12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Melanie
Back in my hotel room, Michael's phone rings. I pause, standing and staring at it. I don't want to answer. I don't want to play his game anymore. But the image of my mom and aunt causes me to change my mind.
“I'm here,” I say, feeling that he isn't worthy of hello.
“I'm glad,” he says with a heavy breath. “Tell me what you're wearing?” He moans.
Hearing this makes my skin crawl. “What? You don't know?”
“Oh, that snark is going to get you into trouble.” He pushes out a breath. “Faster.”
“Faster? I'm not doing anything.”
“Not you, her.”
“Her? OH MY GOD, are you getting a fucking blow job?” Instant nausea runs through my system.
Michael groans, “You're half right.”
“Why the hell are you calling me during sex?”
“I'LL FUCKING CALL YOU WHENEVER I WANT!” he bellows. “All fours, ass in the air. Now!” I hear the sound of a hand slapping skin.
“You better not have punched her,” I force myself to stand tall.
“She's like you. She enjoys a good swat now and then.” I hear another slap.
The woman moans.
Unbelievable.
“I'm hanging up,” I say, pulling the phone away.
Michael yells, “HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!”
A woman's voice calls out, “Yes, honey, yes, make him mad.” Michael growls at her comment.
“Are you really going to make me listen while you have sex?” I ask, thoroughly outraged and feeling in need of a piping hot shower.
“I wasn't, but now because of your attitude I am.” He moans, she moans in return, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.
I held the phone away from my head so I didn’t have to hear the noises associated with sex. What a prick! The thought of Michael having sex with God knows who, while I’m trying to plan out my next survival move, causes me to squeeze my free hand into a tight fist.
I closed my eyes. He couldn't care less about my fear and anxiety. It's nothing to him. What does he care if I’m held up in some hotel room? He’s causing this, not living it.
Hoping I could hang up, I brought the phone to my ear just in time to hear Michael grunt, then scream out my name. I scrunch my face, thinking of him in that position. Fuck him for going about his life like he hasn’t torn me out of mine.
“Next time,” Michael panted. “Will be with you.” The line went dead.
My hands tremble as I stand, phone still pressed to my ear. The thought of having sex with him stops me cold as icy realization slides down my spine. He wouldn't be asking permission. He would be taking, consuming, hurting. And physically, there would be nothing I could do to stop him. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, knowing with certainty that this and worse, would be my fate if Michael caught me. Just the thought makes me feel violated.
Moses jumps off the bed and makes his way to me, rubbing back and forth against my legs. I pet him absent-mindedly until he's had enough. He stands on his back legs and pats my cheek. The gentle touch pulls me from my void. I have to win against Michael. He might be able to do those things to me, but I have to protect Moses. My brain can't even process the evil Michael would do to him. I pick Moses up with one hand and use the other to stand. Hugging him close, I pull myself back into a fighting mindset.
At my new laptop, I methodically transfer photos from the cloud and old devices to the USB drives. Each image feels like a treasured memory I'm rescuing from Michael's grasp. Our birthdays, holidays, quiet moments with Cameron all saved. My finger hovers over a photo of his whole family at Christmas. The Whitakers, who were supposed to become my family, too. I love everyone in that photo. I've had so many calls from all of them. I feel awful about what I've done, but I didn't have a choice. I hope one day, somehow, they'll understand that.
I force myself to keep moving, copying essential contact information, only the ones I absolutely need. The others aren't gone. Just set aside for now. Starting fresh means letting go, even when it breaks your heart.
When I finished, I immediately shut off my phone and old laptop. Even with the precautions from the Best Buy geeks, I can't risk Michael tracking me here. With both powered down, I start searching for a rental. Somewhere I can catch my breath and start planning. Somewhere safe.
With everything packed for early morning departure, I add Moses' collar and dishes to the bag of things to be left. An unfamiliar feeling settles over me, not quite hope, but something close to it. For the first time since fleeing the wedding, I'm not just running scared. I have a plan. A terrible one, maybe, but it's mine.
I search the local papers' classifieds for a place to live. I can't keep jumping from hotel to hotel - too many chances for someone to recognize me or Michael to find me. Once I'm settled somewhere safe, I can unleash my journalistic instincts and start unraveling Michael's operation. The words they and warehouse echo in my head, making my skin crawl. How many other women has he hunted? How many has he sold? The thought steals my resolve. This isn't just about my survival anymore. This is about stopping him from hurting more people - and Moses.
Sleep comes reluctantly. Like every night, Cameron's face appears when I close my eyes - that crooked smile that first made me fall in love with him. A tear trails down my cheek as I clutch my pillow, aching for his arms around me. I'd even be delighted to put up with his light snoring. Anything to be back with him.
Morning arrives too soon. “Five more minutes,” I mumble at the alarm, but my brain already lines up today's to-do list. The hot shower helps clear my head. By the time I'm dressed in my new clothes, I feel almost like a different person. Maybe that's the point.
An abandoned hotel cart near the back door makes loading my current life into the truck's backseat more efficient. Moses, ever the adaptable one, claims the dashboard as his new kingdom. “At least one of us is enjoying this,” I mutter, leaving him to explore while I grab breakfast for the road.
The hotel's complimentary breakfast area is crowded with kids in hockey jerseys. I weave around them, filling my travel mug and making a stuffed bacon sandwich. I shove an orange and apple into my sweatshirt pockets, then grab a small bowl of eggs since they're Moses' favorite. As I turn to head back down my hallway, everyone around me vanishes.
Michael stands just outside the lobby's double glass doors. Mr. Daggers leans against a black sedan while Michael converses with the mountain man from the video, the one who made Mom look like a child next to him. My hands go numb. I scan my surroundings. The lobby full of hockey players and parents becomes my salvation, there is just enough chaos for cover. Two teen boys laden with breakfast bowls step toward a table. I pull my hood up and slide in beside them, letting them shield me from the goon squad.
When they reach their table, I sidestep and keep my head down, half-running down the hall. “Don't draw attention to yourself,” I remind myself. The corridor stretches impossibly long, like something from The Shining. Each footfall seems to echo. Finally reaching my door, I force myself to slow down. Rushing will only draw attention to myself.
My hands shake so badly I can barely work the key. One last glance shows an empty hallway, but it won't stay that way long. Michael has money. He'll bribe his way to my room soon enough.
With the door finally open, I sprint across the parking lot, jabbing the truck's unlock button. Not drawing attention has gone out the window. I need to leave.
Moses launches himself from the dashboard onto my shoulder as I dive in, his claws digging into muscle as he makes a beeline for the bowl of eggs I'd salvaged. “Damn.” I set the bowl on the passenger seat, not wanting to take the time to secure it. Rubbing my shoulder, I mutter, “Moses, that hurt.” A quick scan shows no pursuit yet.
“Time to go!”
I cautiously drive around the parking lot with my sweatshirt hood up, peering at the front of the hotel where Michael's car remains parked. He's nowhere in sight, nor are the others. That likely means they're in my room.
I wind my way through the connected parking lots of the nearby bank and strip mall, blessing whatever architect designed multiple escape routes from the hotel. Driving along the back of a dollar store, the dumpster behind the local chamber of commerce catches my eye.
“Bingo!” I park a short distance away. Grabbing my old phone and laptop, I position them carefully behind opposite wheels. “I'm sorry, Cameron. I'll do my best to return to you and our family,” I whisper before climbing back in.
The crunch of metal and plastic is both sad and satisfying. After several more passes to ensure complete destruction, I add my old suitcase full of hastily packed clothes, purse, shoes, coat, and Moses's items to the dumpster. The thunderous crash confirms its empty. Glancing around I see no witnesses to my rebirth.
I pause before climbing back in, Michael's burner phone and tablet heavy in my hands. Keeping them means he can always track me, but destroying them means losing my only connection to him. Do I risk it?
“Risk what?” I say aloud. “Being yelled at, threatened, kept wondering what he'll do to me?” The image of him standing outside the lobby doors decides me. “Tracking me, knowing where I am, that's not fair. Not only is he despicable, he's also a cheat. Let's even the playing field.” The phone and tablet join the wreckage with a satisfying shatter. “You wanted a chase, Michael dear? Fine. Now you can know what it's like without an advantage.”
Heading for an apartment listing I saw in Valley View, a quiet town near Whispering Pines, I feel almost proud. I'm still not sure throwing away Michael's phone was wise, but what's done is done. If he fights unfairly, so must I. I call the number for the listing, an eight-plex where the owner emphasizes privacy and working tenants who keep to themselves. When she asks why I need an apartment so soon, I decide on honesty and explain I've recently escaped an abusive relationship. Her voice softens with understanding, and she tells me she'll be home all day. The reality is, I think hiding in plain sight is the right plan. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Cameron and my life in Whispering Pines, at least not yet. My mind keeps repeating the phrase about keeping your friends close. I’m choosing to ignore the second half of the saying. Although, I think it applies too.
Driving the heavily forested areas, my mind drifts to Mom and Aunt as tree after tree pass by. My gut says they're safe for now. Michael will focus on finding me first. Then I think of the Whitakers. I worry they'll receive the brunt of my disobedience. I wish I could warn them somehow, tell them to go somewhere safe until this is over. But I can't risk it - Michael would have my new number instantly. I could try calling the church or hospital to reach someone, but he probably has those places bugged, too.
“Is not contacting them the right thing?” I glance at Moses, stretched out in the sun. “You're right, they'd do the same thing - keep the others safe.”
The apartment building sits on a quiet street where neighbors still notice strangers - exactly what I need. Mrs. Post greets me outside, a vision in clashing colors that somehow work: knee-highs rolled down to her shoes, bright orange skirt, chicken-embroidered apron over a white blouse, and the most eye-searing yellow beaded necklace I've ever seen. A flowered purple housecoat completes the ensemble. Her appearance is so wonderfully, definitely normal that I have to smile.
“I am her. You must be Melanie.” She extends her hand, nails ruby red with white bows. “I still think people should shake hands. It's the polite thing to do.” When I take it, she pats my hand grandmotherly before producing hand sanitizer from her apron. “But it's also good to be cautious.” The wink she gives me suggests she understands more than she's saying.
The apartment is dated but clean, with a combined living room and kitchen divided by where carpet meets linoleum. The loveseat and recliner have seen better days, but they're serviceable. A small desk against one wall catches my eye - perfect for work. The round dining table with its mismatched chairs feels homey somehow.
“Going to need a Keurig,” I note, eyeing the ancient coffee pot. The bathroom is tiny, but spotless. The bedroom holds a full-size bed and dresser - I check the mattress thoroughly for unwanted residents but find only clean sheets.
“Well, can you live with it?” Mrs. Post asks as I emerge.
“It's perfect. Quiet is exactly what I need. I don't go out at night or party. The only thing is-”
A young boy with Down syndrome bursts in, his smile as bright as his blond hair, carrying cookies. “Hi, Mrs. Post! We baked! Momma said bring these to you. You weren't home, but I saw the door open. That's right, isn't it?” His earnestness is impossible not to love.
“Yes, David, that's exactly right. This is Melanie - she's moving in.”
“Mel-a-nie,” he sounds out carefully. “Did I say it right?”
“Perfect! But my friends call me Mel, and you can too.”
His face lights up. “Because we're neighbors, we're friends! I have to tell Momma I made a new friend!” He practically dances out the door.
Mrs. Post offers me a cookie, explaining about David and his mom. “Been here four years now. Dad left when he learned about David's condition.”
“That's horrible. How could anyone abandon their child?”
“Some men are cowards,” she says simply. “But David's a joy, and his mom's doing great. Warning though with the amount of baking they do, your waistline's in danger.” She takes a bite. “Now, what were you about to say?”
“Oh - I have a cat. Just one. I had to bring him when I...” I trail off, hoping this won't be a deal-breaker.
“Cats are fine. Hundred-dollar non-refundable deposit for carpet cleaning when you leave.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank goodness. He's a good cat, mostly sleeps.”
“Sounds like a cat to me,” she chuckles. “Rent's due tomorrow. Bring it down to apartment one after you move in. Here are your keys. Park wherever.”
“That's it?” I'm stunned by the simplicity.
“What else do you want?”
“Don't you need references? Background check?”
She gives me a shrewd look. “Already done my check. How someone treats me tells me everything I need to know. I can spot a scammer a mile off.” Her eyes narrow. “Who are you running from, Melanie? What's his first name?”
“Michael,” I admit, studying the floor. “He's a real piece of work.”
“Had one of them myself.” She pulls back her hair to reveal a scar above her eyebrow. “But don't you look at that floor, girl. Don't give him that power. Head up - you're who you are. Everyone here needed a helping hand once. We're not victims. We're fighters.”
She heads for the door. “Get yourself moved in, then come down to apartment one.”
Just like that, I have a home Michael knows nothing about. More importantly, I have an ally who understands. Mrs. Post is right. It's time to stop running. I need to start fighting.