Perfect

Chapter 1

ALEX

When I was twelve, my mother painted me with a blue ribbon in my hair, holding a panicked-looking white rabbit.

Now, the painting hangs in Danny’s office and watches as I open the safe, pulling out all ten thousand dollars of emergency cash we keep on hand and slipping the stack of bills into my belt bag.

The rabbit’s red, beady eyes watch as I pull out my cell phone and call a taxi, whispering the address twice and begging them to hurry.

Time seems to stretch out into years as I wait, and I lock eyes with my painted self.

We stare at each other, both of us silent and unmoving as we listen intently to the sounds in the house.

It’s so quiet that I can hear the kitchen clock ticking downstairs, but I’m focused on catching the slightest sound from our bedroom. I’m freezing, but I can’t risk waking Danny by going into the bedroom for different clothes, so I’ll have to pick up something warm on the way.

Something with less blood on it, preferably.

Eventually, the taxi’s headlights sweep across the house, illuminating the painting briefly.

Down, Down, Down was one of my mother’s more celebrated paintings, but I never liked it.

The girl trapped in the painting always seemed frozen and unsure, and it felt like my mother took something of mine, something raw, and gave it to the world without asking.

People have been taking from me my whole life, and I’m tired of it.

I share one final glance with the girl in the painting before I leave, both of us thinking the same thing:

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

***

I tell the cab driver I’ll pay him an extra hundred dollars if he won’t tell anyone about the ride.

He takes in my split lip and my bloody shirt and the bruise starting to form around my eye, and he agrees quickly.

He asks me if I need help, but his voice sounds far away as I sink deeper inside of myself.

I can’t afford to get numb like this, not right now, not when I need to focus on running, but I can’t help it.

I’m too deep inside myself to respond, so we spend the rest of the ride in silence, the news filtering softly through the radio.

I try to get my breathing under control and get back into my body, which barely works.

I stand shivering in the cold as I wait for the two-fifteen bus to New York, crossing my arms over my chest when I notice that my face and the dried blood on my thin white t-shirt are drawing attention from the other people milling around the station.

Someone here will be able to tell the police they remember seeing me, and the thought makes me panic as I climb onto the bus.

I need to find a way to hide myself.

I get into New York around six in the morning and check the times for departing buses before I leave the station, reentering ten minutes later in an oversized hoodie and large sunglasses, keeping the hood up and my head down.

Half an hour later, I’m headed to Seattle, flipping through my transfer tickets and trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do now.

I’ve got my ID, a ton of cash, and nothing else. Well, almost nothing. I stare at my left hand before pulling the three-carat round-cut diamond ring off my finger and slipping it into my belt bag.

I never liked that fucking ring anyway.

***

I have an hour-long layover in Minneapolis, and the station attendant writes down the directions to a Target a few blocks away.

I run there, quickly grabbing a prepaid debit card and a pay-as-you-go smartphone, but I freeze when I go to grab a change of clothes.

The hoodie I’m wearing was bought out of necessity, but these are the first clothes I’m buying for myself outside Danny’s control.

I can choose whatever I want.

What the fuck do I want?

I stand there frozen with indecision for a long moment before I grab an oversized cream sweater and a pair of soft, wide-leg black pants.

I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want anything tight or revealing, so that’s a start.

I duck into the bathroom and change quickly, shoving all my old clothes into the trash can before I hurry back to the bus station, fighting off a panic attack.

So far, I’ve been working on instinct alone, but I’m starting to realize just how fucked I am.

I can’t use my identity at all. I have money, but that’s all I have for the foreseeable future.

Ten thousand dollars will barely last me a year if I’m careful, and I don’t know how to be careful with money.

I start to feel numb as the panic starts rising again, so I force myself to focus and make a list of what I need to do when I get to Seattle.

I stay awake until I transfer buses in Billings, then finally fall into a fitful sleep on the bus to Spokane, jolting awake every so often, my heart pounding in my chest.

I spend the final leg of the trip to Seattle figuring out how I’m even supposed to find an under-the-table job and an apartment I can pay for in cash, much less a fake ID.

I make a new email address and post a Craigslist ad before responding to help wanted ads in Washington and Oregon, and even a few in Alaska.

By the time the bus pulls into Seattle, I’m slightly less panicked but extremely exhausted, so I find the cheapest hotel near the bus station that I think I’ll be safe at, and I sleep on and off for two days.

***

I can’t stay in Seattle just in case Danny somehow finds out what bus I took, but I need to be harder to identify before I leave.

I go to a cheap chain salon and have my waist-length hair cut to just above my collarbones and dyed from my natural honey blonde to a rich brown before I head to the train station.

I take the train down to Portland, finding a crappy hotel near the college and paying for a month in advance before I wander around the city, keeping my head down and nervously glancing at any man who bears a passing resemblance to Danny.

Portland is different from Boston, but it’s nice.

I spend most of my time walking around the city trying not to get wet in the near-constant drizzle and avoid people screaming on the sidewalks.

I visit parks and explore the neighborhoods, eating at food carts and window shopping at vintage stores, finally starting to feel safe in my anonymity.

It takes two weeks before I find a woman who makes fake IDs. I barely sleep the night before I meet her, convinced that it could be a setup by the police or a sex trafficker. Even if it isn’t, she could rob me or kill me, but I’m desperate enough to risk it.

I don’t have much to lose at this point.

I’m numb as I press the buzzer on the old warehouse door and answer the garbled question coming from the speaker box.

Someone buzzes me into a dingy stairwell, and I force myself to climb the stairs to the third floor.

A thin, tattooed woman with gold facial piercings opens the door into what looks like an industrial print shop.

I don’t miss how she takes in the fading bruises on my face before she leads me to a small back room, where she passes me a form and asks me who I want to be.

I stare at her for a long moment before looking at the paperwork she hands me.

Who do I want to be?

I flush and stammer out an apology, asking her for a few minutes to figure it out. She offers to make up a name for me, but I tell her I’d prefer to choose it.

I get to make my own choices now.

I choose something that sounds close enough to my name that I’ll respond to it if I’m not paying attention, then write down a long, feminine version of the name.

I keep my birthday and middle name, and I use the last name of my favorite summer camp counselor from childhood.

I pass the woman the paperwork and my Massachusetts driver’s license before I cake on makeup to hide the last of the fading bruises on my face.

Five minutes later, when I hold the new, fake license up to my old license, I heave a sigh of relief.

Alice Murphy doesn’t exist anymore.

I’m Alexandria Shearer now.

I pass over the money and give the woman the first real smile I’ve given anyone in a long time.

***

LOOKING FOR WORK & HOUSING

26 year old woman escaping DV situation looking for employment and housing.

I’m a quick learner, exceptionally reliable, extremely personable, and I am willing to do almost anything.

I can cook and clean, I have basic computer skills, and I have experience organizing charity fundraisers.

Will move anywhere.

No children, no pets.

No access to a car.

***

I wasn’t smart about how I worded my desperate Craigslist post, so I’ve been getting hundreds of solicitations for sex or worse every single day for the last two weeks. I’m tucked away in the corner of a large coffee shop scrolling through bullshit responses when one catches my eye:

SREED61, APRIL 17, 2023, 3:53 PM:

Hello, I have a receptionist position available for a small law firm in Astoria, Oregon. Our office is currently staffed by women only. Please let me know if you’re interested.

I respond, and the person must be at their computer because they message back a moment later.

After a few messages, we arrange to meet later in the week for an interview, and I spend the rest of the week anxiously anticipating it.

I’ve never had a job or interviewed for anything, but I know I need to look professional, so I buy a black dress and a pair of sensible heels.

On the day of the interview, I do my hair and makeup and show up at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, making sure not to show how nervous I am as I wait.

I’m good at hiding my feelings, good at lying, good at pretending everything is fine, because I’ve been doing it for years.