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“Leave it, Andrea. It’s not your concern,” he’d scolded, effectively ending our conversation. I was scared to bring it up again. Worried it would only make it worse for my brother. We could all see he was miserable, and when I would ask Andrew if he was happy, if this was what he wanted, he would parrot dad’s answers, “don’t worry about me Andrea. I’m not your concern.”
What is it with the men in my life? If I never hear a “Don’t worry about it, Andrea,” or “It’s not your concern” again in my life, I’ll die a happy girl. This just gets my blood pumping. My moods are erratic, though I suppose that’s what happens when your life is crashing down around you.
I can’t go home because my fiancé tried to kill me.
I don’t know who I can trust in my family, and Christopher has a hitman on speed dial.
Glancing around the train car, I notice the other travelers. Some are happy and smiling. Some are even laughing while others are more reserved. Then there’s me. Andrea Shaw. Everything she owns in one suitcase and on a train headed for who knows where. I could turn my life into a country song. I would laugh if it weren’t so damn depressing.
My mind still can’t fully process how close I was to dying today. Nearly murdered at the hands of my own fiancé. A man I’ve known most of my life and spent my entire adulthood with.
And he was going to kill me.
In our home.
With his bare hands.
My hand automatically goes to my throat, gently touching the aching spots. If I want to make sure no one sees what Christopher did to me, I should attempt to cover the marks with the makeup kit I packed.
I stand and lift my suitcase before searching for the kit. Once I find it, I make my way to the bathroom. I unzip my jacket and look at my reflection in the mirror. This is the first time I’ve gotten a good look at the damage.
I can see where he placed each finger, his thumbprint on the right side. Looking at it, I can still feel his hand wrapped around my throat and his breath on my face. I can still see the anger in his eyes.
Shaking away the thoughts, I work on covering it up. It takes me longer than I thought it would, but I’ve never had to cover a bruise before. Satisfied with the results, I pack my makeup away.
Before returning to my seat, I remember the cash I hastily shoved in my pocket earlier. I pull it out to count it in the privacy of the bathroom, so I know exactly how much I have to work with. I was lucky Christopher always carries cash, or I would have been screwed. Using credit or debit cards is an obvious no-no when trying to get away.
Especially when trying to get away from someone like Christopher, who has all the connections in the world needed to track someone down.
And kill them.
The wad of cash is almost entirely composed of crisp hundred-dollar bills. It makes counting it much faster, and I soon discover I have $2,200. Not a great deal of money considering I need somewhere to stay—possibly for an extended period—transportation, food, and I’ll have to buy more clothes.
Oh, shit.
In my hurry to get out of there, I only grabbed my handbag and suitcase. I left my hanging garment bag. That means all I have are casual clothes and basics.
Shit. “Don’t panic,” I tell myself quietly, shoving the cash back into my pocket.
I take a minute to breathe, standing at the sink with my hands on the edge. I hang my head and close my eyes.
You can do this. You must. There’s no going back.
Looking into the mirror again, I decide here and now that Andrea Shaw died back in that brownstone. When the man I thought loved me unconditionally put his hands around my throat and squeezed the breath out of me, a piece of me died.
But he doesn’t get to have all of me. I can either fall apart or I can pick up the pieces, making myself stronger than ever. I can finally be me, and I’m excited to see who I will be.
Standing tall and squaring my shoulders, I exit the bathroom, leaving my jacket unzipped. On the way back to my seat, a few people turn and look, but no one stares. Hopefully that means I did an okay job on the coverup. I give a tight smile and take my seat again.
It takes a little while, but I finally close my eyes and sleep for a few hours. My dreams turn to nightmares, and all I see is Christopher’s enraged face. The dream is so intense and realistic that I feel his hands choking me as he speaks calmly, almost euphorically as he tells me, “This isn’t so bad.”
Killing me isn’t so bad.
Suddenly, I jolt awake with a gasp, my hand instinctively reaching for my throat. My breaths come hard and fast until I remember where I am, my panic easing.
My head falls back against the seat as my eyes discreetly search the area to see if anyone noticed. I find that an older woman has taken the seat across the aisle from me. We make eye contact, and I give a tight smile. She leans toward me with sympathy in her hazel eyes.
“Are you okay, hun?” I try to smile more convincingly and just nod in response. If I tried to speak, I have no doubt there would be a tremor in my voice. Her head tilts inquisitively. “I saw you tossing and turning. Looks like it wasn’t a pleasant dream. When my grandbabies have bad dreams while staying with me, they tell me all about it. They always seem to sleep like angels after that. Would you like to talk about it?”
