Chapter 21 Chapter 21
When she was finished, I stared in the mirror. My hair was now cut into a severe, choppy bob and dyed an unnatural jet-black. It made my brown eyes look bigger and harder. I didn't recognize the person staring back at me. I looked tougher, less vulnerable. Less Tessa.
“That’ll be forty dollars,” the woman grunted. I paid her in cash, thanked her quickly, and got the hell out.
clothes. I found a small department store that was just opening. I went straight for the most neutral, boring clothes I could find. Dark blue jeans, plain black T-shirts, a nondescript beige jacket, and a plain, sturdy pair of new sneakers. Clothes that screamed, "I am a background character." Do not look at me.
I bought a new backpack, too. A dull, army-green color, bigger and sturdier. In the privacy of a public bathroom stall, I transferred the neatly stacked bundles of money from my old bag to the new one, checking the security zippers three times. The black one, the one that had been with me through the trauma, the one I’d stuffed my old, choppy hair into, was a liability. I tossed it straight into the biggest dumpster I could find.
With my new hair, new clothes, and new bag, I felt slightly safer. I was still terrified, but I wasn't Tessa Jansen anymore. I was a ghost, a blur in the background; he could go to fucking hell. I wasn't his or anyone’s. Reality was now setting in, and it was a cold, hard shock. Running wasn't glamorous or freeing; it was isolating and utterly exhausting. The constant vigilance was a killer. Every time a tall man with wide shoulders passed me, every time a dark car lingered, I felt that familiar jolt of panic. I ran for two years, and just when I thought I had settled and found peace, I was thrown into darkness.
I spent the afternoon in a quiet café, sitting with a coffee I didn't really want, thinking. I had to use this money to buy more than just distance; I had to buy an identity. A new name, a new passport, a new history. That wasn't something you could get on the street. My final destination had to be somewhere with plenty of shadowy connections, like Mexico City or maybe Toronto. Somewhere I could buy the papers I needed before getting out of North America entirely. Zaiel Rhyland and my owner were New York City royalty. They wouldn't expect me to run to Buenos Aires or Eastern Europe. I needed to disappear completely off the grid.
The thought of going that far, losing Christine, losing my job, and losing everything I knew was a heavy, suffocating weight. I kept thinking about Christine, her kind face, and the way she made me feel safe. I had left her without a word, without a goodbye. Detective Ryan would try to find me; he'll find Alex’s body, I’m sure, and he would come looking for me and wouldn't find me. Shit, would he think I killed Alex and then ran? That was another issue. I looked at my trembling hands, remembering the brutal, punishing way he clamped my chin, forcing me to look into his shadow-hidden face.
“If I find you before you get out of this yard, you are mine. Forever.”
He had won the game. He had claimed the prize right there on the dock, but the memory of that ultimate possession was a chain I couldn't break. He hadn't just taken me; he had taken my will, my sense of control. I kept checking my reflection in the window of the cafe. The jet-black hair, the new, flat clothes. I will find you. His voice, that metallic, gravelly whisper, was a constant echo.
I stood up, adjusting the weight of the million dollars on my back. It was earned money; it wasn't tainted. Even though I shut the door in his face, he sent Carlo to give it to me. He was an arrogant asshole, but I was grateful for it because it was the only thing that could save me. Thank you, Zaiel Rhyland. I wasn’t running just to live anymore; I was running to prove that even a powerful man like him couldn't permanently claim my life. I walked out of the café and found the ticket counter for the long-haul bus. Destination: South. South, then west, then gone.
My new life was starting now. I was running from a killer, a predator, and a man who believed his claim on my body and my future was final. I knew, deep down, that the game of hide-and-seek wasn't over. It had just moved to a much bigger, scarier playing field. I was a ghost on the road, and the only thing I knew for certain was that he would be watching. He was always watching. I jumped off the Greyhound bus in Chicago. It was the crack of dawn, maybe 6 a.m., and it was massive. The air was thick and grey, and the wind coming off the lake was like a slap across the face.
I hadn't slept properly since I left Irvington. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Alex slumped on that post, and then I felt his touch, his brutal, punishing claim on the dock. It was a real and a psychological battering, and the exhaustion was starting to get heavy. But exhaustion was a luxury I couldn't afford.
I kept my gaze low, shuffling along with the other early-morning zombies flooding the transit terminal. I was trying to look like I was just commuting, just another tired face. Blend. Blend. Blend.
The backpack felt like it weighed a ton, and not just because of the cash. It was the weight of my life and the terrifying knowledge that I was carrying enough money to attract the attention of every wrong person in the world. I was terrified of being seen but even more terrified of being found by him.
I needed to buy a new identity, and I needed to do it quickly. Fake IDs weren't found on Google; you had to go underground. I needed to tap into the very bottom layer of that darkness.
I spent the first few hours in a noisy mall, buying absolute essentials. New phone, new SIM (disposable, cash-only), and a huge, dark pair of cheap sunglasses to hide my eyes. The old Tessa, the girl who worried about rent and bills, was gone. The new me was calculating, cold, and paranoid.
By midday, I was in a dingy, forgotten part of the city, a place where the buildings looked bruised and the neon signs were broken. I found a bar that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the last century. I'd gotten the name through a few whispered words at a bus stop a dangerous, stupid risk, but necessary. They said if you wanted papers, you talked to the bartender at The Iron Lock.
I walked in. The place was dark and smelled like stale beer and desperation. The midday crowd was maybe three men slumped over the bar, looking just as rough as the furniture.