Page 43 of Ravens
Iescape early the next morning, and I literally didn’t sleep to achieve it. Although I got out of the apartment quietly, managed to get a wad of cash quietly, he would have heard me fire up the car. I know without even looking that he’s a shadow behind grimy glass looking out over the gravel yard as I drive off.
This right here is my moment. My only moment thus far to get away, and after this, there will be no more oversights like car keys lying around. The thing is this isn’t my escape. Not really. It’s just a day.
I need a day.
As I spent the night behaving like a fucking animal and having my insides rearranged countless times, I realized he’d won. There is no escape, no matter how much I want there to be. I can’t escape anything while I’m a fugitive. The only rational thing to do is stay with him until his own plans play out and then see where I land.
Maybe I can get away then.
Seven years with the Agency up in smoke, and the man who caused it won’t explain it. I know if he didn’t decide I was worth something that I’d be dead, but going into hiding, trapped like a mouse, is only marginally better.
It takes fifteen minutes to reach an area with amenities and another thirty to find a salon that can fit me in. It’s three hours after that that I emerge a dirty blonde with shorter hair that just skims my shoulders.
This is as close to my natural color as I’ve been in years, so it’s a big change but a necessary one at this point. It’s not like fresh hair and some colored contacts are going to change my appearance enough, but it will help. I settle on warm brown contacts and buy more makeup. After lunch, I scour the area for clothes and pick up a burner phone that I hide under the passenger seat.
It’s around dinner by the time I’m satisfied, so I grab some takeout and hit the road.
When I pull back into the warehouse, he isn’t standing there like I anticipated. I gather up my bags on one arm, toss the garment bag over my shoulder, and grab the takeout with my free hand.
The door opens just as I reach for the handle, and his eyes dart to my hair as mine dart to his suit. The light gray, perfectly pressed outfit is all business except for the open collar of the crisp white shirt. A flare of stress shoots up at the sight; it reminds me of the first time I met him.
Stepping aside, he lets me pass. I set the shopping bags against the wall and flop the garment bag over them. I’m still holding the takeout when he crowds me into the wall and twirls a strand of hair around his finger.
“You stole my car.”
“Borrowed.”
“Stole,” he repeats, tilting my chin up. “But you came back.”
“I can’t escape you,” I whisper.
“No . . . you can’t.”
His words sober me more than my own. There was something almost romantic in my words, but his words were . . . a threat. He plucks the bag from my hand and takes it to the kitchen, opening it up and dishing it onto plates quietly.
Tentatively, I sit on a stool at the counter and watch him. I figured he’d be annoyed, and he is, but there is a lot more going on than that, and I don’t recognize it, so I can’t decipher it.
“I just needed clothes and some other things,” I stammer, “I got a dress for the gala . . .”
“I already got you a dress,” he says with irritation, and then sets a plate in front of me. “The blonde is . . . nice. Pretty short, though.”
Absently, my fingers graze the ends of my hair, and the thought that he’s disappointed in my appearance stresses me out. I tuck some hair behind my ear. “I just didn’t want to bother—”
He holds a hand up, stopping my explanation, as he leans into the counter across from me and picks at the food. I eat most ofthe meal, but we don’t talk during it, and the longer the silence goes on, the worse I manage to feel.
“Try on both dresses, and I’ll pick the most appropriate one.” He clears the plates and leans against the counter with his arms crossed. “Now, Theresa.”
The skin on the back of my neck tightens with his tone, and I’m getting tired of the sensation becoming so commonplace. I slide from the stool and cross the room, grabbing the garment bag from the floor on my way to the washroom.
“No, right here.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say under my breath. He’s never going to let me out of his sight again.
Turning on my heel, I walk back, and he holds up his hand again, stopping me before I get to the kitchen. He takes the garment bag from me and lays it on the bed before pulling another one from the closet and laying it out too. The sound of the zipper opening is loud, echoing through the room in our silence.
“Undress.”
Irritated, I do my best not to let my frustration play out in my face and movements. I peel my jeans off and drop my shirt on the floor, and finally my bra. He lays a black dress in my arms and then kneels and slides my panties off.
