Page 129 of Jude

‘Hmm,’ she grunted, not unkindly.

She extended a form to me through the narrow space under the open, barred window.

‘Fill in your details, then see me.’

I took the folder and sat on a hard chair, hit with the irony that I was now not unlike the souls I worked with at The Sanctuary.

Form completed, I handed it to Linda, reading her name off the nameplate on the desk she sat at.

She punched my details into her computer, did a security check on my ID, then finally nodded.

‘Welcome to Shelby’s House. I’m Laura Shelby. I own and run this shelter.’

She went on to give me a list of house rules and the requirement for utter discretion.

‘To protect our other guests.’

‘Of course,’ I concurred.

Emerging from her caged office, Linda resembled a fighter, with calloused hands, bulging forearms, and a scar on her chin that told me she didn’t suffer fools.

She jingled a ring of keys as she led me down a narrow, water-damaged hallway that reeked of ancient mildew and stale tobacco.

‘Ninety bucks a week, cash up front,’ Linda said.

She kicked the bottom of a swollen wooden door until it popped open, revealing a small space with a cramped iron cot, a sink, and a bare wardrobe.

‘Bathroom is at the end of the hall. You block the toilet, you fix it yourself. No visitors after ten. You also help out in the shelter with cleaning and emptying bins on a schedule I’ll slip under your door in the morning.’

‘I won’t have visitors, and all is good with helping out.’

I dug into my purse and handed her a pile of crisp bills.

‘The cash is right here.’

Linda pocketed the money, slid the keys into my palm, and closed the door.

The lock was flimsy, forcing me to wedge the back of a broken wooden chair beneath the handle for security.

Finally, I pivoted, my weary eyes flitting over the bleak, ugly room with the stained walls, peeling paint, and linoleum floor.

With a cry, I slid to the ground, releasing all the sorrow I’d been holding onto for days.

I was never a woman prone to weeping; however, when I did, I turned into the ugliest crier on the planet.

My sobs were guttural; my entire body was shaking, my face contorted.

I huddled on the dust-covered surface for what seemed like hours.

Merde.

I missed the hell out of Jude, while hating his rigid obstinacy.

I loathed that everything we shared, even making love, felt like trash now.

In time, my crying jag ended, and I sat up, scrubbing at my swollen, salty face.

I staggered to the washbasin and threw cold water over my skin, staring at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink.