Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
I do another quick check of my car before climbing inside, but I have confidence that nothing happened to it while I was standing right there having these conversations. If he saw someone else come up, I'm fairly certain he would've said something.
To be as close to my interview time as possible, I take the shortest route on the map and head in that direction.
The drive takes ten minutes, arrowing me south of the women's shelter, but I slow the car a mile from my destination when I notice a massive fence surrounding the area and a gate blocking the road.
A man steps out of what can only be described as a guard shack as I near the gate, coming around to my side of the car when I stop.
"I may be in the wrong place," I say as I grab my phone and check the map.
"Name?" he says in the same tone the other guy had back at the women's shelter.
"Juliet Mercer," I say, not fumbling the information a second time. I don't offer him more of an explanation. Giving anyone more than what they ask for is something I've had to work on all these years.
"You're in the right place," he assures me. "This is Cerberus property."
I tilt my head, a flash of a memory trying to break through now that I've heard the group's name more than once.
Cerberus, to my recollection, is a group of motorcyclists known for helping trafficked people return home. I haven't done extensive research, but their group has come up in conversations in some of the various women's shelters I've worked in over the years.
They have almost godlike status among some of the women living in the shelters.
At a minimum, they're envied by a lot of people in the victim services field.
"I was told by Victoria Erwin that my interview for a position at the women's shelter would take place here," I explain when he doesn't say more.
"Correct," he says. "I just have to check your vehicle."
"My—," I begin, but my minimal knowledge of their group makes me change my direction. "Sounds good."
The man whistles, and in seconds, a dog runs out of the guard shack, making its way around the car.
"Pop the trunk," he instructs, and I immediately press the button, hating that when it opens, I can no longer see him as he disappears behind my car.
I fight the urge to nibble on my fingernails, a habit I struggled to break as a child when I got nervous, which popped back up once Graham's trial started.
"What's in the bag?" the guy asks.
I falter in giving him the full information.
"A change of clothes, some personal hygiene items," I explain, hoping it's enough information for him not to grill me further.
I have bags ready at home as well, in case I have to go in a hurry. It only made sense to me to have one in the car in case I had to flee and wouldn't have the chance to return to my apartment. It's not the most convenient, considering all of my extra cash has to be split in three different locations, but it's the best I can do.
"I'm going to let Teddy jump up there and have a sniff," the guy tells me, and I feel the car move under the weight of the dog before I can answer. It's not like the guy asked if it was okay.
The car shifts again, and I catch Teddy heading back to the guard shack out of the corner of my eye before the guy comes back into view.
"You're good to go," he says. "Head in. You'll see the clubhouse about a mile up on the right side of the road. Turn into the parking lot. Don't go any further."
There's a warning in his voice, a hint that if I go too far, I won't like the outcome.
I fight the urge to turn around right now and begin my search for a job all over again, but the limited knowledge I have of this group makes me dip my head in understanding.
"Thank you," I tell him. "Have a good day."
The gate starts to open, controlled by him somehow, or by a second person in the guard shack.
I regret not asking his name, although there's a very real chance he wouldn't have provided it, as I pull my car forward.
The gate closes me in, making my anxiety skyrocket with the fear that I'm trapped unless they decide it's okay for me to leave.
The drive is slow, my foot on the gas pedal trembling as I make my way to the clubhouse. The clubhouse is obvious—a massive building sitting among several clusters of homes, some directly across the street, others being built a little further in, and a small group of homes behind it. There's no signage, nothing posted to declare it the clubhouse, but instinctively, I know this is where I'm meant to go.