Page 32 of Nyx

Even that consideration sets off the whisper in the back of my mind that tells me it would be a waste of money I may need later.

I shake my head, forcing down the threat of tears.

I may not have many material things in this life, but I have the freedom to make my own decisions, and that's something Graham snatched away from me before we even got married.

The power of that thought fades quickly because I know my decisions are still being controlled by my ex-husband, even if he isn't right in front of me, dictating what I do.

I'm running because of him.

I have no social life because of him.

I'm always afraid because of him.

I have no legacy because of him.

I don't know that there will ever come a time in my life that I'll be free from his control, that I'll be able to walk to my car without looking over my shoulder, worried that I made a misstep and my past is going to catch up to me.

What I do know is that if Graham ever tracks me down, I won't survive him the second time.

I worry that by telling those men with Cerberus my real name, it's going to trigger something that will have those ghosts knocking on my door.

I close the email app on my prepaid phone and shove it in my purse before looking down at my body. I'm wearing a simple gray shirt and jeans. Victoria had on sneakers the other day, so I'm taking that as a clue that it would be okay for me to wear the same.

I make my way to the bathroom, giving myself one last glance in the mirror.

I don't think I'd give myself a second glance if I were to pass myself on the street, and that's the exact thing I'm looking for. I need to be unremarkable, forgettable the second I walk past.

I don't want to turn heads or be someone who needs to be glanced at twice.

Just average.

It's a sharp contrast to my old life, where I'd wear bright clothing, things that would make people stop and look. Anything that sparkled made me feel ten feet tall, but there hasn't been any form of glitter in my life for the better part of twelve years.

"You chose this," I mutter to my reflection. "Own it."

I smile in the mirror, knowing it's fake but hoping others won't be able to tell, then turn off the light and walk from the room.

I cut my eyes to both go-bags, making sure they're still in position before grabbing my purse.

The peephole reveals nothing out of the ordinary outside my apartment, but I still stand there, watching for a few seconds before I'm satisfied enough to open the door.

The walk to the car is met with the same vigilance as the inspection to make sure it's safe.

The drive to work should be pleasant. It's my first shift after all. But it's spent making turns and wasting gas with my eyes on the rearview mirror more than looking ahead of me to make sure I'm not being followed.

I park on the street, watching the guy standing out front. I'm not as wary of a man standing there as I was the last time, but there's always a heightened level of caution where men are concerned.

I know not all men are bad, but in my personal experience and my years working in women's shelters, it's almost always a man who hurts women.

It's not the same man as last time, but as I climb out of my car, I still feel the same level of scrutiny coming from him as I did from the other guy.

I make sure my car is secure before making my way up the narrow sidewalk.

I watch him, noticing the slight dip of his head as I draw closer.

"Ma'am," he says. "Just knock, and they'll let you in."

The last guy had pointed to his head and said he had memorized the visitor list for the day, and now I have to wonder if that list comes with descriptions or a picture of each visitor. The fact that this guy recognizes me without saying a word concerns me greatly. I haven't posed for a picture for this position.