“Own it,” I whisper to myself, throwing my shoulders back. Then I ramp my chin up and hike my bag higher on my shoulder. I’d seen my mother do this move a million times, even when I knew she wasn’t feeling anywhere near as strong as she looked.
I carefully open the door leading to the lobby and stride out like I own the place and everyone in it.
Someone says my name. “Mrs. Doubeck?”
My heart breaks all over again hearing it this way.
I spin and level the burly guard with a glare as if he interrupted my day. “Yes?”
“Um...are you? Do you need…?”
“What?” I snap, putting so much bite in my tone I shock myself.
“A car? Do you need a car?” he finishes, his shoulders slumping.
I shake my head and focus on absolutely not smiling to take some of that kicked-puppy look out of his eyes. “Thank you, but I’ll manage. If anyone asks, I’ll be back soon.”
It takes another few seconds to clear the building, and I force myself to maintain a steady gait and not run. In a few more seconds, I realize I probably just signed that young guard’s death warrant. Adrian will be hunting for me the second he returns from the council meeting, and he’ll kill every one of his staff to figure out who made contact with me as I left.
I continue walking and then dig out the coat I’d brought when the chill in the air and my jangling nerves finally get to me. Right now, I only have some cash and a few pieces of jewelry. I need to make a plan and then get as far away from the city as I’m able without anyone seeing me. Easier said than done, I know.
I don’t know how far I walk. Time seems to drag on when you’re looking over your shoulder at every turn. All I know is that it’s got to be at least a couple of hours later when I come across a seedy motel that looks like the perfect place to hide.
The girl at the front desk hands me a key in exchange for cash without even glancing up from her TV. The room looks clean enough. There aren’t any bed bugs on the mattress, and the bathroom smells of bleach and lemon cleansers. It could be much worse, I tell myself.
I drop my bag on a worn burgundy chair and sit on the edge of the bed. The frame squeals as it takes my weight but then goes silent, leaving me to my thoughts.
First things first, I need to destroy the tracking chip Adrian put in my arm. If I leave it in, this will all have been for nothing. I stare at the tiny scar and remember how I got it. A shiver rolls through me, but I get up and head into the bathroom to see if I can find something to take care of it. There’s a plastic-wrapped personal kit in one of the drawers as if someone left it behind and the cleaning staff just left it. Inside is a razor, a small first-aid kit, shampoo, soap, lotion, and if I keep digging through it, hopefully, the courage to actually do this.
I have to break open the safety razor to get the blade out. Inside the first-aid kit are a couple of Band-Aids and an alcohol swab. It’s dried out, so I add a few drops of water to it and let out a long sigh of relief when the scent of alcohol hits me.
It takes me pacing the room, blade between my thumb and index finger, to get myself amped up enough. I have to do it to protect Adrian and our baby. It’s the only chance we have. That thought steadies my hand as I brace my forearm on the dresser with a towel spread underneath.
My first slice is too shallow, and I don’t see the tracker. Folding my lips in to stifle the pain-filled groan, I make one more cut, deeper than the first. Blood drips down my arm, but then I see the tiny nodule at the surface. I let out a shallow breath. I’m not religious, but I’m thanking whatever god is out there right now.
With slippery fingers, I carefully grasp it and pull it out. Taking it to the bathroom, I drop it on the tile floor and smash it with my foot, then flush the pieces for good measure.
After the toilet stops swirling, I notice the red splotches on the floor dripping from my arm. I race back to the towel to clean my skin, then wipe up the bathroom floor afterward.
Once the cut is cleaned up and I’m bandaged, I slip off my shoes and lie down on the bed. The practical jeans I put on earlier feel too tight. My black blouse grates against my skin as my arm throbs in time with my erratic heartbeat.