Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
GRACE
After a dreadful night in a flea-bitten hotel in London—one that didn’t ask for ID or credit cards to rent a room—I rise early and head for the nearest hotel that has a business suite.
God, I miss my phone and the ease at which information was at my fingertips, but it’s simply not worth the risk to turn it on.
How did it come to this? Why the fuck did Daniel take matters into his own hands and screw everything up?
If he’d waited another day, the outcome would’ve been completely different.
Of course, Christian would be infuriated when he found out I’d created a fake identity and married him under false pretenses, but I could have talked to him, explained, and maybe, just maybe, he’d have understood. But this… it’s a catastrophe.
An intensive internet search reveals that the best place to travel to initially is Mexico City.
Christian will easily trace my real passport, and I need a large, sprawling metropolis to hide in while I work out how to get my hands on a fake one.
After that, I’ll decide where to hunker down and wait it out.
There are tons of tiny islands off the coast of Central America which aren’t as online or security aware.
Pawning my wedding and engagement rings gives me a wedge of cash that should tide me over for a few weeks until I can find work.
I take out enough to pay for an airline ticket, and put the rest into a zip pocket inside my coat.
Traveling with that much cash makes me nervous, but I’m not exactly swimming in choices.
I hail a black cab and set off for Heathrow airport.
Mexico, here we come.
Getting my hands on a fake passport wasn’t nearly as difficult as I thought it would be.
Little wonder criminals can move about the world so easily if a slip of a girl from England can source false documentation within two days of landing in a foreign country.
It took a chunk of my cash, and I’m pretty sure I got ripped off, but hopefully, once I get settled somewhere, I’ll be able to get a job and earn enough to live on.
Doubts that I’m doing the right thing crowd my mind every second of the day, but I’m committed to the course I’ve chosen.
Over and over I keep repeating that this is for the best. Christian and his family are bound to be incandescent with rage at what I’ve done.
A cooling off period is best for all of us.
Especially me.
Here’s the thing, though. Having lived inside the lion’s den for these past few months, I got to know the family pretty well, and in my heart of hearts, I don’t think they’d hurt me.
Granted, I once did, and yes, when Christian called and told me to run, panic sent me fleeing to the other side of the world.
But now I’m here, this awful feeling that I’ve made a big mistake won’t go away.
The airport is crammed with tourists and locals alike, all eager to get to their destination.
Meanwhile, I’m pushing back a creeping sense of dread and constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the killer blow, in a manner of speaking.
It’s such a strange feeling to know you’re on the run from someone.
It’s an empty pit in the bottom of your stomach.
A hollowness that fear is only too happy to fill.
The not knowing is the worst.
What did Daniel do to Christian?
Is Arron okay?
Has Juliet forgiven me for cutting and running without even calling her?
Will I ever be able to live with myself after what I’ve done?
Maybe Daniel was right. Dad would be disappointed in me, but not for the reasons Daniel spat at me.
More because he brought me up to confront my problems, not hide behind a false identity.
Grief clouds the mind. Although if I cut myself a little slack, the Christian I got to know was a far cry from the man I believed was untouchable.
The screen above the departure gate switches to Now Boarding.
I push to my feet and sling my carry-on over my shoulder.
The gate attendant checks my boarding pass and passport.
I hold my breath, waiting for her to spot it’s a fake and have the authorities haul me off to some godforsaken prison, where I’ll slowly rot to death.
Get a grip, Grace.
With a smile, she hands my papers back to me and beckons the next passenger forward.
I hold it together until I’m on the gangway, then let the air out of my lungs in a single stream.
Next stop, Isla Verde, an island off the coast of Costa Rica.
From there, I’ll take a ferry to Isla Oscura, which is a tiny island that, with any luck, surveillance technology hasn’t caught up with yet.
The flight takes a little over two hours.
I disembark and immediately catch a cab to the ferry terminal.
There’s a small queue of people waiting to purchase tickets and, rather sweetly, free guide books are being handed out to those waiting to travel.
The line moves quickly, and in less than five minutes, I’m on the ferry.
The knots in my stomach pull tighter as the ferry moves away from the harbor. I keep to myself, choosing a seat in a corner away from the majority of the passengers.
Ninety minutes later, we dock and disembark.
It doesn’t take long to find the only hotel on the island—a bed and breakfast with twelve rooms. I pre-booked an open-ended stay, renewed on a weekly basis, and check in takes no time at all.
The room is bright and airy, with a small bathroom and a little patio with a plastic table and two chairs overlooking an inlet, where a couple of small boats are moored.
Unpacking takes the sum total of three minutes. There’s a safe in the wardrobe that locks with a key instead of a keypad. I stash the money and both my fake passport and my real one in there, along with my phone, which I still haven’t switched on. Nor do I intend to.
By now, I imagine Christian is tracking my digital signature, just waiting for an alert to pop up.
Undoubtedly, he’ll trace me to Mexico City, but after that, the trail should go cold, thanks to my fake passport.
If his uncle that he told me about can stay hidden for months, then I should be able to, although I expect he’s got more money, contacts, and capability than I have. Still, look on the bright side, hey?
Even though this isn’t an actual bright side.
It’s more like purgatory, which, I expect, was Christian’s hope all along.
He must have known that by telling me to run, he’d strike fear into my heart.
Although now the panic has subsided, it’s less fear I feel.
More like regret and shame. And anger, but that’s directed at Daniel not Christian.
If only he’d let me handle it, I’d have the truth by now. I’m certain Christian was about to tell me everything, even though he wouldn’t have known at the time who I really was. That’s just a testament to how far our relationship had progressed.
The misogyny in Daniel’s vicious little speech shocked me at the time, but now I’m raging. If Christian doesn’t kill him for his kidnapping stunt, I bloody well might. One thing’s for certain: he’s no longer any family of mine.
It’s cruel how life sometimes turns out. My hatred for Christian evolved into love without me becoming aware until it was too late.
Too late for honesty.
Too late for apologies.
Too late for us.
Even if we are able to eventually sit down and talk, I killed any feelings he had for me the moment he uncovered the truth before I had a chance to tell him and try to control the narrative.
To explain how gut-wrenching grief can be, and how it makes us do things that our whole-hearted selves would never consider.
He would have understood; I’m sure of it.
Especially as he lost his own mother far younger than I had mine taken from me.
It’s all moot now, though.
My stomach rumbles, so I grab my wallet and head out to explore.
I imagine it won’t take very long. According to the guide book, the island is only two miles long by one mile wide, has the single hotel I’m staying at, along with a restaurant slash beach bar, and a shop that sells a bit of everything.
The main draw is for scuba divers who visit to explore the shipwreck off the coast that’s become home to tons of marine life.
There are two hundred and fifty permanent residents, along with a handful of rental houses along the northern tip of the island, where the coast of mainland Costa Rica can be seen on a clear day.
Well, I wanted remote and off-grid. Looks as though I got it.
The beach bar has a chalkboard menu outside showing today’s special: chicken and rice, with pineapple and mango salsa.
My mouth fills with saliva as I grab a table.
A server comes over to take my order, and in less than ten minutes, I’m digging into the most delicious plate of food I’ve had in a while.
Maybe it’s the sun beating down on me, the way I’ve buried my toes in the sand, or the waves crashing onto the shore that makes it taste so amazing.
Stomach full, I pay the bill, leave a generous tip, and head out to explore the rest of the island. It’s so peaceful here. I can see the allure of those burned out by the rat race craving the solitude such a small island brings.
After completing a full circuit, I arrive at the one and only store.
A bell dings over the door as I enter, and the smell of fresh spices and coffee fills my nostrils.
A voice calls out from the back, but whatever they say is in Spanish.
The guide book has included a few common phrases, which I hope will be enough.
A man in his late fifties or early sixties, with long, straggly gray hair and blue eyes appears. I stumble through a hello and a how are you before he takes pity on me.
“English?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“What can I get for you?”