Amelia circles the block three times before entering the parking garage and locating a vacant space on the top deck. Tucking her platinum blonde hair beneath a black baseball cap, she retrieves a small rolling suitcase from the trunk and rides the elevator down to the street level. She pauses on the sidewalk in front of the garage before heading north. She doesn’t need a map. She committed the route to memory before ditching her phone in a trash can at a convenience store an hour outside of Boston. At the stoplight at the end of the block, she takes a right and walks a half mile to Newark Penn Station.
Amelia left her laptop at home on purpose, to throw her husband off her trail. Her browser’s history will reveal a rental car booked for one-way travel to DC along with a search for hotels in the Georgetown and Dupont Circle areas. Traveling to her destination will take over twenty-four hours and involve bus transfers in Raleigh, Columbia, and Charleston. While her destination will be apparent to Nelson, he will never think to look for her on a bus. Such pedestrian means of travel are beneath him.
At the Greyhound station, Amelia studies the ticket agents before choosing a gum-smacking, bored-looking teenager. She provides a fake name and is relieved when the ticket agent takes her cash without asking for identification.
Amelia boards the bus and chooses a vacant row near the back. Stowing her suitcase in the overhead compartment, she slides over to the window seat. The weight of her pistol in her crossbody handbag is heavy against her belly. Years ago, she’d purchased the handgun and trained to use it without her husband’s knowledge. She’s been plotting her escape for as long as she can remember. When the opportunity presented itself sooner than expected, she put her plan in motion without hesitation. The hardest part is behind her. Freedom lies ahead.
She leans her head against the window and closes her eyes, thinking back to the last time she ran away from home, eight years ago when her mother broke her hip. Bebe, the family’s long-time housekeeper, had called Amelia with the news.
“Miss Dottie had surgery two days ago. She’s out of the hospital and recovering nicely at home. I’m taking good care of her, but I thought you’d wanna know.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight,” Amelia told Bebe.
Her husband had been none too pleased when he found her packing her suitcase. “Mama broke her hip, Nelson. I have no choice. I’m obligated to go see her.”
He’d argued, “But we’re hosting a sit-down dinner for a hundred on Friday night. Wait until next week, and I’ll go with you.”
But Amelia had gone anyway. She’d been at her mother’s side for less than twenty-four hours when Nelson came for her. She still remembers the fury in his dark eyes.
“Get your things. You’re coming back to Boston with me.”
Amelia had held her chin high in defiance. Being in her childhood home had given her a false sense of security. “And if I refuse?”
Leaning in close, he’d threatened, “I will kill your precious mama. Then her blood will be on your hands.”
Amelia had willingly returned with him to their townhome in Boston’s prestigious Beacon Hill neighborhood where she’d suffered the worst beating of her life. For days afterward, as she lay in bed with fractured ribs and a battered face, she began contemplating her getaway. She wouldn’t dare leave while her mother was still alive. Which, by the grace of God, wouldn’t be for a long time. Miss Dottie was a vibrant seventy-two-year-old. Her broken hip resulted from an accident on the tennis court. But the day would eventually come. And Amelia would be prepared. Or so she thought.
She’d been deeply shocked and saddened when Bebe had called yesterday to inform Amelia of her mother’s death. “Miss Dottie passed away in her sleep during the night on Tuesday. I found her when I came to work this morning. I’m so sorry, baby.”
Amelia had gripped the phone. “I don’t understand, Bebe. Mama was in excellent health.”
“Mm-hmm. Miss Dottie went to the doctor for her annual checkup just last month. But she was still eighty years old.”
The roar of a tractor trailer horn jars Amelia back to the present, and she opens her blue eyes wide. The bus has departed Newark and is now heading south on the interstate. Resting her hand on her purse, she finds the hard metal of her pistol reassuring. This time, when Nelson comes for her, she’ll be ready.
