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“Shut your fat, ugly mouth.”
From the other room, Chloe called for me through her howls. “Mama. Mama.”
He moved his hand to my neck, his fingers like small boa constrictors wrapping around my tender skin. “I told you to keep your fat mouth shut, and now you’ve ruined everything.” He pressed the gun barrel against my temple. “Do you understand what you’ve done? That bitch told her brother—the cop. She told him what you told her.”
Oh my God. Why had Sheri done that? I’d confessed to her in confidence. She’d seen the bruises on my upper arms when I’d lifted Chloe from a swing at the park. It had been a moment of weakness. Now it was going to kill me.
Chloe would be forced to grow up without me. I had no family left. There would be only John, his father, and the horrible racist brothers left to raise her.
No, I would not die today. Not because of this bastard who had held me prisoner for too many years. I imagined smashing his face with his own gun but knew that was impossible. There was only one vulnerable place I could reach. It was a move I’d practiced.
I held my breath and shoved my knee as hard as I could into his groin. He yelped in pain and stumbled backward, letting go of my neck and the pressure on my chest simultaneously. He recovered, standing and pointing the gun at me. No time to think. I had to act. Using my kickboxing muscles and technique, I kicked with the ball of my foot, knocking him off-balance. He tried to get up, but I thwarted him with a roundhouse kick to his head. He fell all the way to the floor this time, but then he was up again, lunging for me. I bobbed and weaved, avoiding his flailing fists. He was drunk, which gave me an advantage. A low kick to his groin followed by an uppercut under his chin had him back on the ground.
He roared like an animal. Shaking his head like a wounded tiger, he scrambled to his feet. He caught hold of me and tossed me onto the floor, then straddled me. One giant paw pinned my hands above my head. The other raised his gun. Frantically, I asked myself what would my kickboxing teacher do? The answer came to me. Headbutt. It was my only chance. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, I rammed my forehead into his. His head ricocheted like one of those bobbly heads. He let go of me, stumbling, eyes dazed. The gun fell to the ground. I scrambled for it, almost reaching it in time, but he was too fast. He grabbed the weapon and pointed it at me.
Not like this. I would go down fighting at least. When it came out what had happened, my daughter wouldn’t be ashamed of me. Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. What to do? The words of the trainer from a recent session played in a track between my ears—pretend to be a ninja.
I would do a jump-kick on him. He wouldn’t know what had hit him. Thanks to my early dance training, I leaped through the air without much effort and struck him with my foot right in the middle of his chest. I followed with a spinning hook kick to his head. He crumpled to the floor and seemed to shrink, like a helium balloon losing air. As he landed on his stomach, I heard a crunching sound, like bones breaking. He shook his head again and toppled to the floor.
The roar of a gunshot made my ears ring.
The gun had gone off. I knelt beside him, pushing him onto his back. “No, no, no,” I whispered.
I gasped at the sight of blood. The bullet had torn into his chest. Red seeped through his shirt and puddled on the floor, spreading like a red felt blanket under him.
Chloe screamed even louder.
I pressed into the gunshot wound, hoping to slow the blood loss. He howled from pain and looked straight into my eyes. “You bitch. You shot me.”
“I didn’t. The gun went off,” I whispered. Panic and adrenaline surged through me. I started to shake.
From her bedroom, Chloe hollered in desperation. “Mama.”
His eyes shifted from me to the ceiling. He went still. His expression slackened, and his eyes deadened right in front of me.
I felt for his pulse but in my panic couldn’t tell the difference between my own pulse and his. Could he still be saved?
Oh my God. I should call 911. That was the right thing to do. They could take him to surgery and keep him alive. People lived after bullet wounds all the time. Didn’t they?
But what would that mean for me? Would they think I’d killed him? Essentially, I had. The gun would not have gone off if I hadn’t kicked him. If I hadn’t fought back.
Finally.
No, I would leave him here. They wouldn’t find the body for a few days. This was my chance to run. Just as I’d planned.
2
SAMMIE
That first month after we left, I lived on prayers and cheap food from convenience stores. At night, with Chloe sleeping soundly beside me in whatever cheap motel we stayed in, I prayed to God, begging him to forgive me and send me answers about what I should do next. When I did manage to fall asleep, memories of that night haunted my dreams. There were too many unanswered questions. Would there come a time when my daughter would ask me what had happened that fateful night? Worse yet, would she remember any of it? I’d decided during the days of soul-searching, as we traveled north on the Greyhound bus, that I would not lie to her. I owed her that much. Regardless, the thought of it filled me with the kind of dread I imagined those on death row felt. It was only a matter of borrowed time before everything came crashing down around me.
If I could get Chloe raised and ready for a fulfilling life of her own, then I would face whatever waited for me. My little girl was the only good thing I’d ever done, and I wanted to give her a chance for a joyful, free existence. All my energy and attention must remain on her.
I wasn’t sorry John was dead. That surprised me a little. Yes, it had been an accident. I hadn’t meant to kill him, just defend myself. Still, I’d have thought I would feel at least a tinge of remorse that the man I’d once loved was dead. Instead, knowing he no longer walked the earth gave me the only real peace I had these days. Even if his family came after me, he could no longer hurt me or Chloe. The bruises and broken bones were a thing of the past. I no longer had to be frightened every moment of every day.
By the time we arrived in Bluefern, Montana, Chloe and I had been on the run for almost a month. In Bozeman, I’d bought a reliable used SUV with cash. After that, we’d spent a week here and there, all in small towns in western Montana. I only stayed a week in each place, usually in a cheap roadside motel. I paid cash for everything. People gave me weird looks, but I just smiled and said I’d saved all my pennies for years to take a fun trip with my daughter. That seemed to satisfy most people. All I needed was someone to get suspicious and start digging around on the internet.
Strangely enough, all I found about John’s death was his obituary in Fremont's local paper. I’d assumed his death and presumed murder would be all over the news. I’d envisioned a statewide manhunt for his missing wife and daughter. Wanted signs everywhere. Instead, the obituary didn’t even mention how he died. Even odder? There wasn’t a word about my disappearance. I was only mentioned as a survivor. What did people think had happened to Chloe and me? He’d never had any social media accounts, so there were no clues there either. This should have made me rest easier, but I knew the truth.
