protect victims. Each time he showed up, she left and found a new place to hide, never giving him an opportunity to truly stalk her. He never left enough damning evidence for the police to collect and arrest him. If they’d arrest him.
She simply couldn’t endure his unwanted attention. Then he got tired of playing contrite and demanded her return. With her resounding no came a shove, a push, a slap, a punch. Again, the police did nothing. He shielded himself behind his wealth, family name, and a battalion of lawyers, leaving him untouchable.
She’d waged a futile battle trying to get justice in a system not set up to protect against a powerful man’s obsession. Other stalked women suffered similar circumstances, oftentimes listening to the police say the same thing she’d heard too many times—until and unless he hurts you, we can’t do anything. Even then, they didn’t help her. Her ex had the ability to make people say what he wanted them to say and evidence disappeared at his convenience. Money can buy silence.
“Hey lady, we’re here.” Frowning and looking unsure, he said, “Maybe I should take you to the hospital and have them take a look at that cut on your head.”
She appreciated the thought, but couldn’t take the time to tend to herself. She had to get away. “I’ll be okay. What do I owe you?”
“Twenty-seven fifty-eight.”
She handed him a fifty. “Keep the change and forget you ever saw me.”
“No problem. I hope you’ll be okay.”
He smiled, but sadness filled his eyes. The sympathetic expression told her he wished he’d never seen her battered and bloody face. “I’ll be fine. I just need to find a new hole to hide in,” she added under her breath and exited the cab.
Slamming the door, she headed for the side entrance of the twenty-four-hour fitness club. The few people at this end of the club stared, but she kept her head down and walked directly to the locker room and her hidden emergency supplies. Relief swept through her when she palmed the orange plastic-handled key she found in her purse. The small suitcase and satchel, containing her camera bag, money, IDs, and a secure cell phone were still inside. Ben had friends in high places and guaranteed the cell phone was untraceable. Securing the bag on top of the suitcase, she rolled it behind her back out to the curb, hailed another taxi, and headed for the airport.
Next stop, the airport rental car counter. She used one of the credit cards and IDs under an assumed name to rent a car. She exited the terminal and found the waiting vehicle. Finally, safe behind the wheel, she drove out of the city and away from the terror. Constantly looking in the rearview mirror, she tried to rein in her emotions. Her head pounded, pain and exhaustion slowed her mind and body. On her way to parts unknown, after all these years, it didn’t matter where she ended up. So long as she escaped him, she would drive.
Two hours later she dug out the cell phone and called Ben. Annie answered.
“It’s Rabbit. I need Ben.” Annie put her through without a word.
“How bad is it, Rabbit?” Ben’s anguished voice came on the line.
“I’m okay. Is my identity still safe from your staff?”
“Yes. No one knows who you are, just what to do if they hear the password. Now, how bad?”
“Pretty bad.” Tears filled her eyes. She refused to cry. Not now. Not when running meant safety, meant her life. Later, when she was safe and able to take the time to fall apart. She blinked back tears. “I’ll send the pictures when I can. Promise you won’t open them. Just stick them in the book.”
“Rabbit, you know I can’t make that promise. Now, tell me how bad.”
His genuine concern prompted her confession. “I have a bad gash on my head, bruises from him slapping and punching me, a bad cut on my thigh, and welts on my back.”
Silent tears streamed down her face. Her voice so soft, detailing all the injuries. She sounded like a small child reciting her lessons. The weakness in her voice irritated her. She’d held it together with the cops, but with Ben she let down her guard.
Barely able to pull the car over to the side of some quiet suburban street, she parked.
“What do you mean welts on your back? Did he punch you in the back?”
“A belt,” she whispered, knowing he probably didn’t hear her.