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Alone?
Isolated ?
In fear?
Always looking over your shoulder?
Forever thinking you’re being chased?
Almost believing that others are harmed because of your damn sins?
“No,” she said aloud, squinting through the dirty glass. Outside, the snow-laden branches were moving with the stiff breeze, the whiteness of
the ground in stark contrast to the black, unforgiving sky.
It had to end.
She could no longer live in fear.
With a shiver, she remembered the fights, the shattered dishes, the balled fists, the pain she’d endured far too long. Trusting that he would be able to control his temper, that he loved her, that he truly was sorry after each of their fights, she’d stayed with him, never reporting what had happened. Because of the shame. Because she’d stupidly believed that no one would believe her. Who would take her word—a spoiled woman who had her own emotional issues—against a man well regarded in the community, a smooth talker and outwardly, a do-gooder whose rage few had witnessed? Outwardly cool and in control, his demeanor had changed behind closed doors, just little things at first and then . . . oh, God, and then . . .
If I could only go home, she thought for the millionth time.
But she’d burned those bridges long ago. For all intents and purposes, she was dead to Talbert and Jeanette Favier, all because of him.
Well, not entirely, her wayward mind reminded her. You carry your own burden here. You are far from blameless. Cade Grayson is proof enough of that. And he’s not the only one. Some of your heartache and your fear can be placed on your own damn shoulders.
With no one to turn to and no one to trust, she’d run.
Away from her home. Away from wealth. Away from privilege.
Her family didn’t believe her then; they wouldn’t now.
She was painfully aware of that horrid little fact.
Nonetheless, the running, which had seemed her only option a few months back, had to stop.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered. After her morning shift. Then she realized that it would be Friday come morning and she’d be working most of the day. No, she needed a clear head to come clean with the police.
Saturday was the funeral for Dan Grayson.
Sunday was another full day at work and she didn’t want to try and track down the sheriff or the appropriate detective over the weekend.
Excuses, excuses, her mind chided and she wondered if she’d chicken out altogether. Cade’s assessment of her hadn’t been that far off. But he was right. If innocent women were dying because of her, then she had to go to the police.
If not, she still needed help in straightening out the whole mess. Just because the cops in New Orleans were dirty didn’t mean the same held true in this little town. Most officers of the law were heroes and worked for the common good: To protect and serve. Just because Dan Grayson was no longer the sheriff didn’t mean that the man who’d taken his place wouldn’t be just as good, nor that he wouldn’t uphold the law.
And therein lies the problem, yes? Because you are guilty, aren’t you? It’s not as if you’re pure as the driven snow.
She felt that same sense of doom nip at her heels again, the one that had been chasing her since leaving Louisiana. God, she’d made a mess of things.
No matter what the consequences, she would try to face the music and right her wrongs, if possible.
On Monday.
Come hell or high water, she’d march into the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department and tell her story.
If she didn’t turn tail and run again. Crossing her fingers, she told herself she needed to do it. Before anyone else ended up dead.
