Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I’d spent the rest of the evening avoiding Roger’s leering glances as I’d unloaded endless crates of alcohol and it was only the stack of cash Roger had placed in my hand afterwards that’d had me agreeing to his offer of a ride home. He’d followed me up without asking and clearly hadn’t cared that I had no interest in his unwelcome advances…advances I’d allowed only because I’d needed the cash more than I’d needed to escape the touch of a man who made me physically ill.
But all of that had been pre-Hawke. Because I’d given up everything the second Hawke had walked out my front door. The moment I’d heard the door click into place, I’d rushed out of Matty’s room and flipped the flimsy lock that I’d known wouldn’t really keep the man out if he were inclined to return. I’d then grabbed Matty’s backpack along with the packed duffle bag I kept stashed under my bed before going back to Matty’s room and throwing some of his clothes into my duffle. I’d jammed the two toys I’d known he couldn’t live without into his backpack along with a couple of books and then I’d wrapped a small blanket around Matty’s sleeping body and had carried him out of the apartment. He’d woken up briefly, but his unfailing trust in me had had him looking around only for a second before he’d snuggled up against my neck.
After all, it wasn’t the first time we’d been in the exact same situation.
I hadn’t liked ditching the apartment, especially since I’d just paid the entire month’s rent a few days earlier. But I’d had no doubt the dangerous looking Hawke would be back at some point. I’d seen the hatred in his eyes when he’d knocked me to the floor after pushing his way into my apartment. And the way he’d grabbed Matty…no, I wasn’t going to risk another encounter with the man. Especially since I knew he probably wouldn’t find what he was looking for just because he now had names to go with the men he was hunting.
I’d ended up finding a cheap motel on the other side of town and Matty and I had spent most of the weekend hiding out there. I’d moved us to another motel two nights later and then another one a few nights after that. I hadn’t returned to work at the diner and I hadn’t risked taking Matty back to daycare despite his insistence that he had to turn in his art project. The project - which I’d ended up leaving behind in the apartment – was a family self-portrait that had only taken Matty a few minutes to re-create after I’d told him I would hang it on the wall of our motel. Ironically, seeing the two stick figures hand in hand outside a colorful little house surrounded by what I could only assume was a dog, had given me the strength I’d needed when all I’d really wanted to do was let my body fold in on itself in a desperate attempt to escape the reality that was slowly drowning me.
I’d finally started to feel more at ease about a week after Hawke had left, though I still hadn’t been brave enough to return to the apartment to try to get the rest of our belongings. I had no doubt that my job at the diner had already been given away and I’d briefly considered going to Roger’s club to see if he had any work for me because the little money I had stashed away was dwindling at a rapid rate. I’d even floated the idea of asking Roger for a loan, but then I’d remembered the feel of his clammy lips on my neck and the look in his eyes that said he knew that, in that moment, he owned me. I’d seen that look every day of my life for longer than I could remember and as hard as the last two years had been, knowing that no one had the right to look at me that way again – that Matty would never know that look himself – made every struggle I’d endured worth it.
But all that had changed two days ago when I’d been getting Matty dressed and I’d noticed the bruises. The same bruises I’d seen a few weeks earlier that I’d attributed to him roughhousing with other kids at daycare.
They’d had nothing to do with roughhousing.
And they had changed everything.
Everything.
“Mr. Travers, I’m afraid we’re still having some issues with getting the Medicaid paperwork submitted for Matthew. Would you mind confirming this is the correct social security number?” the woman finally said to me as she glanced at me over her glasses and then turned her computer screen my way so I could see the number.