Page 3 of Ghost's Revenge
I was wrong then, and I'd be wrong now.
But as I pour another drink and settle into the chair by my window, my eyes keep drifting toward the direction of the shelter. Toward brown eyes and gentle hands and the way she smiled at her son like he was the center of her universe.
Maybe Reaper's right. Maybe those women and children do need protection. And maybe I'm the only one qualified to give it to them, regardless of what it costs me personally.
I just hope she's stronger than she looks. Because if Charles really is planning something big, we're all going to need to be stronger than we've ever been before.
And despite every instinct screaming at me to stay away, I have the sinking feeling that her fight is about to become mine.
Chapter 2 - Debbie
Next Day
The biker is back.
I peer through the kitchen window of the shelter, my hands stilling on the dish I'm washing as I watch him across the street. Same black leather jacket, same massive motorcycle, same way of sitting perfectly still that makes my skin prickle with awareness. He's been there for ten minutes now, just... watching.
"Mama, you're making bubbles everywhere."
Tyler's voice snaps me back to reality. I look down to see soap suds overflowing from the sink, coating my hands and dripping onto the linoleum floor. Heat floods my cheeks as I quickly turn off the water and grab a dish towel.
"Sorry, baby. Mama was just... thinking."
"About the scary man on the motorcycle?"
My heart stops. Tyler is perched on the step stool beside me, his four-year-old face scrunched with the kind of serious concentration that always makes him look older than his years. Too old. He shouldn't have to think about scary men at all, but thanks to his father, he's learned to catalog threats almost as well as I have.
"He's not scary," I lie, because Tyler doesn't need to carry my fears on top of his own. "He's just... different."
"Daddy was scary."
I kneel down so we're eye to eye, my wet hands cupping his small face. "Daddy was sick, remember? He had anger living inside him that made him do bad things. But we're safe now. You and me, we're going to be okay."
Tyler nods solemnly, but I can see the questions in his dark eyes. Questions about why we had to leave everything behind, why we're living in this house with other sad women, why Mama jumps every time someone knocks on the door. Questions I don't have good answers for.
"Can we have pancakes tomorrow?" he asks instead, and I nearly cry with relief at the subject change.
"If Mrs. Patterson says it's okay to use the kitchen, then yes. We can have pancakes."
He grins and scampers off to play with his toy cars, leaving me to finish the dishes with shaking hands. When I glance out the window again, the street is empty. The biker is gone, but the unease he left behind lingers like smoke.
This is the third time I've seen him. Always watching, always from a distance, never approaching but never quite leaving either. Sarah Patterson, who runs the shelter, says the Outlaw Order MC keeps an eye on the neighborhood, that they're not the kind of bikers who cause trouble. She says they actually help protect women like us.
But I've learned the hard way that men who claim to protect you are often the ones you need protection from.
I finish cleaning the kitchen and check the time. Two-thirty. Tyler will want his snack soon, and then we'll head to the small playground behind the shelter where he can burn off some energy before dinner. It's become our routine in the week since we arrived. Short, predictable moments that help both of us feel grounded in a world that's been turned upside down.
The shelter is quiet this time of day. Most of the other women are at jobs or appointments, trying to rebuild lives that were shattered by the men who were supposed to love them. There are eight of us total, ranging from Maria, who's been heresix months and works at the diner downtown, to Jessica, who arrived two days ago with bruises that haven't even started to fade yet.
We're all at different stages of the same journey. Learning to trust ourselves again, learning to believe we deserve better, learning to imagine a future that doesn't include flinching every time a door slams.
"Debbie?" Sarah's voice calls from her office. "Could you come here for a minute?"
I find her surrounded by paperwork, her graying hair pulled back in its usual bun. Sarah Patterson is sixty-two years old and has been running the Pine Haven Women's Shelter for fifteen years. She's helped hundreds of women escape situations like mine, and somehow she still manages to radiate the kind of calm strength that makes you believe everything might actually be okay.
"Have a seat, honey." She gestures to the chair across from her desk. "How are you settling in?"
"Fine. Good. Tyler loves it here." I perch on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if this conversation takes a turn I don't like. "Is there... is there a problem?"
