3. Veronica
CHAPTER 3
Veronica
Waves crashing a few feet in front of me bless my ears as I sit in the beach chair, my face tilting to the hot sun and my toes hidden in the warm sand.
There are people laughing and music is playing next to where I’m set up. All the different noises fight with each other to be louder than the ocean, but I concentrate on the water.
Along with the waves rolling up to the shore, seagulls are squawking above me, adding to the peacefulness. Being at the beach is the first time I’ve felt at peace in a long time.
It’s only been three weeks since I escaped from Black Lake, but I know they are still looking for me.
That’s why I don’t stay in places longer than I need to.
After the harmless stoned man picked me up, I asked him if we could make a pit stop, which he was more than happy to do. We stopped at a gas station off the state route, where the man I called earlier in the van met us.
I had met Slater a couple of years before my altercation with my sister’s boyfriend. He would come into a dive bar I worked at for a month. Slater, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, was pretty to look at. I always gave him special attention because he would tip well.
Then, one night, when he got super drunk, he told me about the sketchy business he ran. Slater helped criminals start a new life—new identities and new passports.
A fresh start. That’s what he gave me.
First was a prepaid phone to get ahold of him and an old laptop. This was to send him a photo of myself after I changed my look. Along with the phone, he provided me with some cash and a card with money on it that was connected to a bank account he set up for me.
As soon as we made it to Bend, Oregon, after our five-hour drive, I said my goodbyes to Lance—because, of course, the stoner’s name was Lance—and found the most high-end salon I could find in that part of Oregon.
My first decision was to change my hair. If the police were looking for me, my dark curls had to go. I told the stylist I had experienced a rough breakup and desperately needed a change. It didn’t take her much convincing.
She lightened my hair a lot to make it blonde and added some lowlights to create a dirty blonde look. After the color was done, she treated it to hide the curls. Whatever chemical she used worked like magic. Now, my hair has a soft wave to it.
Once my hair was done, I did something different with my eyes. This wasn’t necessary, but I still wanted to switch it up. I felt that my round, brown eyes would give away who I am. My vision is perfect, so prescription contacts were out of the question, but I did find a costume store that sold colored contacts.
Green.
That’s the color I chose as a little souvenir of Leo. I stocked up on the contacts, and the clerk looked at me funny but didn’t question it.
I applied makeup, which I hated, but it covered my freckles. I then sent a picture to Slater, who mailed my new license and passport to the nearest post office in Oregon.
Camille Saunders is a twenty-nine-year-old woman from a small town in Colorado who works at a boutique. She is single with no children, obviously, and loves traveling.
I didn’t have a choice in the name or the fact that he aged me three years. That one hurt a little. The traveling, however, was a perfect little touch he threw in there.
After receiving my new identity, I ditched Oregon and took a bus to California. I spent a few days in Sacramento and then took a bus to San Francisco before moving on to Los Angeles. There, I saw all the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame but then grew bored. Why on Earth would I be interested in staring at famous people’s names on the ground?
Malibu was calling my name, and I couldn’t wait to sit on the beach and enjoy my freedom. I had heard the beaches there were beautiful, but I had to experience them for myself, which is why this is the longest place I’ve stayed.
I arrived five days ago and have been really enjoying myself. Except one thing has been ruining my time here.
I’ve been at the beach for an hour, reapplying sunscreen on my fair skin, when the bubbly brunette plops down into the empty chair beside me—the thing that has been ruining my time here.
We met the night I arrived in Malibu when I went into a very nice bar for a much-needed drink.
She introduced herself, even though I was trying to look unapproachable, and talked my ear off the entire night. I debated smashing my glass against her skull, but despite the strong urge, I held back.
Francesca insisted on a beach day that night. How could I resist a day in the sun?
“I swear, they charge an arm and a leg for coffee out here,” she pouts and hands me an iced coffee. “You’ll pay me back, right? Your coffee alone was $8.”
“Totally,” I lie.
“Cool. So what are we doing tonight?”
Why must she want to hang out every single second of every single day?
I tried being mean to the woman. I tried scaring her off with my bitchy attitude, but she didn’t seem to fucking care. She’s been attached to me like a lost puppy. It got to the point I just allowed it because I knew I wouldn’t be staying in Cali long.
“I’m busy. I can’t hang out tonight.”
“What?” She shifts in her chair and lowers her sunglasses until they are resting on the bridge of her nose.
“I’m busy.” I don’t have anything planned, but I have to make an excuse because if I spend one more day with this girl, I will end up killing her. That would not be a good idea, considering I’m trying to lay low.
“Fine.” She breathes out a sigh of annoyance and sinks back into her chair. “Tomorrow night, then.”
I hum in response. There will be no tomorrow night because I’m leaving Malibu. I’m afraid I’ve already overstayed my welcome here.
I pull out the phone that Slater gave me and open a new search engine tab. The bus schedule is on the screen, and I chew my bottom lip as I scan the potential places to go.
Maybe I’ll go to Las Vegas to see what all the fuss is about. Then, after that, I could go to Arizona. Or I could visit my new identity’s home in Colorado. I don't have a place to live there, but I could do some sightseeing. Research, if you will. If someone asks me something about Colorado, I can easily answer it.
Deciding Vegas is the good first choice, I view the bus times for tomorrow and choose to leave right at seven in the morning. The faster I can get out of California and away from the woman beside me, the better.
The purchase is made, and as I am about to close out of the website, my fingers hover over the keyboard, wanting to look him up. After leaving Leo in the woods, I’m unsure what happened to him.
Did he die? Did he get caught?
Swallowing hard, I type his name, followed by Seattle, Washington.
I’m holding my breath until news articles appear with titles that inform me he is still alive. A breath of relief leaves my body because I didn’t want to kill him. The stab was only to injure him, which seems to have done its job.
My eyes scan over the words in the first article I clicked on. The headline reads:
Seattle Psychiatrist Taken to Prison for Helping Patient from Asylum Escape .
He was taken to prison.
The thought of Leo in prison churns my stomach as I remember how much of a scared little cat he was when he arrived at the asylum. I saw the fear on his face, that emotion he attempted to hide when he was around the patients for the first time.
How is he going to hold up in prison?
Throughout the article, the writer twists the words to make people assume that I tricked or blackmailed him into helping me escape. I guess the first assumptions are valid. I did trick him. I manipulated him into getting what I wanted.
However, Leo could have easily kept his word and turned my offer down like he initially did. Him being sent to prison is on both of us.
There are a few comments from people feeling sorry for Leo, while others are tearing him down and stating that he should be locked up in a psych ward just like I was.
If the thought of Leo being in prison makes my stomach twist, the idea of him being placed in an asylum makes that feeling twist even more until it’s hard to breathe.
I continue to read until I find my name. Details about my appearance are listed, along with a picture of me. Thank Satan, I changed my appearance so drastically. The line under my photo states: The escapee is still on the loose. If you see this woman, please contact Black Lake Asylum or Seattle authorities.
There is nothing more to it—no sighting where I was last seen because the last time anyone saw me was in the asylum. Leo was the only person to see me outside those walls, and after that? No one knows where I ran off to.
And it will stay that way.