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 hope you're right," I mutter.
Chapter 10
Juliet
I smile as I read the email for what has to be the millionth time. The action feels less fake than it usually does.
I'm not an unapproachable person. I find honest joy in what I do at the women's shelters I've worked at in the past. I love helping these women, but the positions I take are more for me than them, despite knowing I'll help some while I'm there.
The smiles while there are frequent, but most of them aren't real.
It's hard to feel happiness when the last nearly twelve years of your life have been spent looking over your shoulder. When your body is in fight-or-flight mode all day, every day, it's impossible not to let certain emotions actually take hold of you long enough to deviate from the fear that's always coursing through your veins.
I pull in a deep breath, grateful to have gotten hired at the local women's shelter even after the interview that felt more like an interrogation at first. The pay is nice, but the added security Cerberus provides is the real benefit.
I look around my sparsely furnished apartment, hating that even after all this time, I still long for material things.
I know that some of my unhappiness and inability to feel like I'm actually living life rather than just surviving it is because I keep so few things. Maybe with the higher pay at this job, I can splurge a little and make coming home not such a dismal experience.
It wouldn't hurt to hang a painting on the wall or grab a plant from the local garden center.
Even that consideration sets off the whisper in the back of my mind that tells me it would be a waste of money I may need later.
I shake my head, forcing down the threat of tears.
I may not have many material things in this life, but I have the freedom to make my own decisions, and that's something Graham snatched away from me before we even got married.
The power of that thought fades quickly because I know my decisions are still being controlled by my ex-husband, even if he isn't right in front of me, dictating what I do.
I'm running because of him.
I have no social life because of him.
I'm always afraid because of him.
I have no legacy because of him.
I don't know that there will ever come a time in my life that I'll be free from his control, that I'll be able to walk to my car without looking over my shoulder, worried that I made a misstep and my past is going to catch up to me.
What I do know is that if Graham ever tracks me down, I won't survive him the second time.
I worry that by telling those men with Cerberus my real name, it's going to trigger something that will have those ghosts knocking on my door.
I close the email app on my prepaid phone and shove it in my purse before looking down at my body. I'm wearing a simple gray shirt and jeans. Victoria had on sneakers the other day, so I'm taking that as a clue that it would be okay for me to wear the same.
I make my way to the bathroom, giving myself one last glance in the mirror.
I don't think I'd give myself a second glance if I were to pass myself on the street, and that's the exact thing I'm looking for. I need to be unremarkable, forgettable the second I walk past.
I don't want to turn heads or be someone who needs to be glanced at twice.
Just average.
It's a sharp contrast to my old life, where I'd wear bright clothing, things that would make people stop and look. Anything that sparkled made me feel ten feet tall, but there hasn't been any form of glitter in my life for the better part of twelve years.
"You chose this," I mutter to my reflection. "Own it."
I smile in the mirror, knowing it's fake but hoping others won't be able to tell, then turn off the light and walk from the room.
I cut my eyes to both go-bags, making sure they're still in position before grabbing my purse.
The peephole reveals nothing out of the ordinary outside my apartment, but I still stand there, watching for a few seconds before I'm satisfied enough to open the door.
The walk to the car is met with the same vigilance as the inspection to make sure it's safe.
The drive to work should be pleasant. It's my first shift after all. But it's spent making turns and wasting gas with my eyes on the rearview mirror more than looking ahead of me to make sure I'm not being followed.
I park on the street, watching the guy standing out front. I'm not as wary of a man standing there as I was the last time, but there's always a heightened level of caution where men are concerned.