deep breath, but I winced at the sudden spike of pain along my right side.
My stomach was in my throat.
His name flashed up on the center console, momentarily interrupting my “Get Away” playlist and making me feel like I was about to throw up.
Yes, I had a “Get Away” playlist. I made it for this very moment, titling it “Work Out II” so he wouldn’t suspect anything.
It was filled with Miranda Lambert, Shania Twain, and Gretchen Wilson.
They were almost all “fuck him” songs that would keep me from turning around and going back to fawn at his feet.
“Fuck you!” I whisper-yelled, the words burning through my swollen throat, as I hit the button to ignore his call.
“Kerosene” resumed, pumping through my speakers.
Only to be interrupted again. With his call.
I growled through my teeth, but it quickly turned into more of a hiss at the way it caused my ribs to ache.
I hit the ignore button again, before bracing a hand across my aching torso.
Music blared once more.
I tapped on the breaks as I went around a curve before hitting the gas.
I just needed to get to safety. They knew I was coming and what I was up against.
A notification dinged, the music dimmed, and Siri’s voice filled the vehicle.
“Clayton Creed said, You can’t run from me. I know you’re going to Sanctuary Ridge.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I looked back at the GPS. I was still an hour away.
He found out.
Bile stung my throat.
The bass from the stereo vibrated the speakers.
Then a drop hit the windshield. Then another one. Big, fat, drops. The sky was about to open up.
“Shit!” I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my palm. He knew where I was going. Rain would slow me down too.
Another notification ding.
New message from “Clayton Creed, You’re on highway 20. You know I can just track your phone right? Come home, baby girl, and we can talk.”
“Hell no!” I cried out, as if he could hear me. “And wind up dead this time? No, thank you!”
New message from “Clayton Creed, I fucked up. Please just come home.”
Yeah, he fucked up. Glimpses of myself in the rear-view mirror showed the angry bruises scattered around my eye, fingerprints around my throat gave evidence just how hard and long he held me down.
There was no way to explain this one away.
He was always so careful, calculated, meticulous in everything he did because of who he was.
Even in the marks and bruises there was some sort of way to hide it or explain it away.
I wasn’t so accident prone that I fell right into his chokehold or beat my cheek against the counter while cooking.
Headlights flashed around the corner momentarily blinding me through the rain as I turned on my whippers. I needed to get off the road and figure out what I needed to do.
I pulled off into the shallow ditch, switching on my emergency flashers so other cars noticed me in the dark and rain. If he was tracking my phone, I needed to get rid of it and fast.
I pulled up my contacts and found Susan, the woman who I was talking to at Sanctuary Ridge. It barely rang before she said, “Sanctuary Ridge, this is Susan.”
“Susan, it’s Sage. He knows I’m coming there and he’s tracking my phone.
” My voice strained to get the words out.
My fingers of my free hand fiddled on the steering wheel, my anxious energy building into a panic as my eyes continued to flick from window to mirror.
“He could be on his way to get me right now.”
“Okay. Okay. Take a deep breath. I have somewhere else safe you can go. Are you still in Oregon? Are you still on the reservation?”
I shook my head as if she could see it. “I’m still in Oregon.”
It almost sounded like she was flipping through an old rolodex through the phone. “Here it is. I just have the address. Do you have something to write this down?”
Placing my phone between my shoulder and ear, I leaned over to the passenger seat where my backpack sat, unzipping it.
I barely had time to throw some clothes inside before I left, but I made sure to grab my paints and charcoal pencils.
The only thing I had left that was mine.
Not even those clothes were mine, chosen and bought by Clayton.
Nor this Jeep, a gift from him that felt more like “hush money.” But those brushes and oil paint were mine well before I ever became his.
Grabbing a charcoal pencil from my bag, I scrounged through the glovebox before finding a stash of fast-food napkins.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
“It's a farm just outside of the town proper of Willows on a county road.”
Willows? My breath caught in my throat. Was this some sort of sign?
“Willows, Oregon?”
“Uh huh, that’s right.”
The last I heard, my little brother, who’d left home when he was 18, was living in Willows pursuing his dream to be a professional bull rider. I hadn’t seen him since, and just like our parents, he had no idea the hell I’d endured the last two years.
“It’s 5400 SW Crooked River Rd. Oregon. It’s unincorporated, in Arnold County, so it may be difficult for someone to find. But it’s between the Deschutes River and the national forest, heading toward Mt. Bachelor.”
I jotted the address down. “That’s okay. I’ll find it.”
Wheels crushed on gravel and headlights flickered behind me, making my breath freeze in my chest.
“You sure?”
“I need to go,” I finally managed, folding the napkin and shoving it into my jean pocket.
“Be safe, Sage. Go directly there and please call us back to let us know you’re safe.”
I wouldn’t be calling back. “Thank you.”
Hanging up the phone, I hopped out of the vehicle, letting the rain pelt my face and drench my shirt.
I looked both ways up and down the street for any other cars, but the road was dark.
There weren’t even streetlights on this country road.
Only trees and fields lining either side.
Bending over, I felt beneath the car, circling the vehicle as my fingers skimmed the cold metal surface.
If he was tracking my phone, I wouldn’t put it past him to put one of those GPS AirTag trackers on my car.
Sure enough, a circular tag stuck beneath my bumper.
Ripping it off, I chucked it onto the road hoping someone would either drive over it or it would inadvertently stick to someone’s wheel and throw him off my trail.
The cold rain soaked my already frizzy hair and clumped my eye lashes together making it hard to see.
I wiped my face with my sleeve, but that too was already wet.
I went back to my driver’s side door and grabbed my phone, positioning it right beneath the front wheel.
Jumping back into the running car, I closed the door, the windshield wipers were now on full blast with the pounding rain.
I was soaked water dripping on to the leather seats, but I didn’t give a fuck.
Putting the car in drive, I rolled over my phone, braked, shifted to reverse, and rolled over it again listening for that satisfying crunch as I threw the car back into drive and sped off into the night.