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Outside of leaving my sister, that thought hurts worse than uprooting myself and starting all over the first time.
Chapter 22
Todayismydayoff. Charlie dropped me off a little after 1:00 AM last night, and I crashed. I’m emotionally drained, raw from anxiety, but also relieved that I feel somewhat safe. It’s a mixture of overwhelming feelings.
I need an outlet, and today is the perfect day to paint. I want to give the Colorado landscape a try. On one of my walks to the café this week, I spotted a quaint little park on a hill. I think it’ll be the perfect place to get a great, unobstructed view of the mountains.
I quickly take a shower, dress casually in jeans and a sweater, and throw my hair up in a top bun. I want to get there and pick the best spot before it gets too busy. Hopefully, I’ll have at least a little quiet time to immerse myself.
After packing all my supplies in a tote bag, I head out the door with my jacket and hat on. It’s still chilly out in the mornings, but my hands will just have to be cold because gloves and painting mix like oil and water. I need wrist and finger mobility for my brushes without restrictive gloves.
I find the walk peaceful. There’s just something so soothing about this town. The views are breathtaking, the mountain air is refreshing, and the people are wonderful. I could live here the rest of my life and be a happy woman.
I reach the park, taking my time to walk through most of it. After several minutes, I finally notice a spot on a small hill with a big Douglas fir in the middle. When I arrive, I drop my supplies as soon as I step into a small open patch of grass.
The sun has already risen, so I won’t get the bright oranges and pinks that light the sky every morning, but it’s still beautiful in its own right. I’ll have to come earlier next Sunday to catch the sunrise.
I quickly lay out all my supplies, picking neutrals, greens, and a bright sky blue to get started. The canvas I brought is on the smaller side because of my limited budget, but I don’t care. Painting is painting. I’m excited to get started.
Before I know it, hours have passed with me sitting, painting, and people watching. By the time late afternoon rolls around, my stomach is grumbling, and my legs are stiff from sitting on the ground for so long. I stand, stretching my back before I gather my supplies.
The painting is somewhat dry, but I still need to be careful with it. I survey my work. There’s darkness in the tree line, shaded heavy in black and browns. The sky burns bright from the canvas in one of the best displays of color I’ve been able to pull off yet. The scenery here calls to me like never before, and in a way, I think it represents my life. Starting out shrouded in darkness, breaking free, and bursting into the light.
I make my way back to the motel, trying to think through starting my research on how to take Christopher down. In my panic to hide the evidence, I made hard copies of everything I had and hid them. I was scared Christopher would find something on my phone that clued him in, and I wanted a backup. After ditching my phone at the train station, I’m so glad I did because I still have my copies of the bank statements and the pictures of the text messages I made. I’d packed those in my suitcase first before Christopher came home that day.
However, I’m not sure it’s enough, and I’m scared to risk it. I think my best bet right now is to find the library in town to use their computers. I haven’t looked at this from how Swank was involved, and that might just be the key to everything. I’m not sure if I can find anything this way or not, but it’s worth a shot.
I also thought about making an email account with a fake name to communicate with Addy. She mentioned using her student email right before we were cut off on the payphone. I think she is worried about someone catching on to phone calls. If her student email isn’t monitored like she mentioned, this may be the safest way for us to communicate.
My gut churns at just the thought of anything happening to either of us. And I hate to think this way but having a paper trail, even though itis extremely riskyis the best way to ensure that if anything happens to either of us there is evidence to find. We won’t have that insurance with phone calls.
I swallow the bile that has started to rise in my throat. I’m overwhelmed, hurt, angry, andscared.
This is the only plan I have right now, so it needs to be enough. I can’t run and hide forever, always looking over my shoulder, watching and waiting for him to find me. Christopher will never let this go; I know too much. He won’t risk any of this ever coming out, which means I’m a liability. Ihaveto be smarter than him.
My thoughts instantly turn dark. What if I can’t get enough evidence? What if he finds me before I can stop him? Those thoughts alone are enough to send me into a panic. Adding in the thought that I may never see my sister again, or even my misguided family, makes this much more terrifying. I may be confused about their involvement and why they are protecting Christopher, but they’re still my brother, mother, and father.
I make it back to my room and sigh as I close the door and lean against it. Fear and worry overshadow the peace and happiness I found while painting. It isn’t long before anger follows.
How dare he do this to me?
How dare my parents and brother not protect me!?
I stomp around the room, discarding my supplies and placing the painting against the wall to dry. I’m about to sit when there’s a knock at the door. I angrily make my way over and forcefully swing the door open.
“Whoa, girl. Who pissed in your cheerios?” Charlie stands on the other side of the door with a takeout bag of food and a bottle of wine. I’m startled to see her but happy for the surprise.
“What are you doing here?” I gesture for her to come in, then turning and cringing because of the state my room is in. I would’ve tidied up if I knew someone was coming.
“Thought I’d pay my best friend a surprise visit! I brought Mexican, ‘cause let’s face it, who doesn’t love Mexican food and wine?”
I laugh because she is indeed correct. I love Mexican food. She plops down on my bed like she owns it, crossing her legs and laying her head back.
“Ugh, girl. This bed isnotcomfortable. I can feel all the springs,” she says as she squirms around, trying to find a softer spot. Unfortunately, I know there isn’t one, so she’ll be at it for a while.
“I know, but I’ve been so dog tired at the end of the day that I just pass out, anyway.” I sit on the bed beside her.
“What have you been up to today?” she asks.
