Page 1 of Nowhere to Run

Chapter One

Icouldn’t shut my mind off.

Staring at the canvas I’d just poured my emotions onto I heaved, feeling like I’d just run a sprint. I was breathless. Raw. Aching from the inside out.

It was too much to bear.

A sob ripped from my chest as I collapsed onto the sunroom floor, hugging my knees. My whole body shook, memories crashing over me in relentless waves. I pressed my forehead to my arms, trying to block them out.Focus on something else.

The art show. Ryan. Emma.

Shit.Emma.

I wiped my tears, glancing at my phone, bracing myself for reality. Emma would be livid.

How had I fallen asleep in his arms?

Like it was the most natural thing in the world. With the man who had just taken so much from me.

The screen brightened, her messages and missed calls pouring in. Her most recent one, sent early this morning.

“Tell me you’re alive!? I haven’t called the police. Yet.”

I exhaled a shaky breath, a pang of relief budding in my chest.

“I’m okay. Really. I’m so, so sorry. I have to work today. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Promise. Coffee… 10:00 a.m.”

My heartbeat slowed, just knowing I’d be seeing her soon. But I had to get through today first. I didn’t have time to wallow.

I made my way upstairs, stepping into the shower, turning on the hot water and letting it cascade over me, washing away his lingering presence. I went through my routine in a haze—standing at the kitchen counter, downing a glass of orange juice, the cold liquid soothing my aching throat.

My gaze caught on the treehouse in the backyard—the one I used to play in for hours as a child. I stood there, transfixed, lost in the memory. Playing princesses with Emma until her parents and Gran pried us apart. Then later, sneaking back out alone.

That’s when I played my favorite game. Spy.

From my perch in the treehouse, I had the perfect vantage point into the neighbor’s yard. He was older than me, just a little, and I watched him shoot hoops, his black hair catching the late afternoon sun. Every time he turned toward Gran’s yard, I’d giggle and duck down, scribbling furiously in my journal like I was a secret agent on assignment. Rolling onto my back, kicking my feet, laughing to myself.

I imagined him coming to the fence, climbing over, dashing up the ladder and capturing me. And then… what? I never figured that part out. The fantasy always ended there, hanging in the air, waiting to be filled in.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I smiled, letting the warmth of the memory settle over me. But then last night rushed in, dark and suffocating, washing away any trace of innocence. His hands tangling in my hair. Pulling my head in close. Forcing me to take all of him. The heat in his stare as he held me there.

I gulped down the last of my drink, tearing my gaze from the treehouse.

I had to get to work.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Helping customers at the gallery, filling orders, answering questions with automatic nods. Pretending everything was normal.

But nothing was normal.

His words clung to me, seeping into my skin. Like oil paint–thick, staining, impossible to wash away. I stood at the gallery’s deep utility sink, water pooling in my cupped hands before slipping through my fingers. Scrubbing, letting the warmth sink in, willing it to cleanse me. But it didn’t.

Soap and water wouldn’t do. I needed something stronger to scrub him out, to burn him away.

His promise lingered in my mind. To take me again.To take everything.

My hands trembled as I rang up a sale, fingers clumsy on the register. The customer smiled and left. My eyes followed them to the door, to the street. And suddenly, I was alone.

The sun shone deceptively, teasing warmth it couldn’t give. Just another cold, winter day in late February. This season always felt endless, stretching on like a life sentence. I sighed, imagining myself living somewhere warmer—where the air smelled of salt and citrus, where winter never overstayed its welcome. But this was what I knew. What I’d always known.

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