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There was a small gap between the shelving units and the back door, and I squished my body into it, squeezing as small as possible, holding Judah tightly against me, so we wouldn’t be seen if he climbed in and looked back.
There was a straight path up the center of the van and to the front seats, making me hope that when we reached the next stop, I could walk upward as he climbed out, then slip out the front before he could even know we were there.
I tensed as I heard footsteps coming closer, some part of me terrified it was Warren, that he would drag us right back to our hell. In front of the driver. He wouldn’t care. He would shoot the driver if he had to.
But the footsteps came to the back, and the van jolted a bit as he shoved at the doors, likely remembering leaving one slightly ajar.
Then he moved toward the front and I felt my belly wobble as I had to press my hand over Judah’s mouth, saying a silent prayer that he wouldn’t fight me, that he wouldn’t shriek under my hand.
He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, then reached out to press his hand over my mouth.
Though as the van turned over, my fears about Judah being heard slipped away as the driver’s metal music started to blast from the speakers.
I released my hold on Judah’s mouth, mainly so I could grab the built-in shelving units with a death grip as the van started to make its way down the winding driveway, and down the road.
We weren’t stopped.
Not as we turned out of the driveway, as we made our way down the road.
We just… kept driving.
Hope, something that had been more of a distant desire than a possible reality, swelled in my chest as Judah patty-caked against my chest, as he tugged on my necklace, as he used both of his hands to smush my lips and push up my eyelids.
This was it.
This was our shot at freedom.
Eventually, the van pulled to a stop, and I released the shelf to press my hand over Judah’s mouth once again as the music lowered, then the van shifted as the driver climbed out.
I didn’t pause.
I rushed up the van silently in my sock-clad feet, making my way toward the passenger side, since it was the one facing away from the house, quietly opened the door, and rushed out, making my way across the lawn toward the neighbor’s house, then down the driveway.
I likely looked insane, wide-eyed, without shoes, carrying a baby down the street. No purse. No carriage.
No… nothing.
I had… nothing.
No purse, no ID, no credit cards or cash.
I kicked myself for not considering this part more.
There were obvious options, of course.
The police station or the local women’s shelter.
The problem was that I knew that Warren had some of the local police in his pocket. I’d been in the SUV when he’d met up with them on dark streets, handing them envelopes I’d guessed were full of cash.
If I showed up there, making allegations, how was I to know that someone wouldn’t send the information back to Warren?
No.
The police weren’t an option.
The women’s shelter would be accustomed to sticky situations like mine. But I didn’t believe Warren was above barging in and shooting people just to get to us. Even if he didn’t, what chance did I have if this went to court?
I had no proof of abuse.
