Page 18 of Through the Water

If he’d been in Haiti, then who had I been running from?

The click of the turn signal pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked up just as we turned into what appeared to be a residential area.

Live oaks stretched up on either side of the street, providing a canopy of shade for homes far larger than most of the ones within our gated community. The mansion I’d grown up in still dwarfed most of these, a tribute to my father’s unfailing faith and the church’s deep pockets.

I’d lived my entire life under the assumption the world outside our community lived in poverty. Based on the stories, I’d imagined their restless souls wandering the globe like a band of gypsies, never finding a place to put down roots.

But this was not scarcity.

This was abundance. These were people who were making it without the church, or God’s, help. My brows drew together, and I turned back to Tristan, only to find him intently studying the warning label affixed to the transport bed.

When we pulled up in front of a large glass building, he released a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief. I never imagined I’d live to see the day Tristan James was as eager to get away from me as I was him.

Directly behind the granite True North Rehabilitation Center sign stood a statue of Justin Thomas. His arms were stretched high above his head, making his career-ending catch. I studied it as the nurses transferred me from the bed to a wheelchair, finding it odd Justin would want to commemorate the very thing that had almost cost him his life.

I certainly couldn’t imagine commissioning a statue of me next to a wrecked convertible giving the thumbs up.

Tristan kept his distance as we moved inside the facility where a woman stood expectantly. Her long black hair captured the lights from above, shimmering iridescently. While I was mesmerized by her hair, she was captivated by my father in a way that indicated she needed no introduction.

Through her gushing, I determined she was the facility director for True North—my home for the next eight to twelve weeks. Then, it’d be back to prison for the remainder of therapy and possibly my life. I fought against the insistent tug of my lips, not willing to risk arousing suspicion.

Tristan handed over a white plastic bag of my belongings but didn’t stay once I was shown to my room. He didn’t need to—I’d been given my warning back in the van. It was confusing, wondering if he planned on sacrificing me to gain media attention, or if something darker was at play.

It only hurts if you let it…

As a little girl, I would have done anything to please him. As an adult, I knew where that path led. I’d learned to numb myself to the pain in order to survive.

Twelve weeks was a long time.

More than enough opportunity to discover why I’d run away. And once I knew that, I could tackle what to do to keep Tristan’s plans of sacrifice from ever coming to fruition.

I dumped the contents of the bag out onto the bed, slightly disappointed when nothing sparked a memory. Not that there was much to go on—just my purse, a pair of sneakers with socks stuffed inside, and my underwear. Whatever I’d been wearing the night of the accident must have been ruined.

A quick check of the purse turned up nothing, other than the realization that my driver’s license and credit cards had been confiscated and were now probably residing in the safe back home. I blew out my cheeks and began returning the items to the bag one by one. As I pulled the sock from one of the sneakers, a necklace fell onto the bed, one I’d never seen before.

I threaded my fingers through the delicate silver chain and lifted it up. The rectangular pendant reminded me a little of the doors on an armoire. Each side had delicately carved swirls that, upon closer inspection, resembled octopus tentacles amid waves. It was gorgeous, but definitely not mine. I would have remembered something like this.

Tristan.

My fingers tightened around the gift meant to buy my silence. I didn’t know why he’d bothered this time.

I’d traded my voice for one night of freedom.

* * *

Once I was settled, the assigned tech pushed my wheelchair out into the hall for a tour of the facility, only to remember she’d left her radio behind in the room. “Wait right here.”

I waited until she was gone before sliding my left foot from the footrest, planting it firmly on the floor. When putting weight on my toes didn’t cause pain, I did the same with my right foot. In the hospital, I hadn’t been able to manage more than a few steps before needing a break to rest.

My entire plan hinged on pushing myself to the limit.

Step one—learn to walk without getting dizzy or tired.

I reached for the belt across my lap, only to find I couldn’t disengage the lock without a key. Panicked thoughts of being trapped briefly pierced through my armor of numbness before I could rein them in.

It only hurts if you let it…

I just needed a key. My eyes scanned the walls before landing on a cart across the hallway. It was resting in a small vase, like a long-forgotten treasure, and I eagerly wheeled over to snatch it up. After several fumbled attempts, I realized I wasn’t holding a key.

---