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There was no point in second-guessing myself now, I could only march full steam ahead. He should still be at work, without even a clue I’d left the house. Everything had been normal. Yes, he’d had me followed for a couple of years after my last escape attempt, and again after the suicide attempt, but I hadn’t noticed anyone tailing me for the last couple of years.
Everything was fine.
It was fine.
Still, I hurried as I shimmied out of the bandage dress one final time and pulled on a ratty pair of jeans. I smoothed my hair down as flat as it would go and nimbly braided the length of it, that I then pinned in a crown around my head. I’d watched this in a YouTube video at the library and practiced in the library bathroom, not daring to try at home.
Once it was pinned as flat as I could get it, I tucked a bit of pantyhose over top to keep it all down, then pulled on a brown chin-length hairpiece that helped change the shape of my face in appearance.
I’d practiced enough times to be able to do all this within five minutes, and a quick glance at my mp3 player showed I was keeping up with my best times. I’d left my phone at home and had picked up the mp3 player at a thrift store. I was so paranoid, I never even hooked it up to our wifi at home. I only charged it at coffeeshops or the library and hid it so Jeff never knew I had it.
I pulled on big, chunky glasses with fake lenses and used a wet wipe to scrub all the makeup off my face. Last, I slipped on what looked like a septum piercing in my nose. A big, baggy flannel shirt completed the look.
My old clothing and blonde wig all went back into a plastic bag, and finally, I pulled a wadded-up denim backpack out of the bottom of my purse. Last but not least were the Converse instead of the high heels. Then I shoved the purse, plastic bag, and all the rest into the backpack and slung it over my shoulders, hopefully completely transformed from the woman who’d walked into the bathroom.
I checked my watch. Okay. The eleven forty-five leaving for Seattle departed in fifteen minutes. I needed to move my ass.
I glanced under the stalls to check that no one was there, then hurried out.
As I came out of the bathroom, I made sure to alter my posture. No more Penelope Chambers, arm candy to the rich and powerful.
I kept my head down, hair swinging in my face, as I slouched out of the bathroom and pretended to be engrossed in a phone that was really just the cheap mp3 player.
Right now I wasn’t listening to anything, it was just a prop. I never saw young people these days without their hands on their devices, and it was all about blending in.
I headed to a different ticketing kiosk.
“Where to?”
“Seattle,” I say, head still down.
The attended looked bored, barely paying attention to me as he rattled off the amount and asked for ID.
Right. Here we go. This was where it could all go into the shitter.
I volunteered at a soup kitchen once a month—one of my few Jeff-approved outings. Charity work looked good for the little wife to be up to and all that.
And there was a girl who came in sometimes, especially towards the end of the month when her paycheck was running out.
She had short cropped brown hair with heavy bangs. Chunky glasses. A septum piercing. She was small in stature.
Our faces didn’t look anything alike.
I paid her a hundred bucks for her ID anyway.
I pulled it out and laid it on the counter along with the money. Then I held my breath. Milliseconds stretch into eons. The sweat on my brow slipped down my forehead behind the bangs of the wig.
The ticketer took the money and barely even glanced at the ID before pushing it and the ticket back across the counter to me.
Don’t show your relief, don’t show your relief.
I mumbled something like, “Cool,” before grabbing both and turning back into the crowd.
Right at the same time I heard a familiar voice call out, “Have you seen this woman?”
Shit! Shit shit shit.
It was Buchanan, Jeff’s overly involved lead attorney and best friend. He who famously covered up, shut up, and otherwise took care of all of Jeff’s dirty underhanded dealings that never saw the light of day.
Including me several times in the past, when Jeff went too far, and I was left bloody and broken enough to need a hospital.
Broken left orbital bone. Shattered ulna from the time Jeff hit my forearm with a baseball bat. The… other time that led to me slashing my wrists. Which he of course also cleaned up, seeing to my in-patient treatment, locking me away, and having them put me on suicide watch so I couldn’t escape, even by death. He also made sure I was immediately put on the numbing drug cocktail so no one would believe anything I said, and yes, I did try.
