Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sunday had wandered aimlessly all morning, haunted by the fear of being found by Dalton or one of his men.
Desperate for clothes and money, she made a quiet, almost unconscious, decision to return to the house she once shared with him.
She waited until well after lunch and just before dinner to sneak back into the neighborhood.
Clad in light blue scrubs and hospital slippers, she looked painfully out of place, more like an ex-con than a battered woman. Each step she took echoed with the weight of the ordeal she’d endured, but she pushed forward, determined not to stop until she had what she came for.
She eased along the side of the garage, peering cautiously around the corner to make sure no one was at Dalton’s house.
The driveway was empty—no car in sight—and the house was silent, no movement or sound from inside.
After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed on, staying low as she followed the garage’s exterior wall.
When she reached the side door, she tested the doorknob—it was still unlocked.
Once inside, she froze for a second, listening to a dog barking somewhere across the street. Sunday forced herself to remember it was just a yapper, nothing more than noise meant to scare, and tried not to let it unravel her.
The place was cluttered with old furniture his mother had left behind when she passed—like a maze of discarded lives frozen in time.
Careful not to disturb anything, Sunday lifted a faded blue tarp, revealing a small dorm fridge tucked away in the corner.
She opened it quietly, grabbing a bottle of water and a Swiss cake.
The garage had been her refuge whenever Dalton and his friends were drinking or partying—a place that kept her safe, at least for a while. The food in the fridge was there because Dalton said she wasted money on things he never ate. He controlled everything.
Sunday’s mind drifted back to a different time. One before the bitterness, before the violence, when Dalton had been kind, sweet even. When he bought her flowers, gave her jewelry. That memory was like a fragile, fading light in the dark.
But everything changed months after he moved her from Montreal to Sudbury. That’s when he turned their home into a prison. He abused her, doped her, did whatever he wanted without consequence.
She’d lost count of the times she woke up with entire days missing, her body aching in places it shouldn’t, covered in bruises and angry red welts.
This last time, she had fought hard not to let him drug her, but it hadn’t helped. She had no idea what had happened after that. All she knew was waking up, wedged between two trees on an embankment, shrouded in darkness.
She clawed at the earth, scraping her hands raw as she struggled for leverage to keep from tumbling back into the ravine.
When she finally reached the top, she collapsed onto the highway shoulder, barely able to stand.
Cars roared past her, horns blaring. The urgent sounds pushed her to stay upright, to keep moving.
She would never be able to thank the couple who’d stopped and helped her that night.
Covering the fridge once more, Sunday checked the small half bath for her stash of toiletries.
She found them, just as she’d hoped. Clutching the small bag, she returned to the main part of the garage.
Somewhere beneath a pile of old books, she had tucked away a little cash. Now, she just needed to find it.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway sent a spike of panic through her. Dalton wasn’t supposed to be home for hours. Then, another car arrived. Doors opened and slammed shut and voices of men drifted through the air. Her heart hammered so loud it nearly drowned out their words.
Then she heard Dalton’s voice call out. She froze.
The men’s footsteps drew closer, voices low but urgent as they moved toward the house. Without a sound, Sunday slipped to the back of the garage, where an old armoire stood like a silent sentinel.
She climbed inside, curling up among quilts and pillows. She’d hidden there before. Pulling blankets over her, she concealed herself beneath the hanging clothes, completely covered, trying to still her trembling as she waited.
There was no way she could leave now, not until Dalton and whoever was with him left again. What the hell had she been thinking; coming back here?
Leaning against the stack of pillows and blankets, Sunday let her thoughts drift to how she’d ended up trapped in this nightmare. She had trusted him—believed in him—and that had been her greatest mistake.
The hardest truth to swallow was how completely Dalton had fooled her. She hadn’t seen it coming. What did that say about her? She’d always thought she could spot a liar from a mile away—just not this time.
Sooner or later, Dalton would get what was coming to him. Sunday hoped she’d hear about it.
With nothing left to do but wait, she closed her eyes and steeled herself for the long hours until they left again.
Voices pulled Sunday from her restless sleep. For a moment, panic surged through her until she remembered where she was.
She was about to push open the armoire door when a faint light slipped in through the keyhole.
Holding her breath, she stayed perfectly still, straining to catch any sound from the garage.
Then, she heard it, Dalton’s voice.
“Just dump all that bitch’s shit in here. I’ll haul it out with the trash in a few days.”
“What about the cops, man?”
“They’ve already been here. Told them I hadn’t seen Sunday in over a month. Said she bailed on me with some meth-head from up north.”
“This shit better not come back on us.”
“You keep your mouth shut, Roach, or you’ll be the one doped with ecstasy and gang banged.”
“Screw you, Dalton. I’m no fucking rat.”
“She’s not gonna get far. We’ll hit all the shelters and homeless spots tomorrow.”
“What about hotels?”
“She doesn’t have any money, idiot.”
“So, she can’t get out of town either?”
“How would she? Call a friend? I made damn sure she cut all ties—with friends and family. She’ll be easy to find.”
Sunday’s stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising as she pieced together what must have happened to her. She fought back tears, telling herself crying wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Dalton was sure to catch her eventually. But when that day came, she vowed she’d do whatever it took to make sure it never happened again. Even if she had to kill him with her bare hands.
The light clicked off, plunging the garage back into darkness. Sunday stayed curled up in the armoire for what felt like hours before finally risking a quiet climb out.
Her eyes adjusted slowly as she scanned the dim room, then she made her way toward the small door at the front of the garage. The glass was covered with cardboard, but through a tiny tear she’d made months ago, she peered out into the night.
The outside light spilled across the front yard and house. No cars sat in the driveway. This was her chance.
Moving as fast as she dared, Sunday located the garbage bags stuffed with her things.
The faint glow from the windows guided her hands as she found a worn backpack and packed in as much as she could carry.
She rolled up what felt like a pair of jeans, leggings, a few tops.
Her hands moved over items as her eyes struggled to see.
She found a toiletry bag and shoved it inside, then zipped the bag up tight.
Standing up she slung the backpack over her shoulder.
Just as she reached the door, a sudden thought stopped her. The stash of money she’d hidden away for a rainy day.
She was about to give up when her fingers brushed something beneath a stack of books. Lifting them carefully, she pulled out the envelope. With steady hands, she set everything back exactly as it had been, leaving no sign that anything had been disturbed.
Her hand closed around the doorknob when car headlights suddenly swept across the side window, flooding the garage with harsh light.
“Damn it. Think, Sunday!” she muttered, dropping to the floor.
Scrambling backward, she vowed to make a break for it as soon as whoever outside came closer. Behind Dalton’s house was an overgrown lot. If she could reach it, she could hide until it was safe to move again. At least she’d be free of the garage that felt like a suffocating trap.
Her foot caught on something rough, and she stumbled. She fought to stay upright, her breath coming fast. The only sound she heard was the pounding of her own heart roaring in her ears.
“Did you hear that?” a male voice whispered near the garage door.
“Man, there’s rats and stray cats in that place. Used to hear ’em all the time.”
Sunday’s heart sank. She knew who was there. Dalton and his friend Jimmy. She recognized both their voices.
“Grab the beers and pizza,” Dalton ordered Jimmy.
“Why can’t you carry something yourself, asshole?”
“Because I told you to, dickweed.”
How had she fallen for this motherfucker? Sunday was starting to question herself on every level.
The slam of the car door and footsteps crunching up the walkway snapped her back to the present. Her focus sharpened on getting out of the garage. It was the only thing that mattered now.
Reaching down, she grabbed the blanket tangled around her foot and realized it was a dark-colored hoodie. Glancing at herself, she knew those light blue scrubs would stick out against the night.
She yanked the trash bag closer and pulled out whatever she could—jeans and a t-shirt were the best she could find.
Then, in a rare moment of defiance, she dumped the rest of the bag onto the floor and found a worn pair of sneakers.
Quickly changing, she left the discarded clothes scattered behind her.
“Cats and rats,” she muttered under her breath.
It was time to move. Sunday forced herself to stay calm. Freaking out wouldn’t help. With steady breath, she made her way to the back door.
If they found her here, she’d probably be killed. The dry taste in her mouth thickened with fear. She could do this. She had to.
Sunday eased the door open and froze when a bright light snapped on from the neighbor’s security sensor, flooding the yard.
Without hesitation, she shut the door behind her and sprinted for the overgrown lot, pushing her aching body as fast as it would carry her.
She hit the overgrown lot and dropped to her knees, burying herself where no one could see.
That’s when she realized she still had the hoodie in her hand.
Pulling it on, she yanked the hood up, shielding her pale blonde hair, then started crawling through the tall grass until she was far enough to disappear.
Thunder rumbled overhead as lightning cracked the night sky. A light rain began to fall. Ducking under a cluster of trees, Sunday tried to remember—did animals seek shelter beneath trees, or away from them? The next thunderclap made her jump. The storm was closing in fast.
She thought about where she was, and where she needed to go. Over an hour’s walk lay ahead.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness. Heart pounding in her ears, she pressed herself flat behind a tree. The neighbor was out searching his backyard. Dogs barked somewhere distant. She couldn’t stay hidden here—she had to move.
Weaving through the trees, Sunday found the next street over and broke into a run, desperate to put as much distance as possible between herself and that house.
Four hours later, soaking wet and exhausted, Sunday pushed open the lobby door of a rundown motel. After explaining to the older woman behind the counter that she was running from an abusive relationship, she was allowed to use the desk phone to call her sister.
Monday had paid for the room using a friend’s credit card, adding a thin layer of safety to Sunday’s escape.
When her sister asked where she had been or why she hadn’t called sooner, Sunday simply said she was safe for now—cold and wet, but safe.