Page 10 of Nyx

No parents, no friends, no babies.

I had only been out of the hospital for two days when the prosecution asked me to testify in Graham's second bond hearing. I could hardly walk, still hunched over from surgery. The physical pain I felt didn't even compare to my broken heart.

I struggled to sit on the stand and answer questions. I still carry the guilt of what happened that day and still struggle with the idea that if I hadn't left, maybe my babies would now be gearing up to start middle school.

The defense made me look like the perpetrator, as if the outcome of that day was all my fault. They were callous and unsympathetic, and it was more of an attack on my character.

I hadn't called the police to report Graham's violent outbursts, but I also couldn't make them understand that he hadn't ever laid a hand on me other than a rough grab of my arm or wrist until the day he stabbed me. I hadn't told anyone, not my parents, not friends. No one knew what I went through, and in the end, that didn't help me.

It came out that the woman from the shelter who was coming to help me was running late, and when she saw Graham standing on the front porch, she called the police. Some days, I'm not grateful for that call. Had she just walked away, maybe I would be comforting my children in the afterlife.

Graham was granted bond that day, and it took almost a year and a half for them to work out a plea. He never tried to contact me, but I knew better than to get comfortable.

After the plea, I disappeared. The cold shoulder from my parents only grew. The news sensationalized the story. The social invites for my parents dwindled. People picked sides, and despite what they might've said behind closed doors in the privacy of their own homes, support for the Whitmore family stood strong in the public eye.

I was all but ostracized. When I packed my bags and left, picking a new state and a new name to start over, I doubt anyone ever tried to find me.

It didn't keep me from moving around. I've been to several cities, always in a different state, each move taking me further away from the East Coast.

The fear never subsides, and when I find myself getting a little complacent, a little too comfortable in my new life, I pack and leave.

The smile he gave me after his plea, when he was taken back into custody to serve his time, lives inside my mind. The promise of what I was still facing makes my blood run cold far too often, despite the time and distance I've gained from the incident.

The women might be distracted right now with a show they like, but I can't take a chance and assume that one of them won't research the recent incident with the Whitmore family and discover my past.

The news posted so many pictures of us—our wedding, vacations, and even videos of me going to and coming from court. I was the villain in Graham Whitmore's story, a woman scorned who was almost twenty weeks pregnant and hadn't whispered a word to him about the twins I was carrying.

The way the news stories made it sound, I wasn't leaving to protect myself from him. I was stealing his children.

It's crazy what money and influence can get people, despite their actions.

I don't doubt that the family is fighting just as hard for Theodore. The victim of his crime will be the scum of the earth, with little to no sympathy for his death from anyone before his case is resolved.

I don't announce my exit when I leave the room, but I hesitate at the door and turn back to give the common area of the shelter one last glance. I usually stay in one town for a minimum of thirteen months. That's roughly how long it takes me to build up enough money for apartment and utility deposits in a new town.

I've only been in Junction City, Kansas, for ten months, but I can't stay longer. I can't risk being found.

My head drops slightly, my hatred for my ex-husband growing. He's still controlling my life after all these years, but I'll never be able to stop running.

That courtroom smile fills my mind as I grab my purse from the office and head out the front door.

Muscle memory has my eyes darting all over the front lawn of the house before stepping outside. This neighborhood is quiet, and I've enjoyed my time here more than at some of the other shelters I’ve worked in, but I knew this day would always come.

Since leaving my hometown, this is the first time my hand has been forced, and that knowledge speeds up my feet. I stoop and check under the car, even though there's not enough clearance for anyone to hide there. The back seat is empty, the doors still locked from when I arrived at work this morning.

Everything feels safe, but the swirl of fear inside me hastens my steps.

Pulling in a ragged breath as I climb into the car, I stare at the front of the house, my brain trying to reason with me.

The women know some of my story, but I never share enough for them to be able to discover my real history. I never talk about the babies, and the guilt of that makes it hard to get out of bed some days.

Maybe I don't have to leave. Maybe their knowing wouldn't be the end of the world. Maybe their empathy for my story would allow me to help them more.

But there's always a chance someone is looking for a payday. They'd contact the Whitmores and give away my location, doubting that a man would still concern himself for his ex-wife after so long.

I just can't chance it.

I don't want to run. A part of me has always just wanted to be settled in one place, build a life, but I know better. I'll never be safe from him.