Page 38 of A Thin Line

It was still light out and quite warm and I had no idea where I was—other than somewhere in Denver. I planned to go home—and I’d deal with whatever consequences faced me once I got there. Instead of giving in, I’d fight. And, as for everything else, my dad and I could figure it out later.

As I walked down the block, I considered calling him—but not yet. I had to form a plan. I headed west down the sidewalk and across the block, not looking back. Whittier’s home wasn’t the only impressive structure in this neighborhood, but it appeared to be the biggest, taking up one-third of the block. Once I had reached the next street, I stopped looking at the surroundings and pulled up the browser on my phone, walking slowly so I wouldn’t fall. After a few minutes, I’d determined that I could walk to Union Station in about an hour and a half. From there, I’d take a bus to Colorado Springs—without having to spend all my money. Once I got to the Springs, I’d call my dad and we could figure it out from there.

But I was not going to spend another night in that cavernous mansion with its cruel overlord. I was ready to take my chances with the world.

It wasn’t long before I was out of the wealthy neighborhood and walking along a busy street with three lanes of traffic moving both ways. There were lots of people moving about on foot and bikes, and so I was paying close attention to my surroundings again. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until I’d walked three blocks in the wrong direction that I realized I’d done so.

Soon I was going the right way again, and I felt a little weak from not eating. I hoped there would be vending machines at the station but I wasn’t going to stop till I got there.

I was struck by the multitude of tall buildings scattered along this street, mixed with shorter buildings that managed to hold their own. I had a couple miles to go, so I allowed myself time to look around and take it all in.

After another couple of blocks, I passed by a man on the corner holding a sign asking for change. His clothes were tattered and dirty, and his smile revealed several missing teeth. Although I really couldn’t afford to give much, I thought I could spare a dollar. Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I pulled out my cash and retrieved a dollar bill that I handed to him. I would have liked to give him more, but I needed what I had to get home. “Oh, thank you so much, miss. God bless you.”

“You too,” I said, forcing a smile before crossing the street.

When I got there, two young tattooed men who looked to be in their early twenties began talking to me. “Hey, pretty lady. Got another dollar?”

I didn’t like the vibes I was getting off these guys. “No. Sorry.”

The other guy said, “We’ve got some merchandise you might like.”

The first guy jumped in front of me and smiled, opening his arms wide. “C’mon, babe. You look like you want to party.” He had a neck tattoo so heavily inked that it almost looked like he was wearing a turtleneck.

My voice was firmer this time. “No, thank you.”

As I sidestepped him, the second guy, wearing a torn red shirt, joined me to the right, linking his arm in mine. “Just give us a little cash and we’ll go away.”

I couldn’t believe these two were harassing me in broad daylight. “No!” I said, trying to wrench my arm away—and then I realized these two had to be high. That was the only reason they would think they could get away with this behavior.

But neck tattoo grabbed my other arm, holding it so tightly that it hurt the skin. “My friend asked nicely. Why you bein’ so rude?”

My heart was thudding in my chest as I tried to figure a way out of this mess, all while I hoped a good Samaritan might see what was happening and intervene.

One did—but it was the last person I ever would have expected.

“Let go of her!” came Sinclair Whittier’s booming voice.

Red shirt guy turned and said, “We found her first.”

The noise of a car horn blaring made it hard to hear any other words exchanged, but Sinclair got closer to us—and raised his voice accordingly. “Last chance.”

Red shirt started laughing while neck tattoo tightened his grip on my arm and began moving away, dragging me with him. I fought against him, slowing his progress before Sinclair grabbed his free arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Red shirt jumped on his back and started grabbing at his face, but Sinclair had a couple of advantages—he was sober, and it was clear he worked out on a regular basis. He turned and slammed himself backward into the wall of the building we stood in front of—but red shirt hung on. Sinclair repeated the motion two more times before the guy finally let go.

Then Whittier turned on neck tattoo—and I could feel the guy’s fear as his hand loosened its grip. “C’mon, Tiny. Let’s go!” he said, suddenly turning and running down the sidewalk. Red shirt—Tiny—struggled up from the concrete, holding his head, and then got up, stumbling at first before running to catch up with his friend.

When I looked up at Sinclair, I saw that he had a scratch on his cheek. By now, there were several horns blaring, but he ignored them. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Would you get in the car? Please?”

The wind had been taken out of my sails, and I just nodded. When I got to the passenger door of the silver Lexus, he opened it, ignoring the car behind him with a driver who continued laying on the horn. When he got in, he said, “I’ll take you wherever it is you want to go—but you’re not familiar with the city enough to stick to safer locations.”

“We can go back…to your house.”

Nodding, he began driving the car, turning right at the next block—and I was relieved that the two men who’d attacked me were nowhere to be seen. “Are you hurt?”

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