The panic rose immediately, choking me. Nowhere was safe. Marcus’s reach extended everywhere.
“He’s getting close,” I whispered.
“He’s fishing,” Damian corrected. “He doesn’t know for certain where you are. The shelter staff are trained to handle these situations.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “But what if he keeps searching? Or offers enough money to someone who knows—”
“The shelter has security protocols for exactly this reason,” Damian said. “Many of their residents are escaping dangerous situations. They take confidentiality very seriously.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Marcus doesn’t give up.”
“Neither do I,” Damian replied, his voice firm. “We have options. The shelter coordinator mentioned they have a few affiliated safe houses if you don’t feel secure there.”
“I don’t want to take someone else’s spot who might need it more,” I said, the guilt immediate and familiar.
“There are resources available,” Damian assured me. “People who want to help.”
I nodded, not entirely convinced but too exhausted to argue. The shelter was better than my car, and I had nowhere else to go.
“For now,” Damian continued, “the shelter seems secure. But the decision is yours. If at any point you feel unsafe, day or night, call me.”
“Thank you.”
Damian nodded, then gathered some papers from his desk. “I need to handle a few things before we leave. Take some time to think about what you want to do.”
I sat there, still processing everything. The protective order thatmight not protect me. The court system Marcus could manipulate. The lawyer who seemed determined to fight despite the rising personal cost.
“Why are you doing this?” I finally asked. “You barely know me.”
Damian paused, considering the question carefully. “Because what’s happening to you is wrong. And because I’m in a position to do something about it.” He gathered some papers from his desk. “Sometimes the law is about more than billable hours and precedents, Mr. Lajeunesse. Sometimes it’s about justice.”
He headed for the door, then stopped. “I meant what I said. I won’t abandon this case.” He looked directly at me, his gaze steady. “Marcus Delaney may have money and connections, but he’s not above the law. Not while I’m representing you.”
As the door closed behind him, I sat alone in the massive office, holding onto my backpack like a lifeline, trying to believe that might actually be true.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alex
I COULDN’Tgo back to the shelter. Not now. Not when Marcus suspected or knew where I was.
As soon as I left Damian’s office, I ducked into a public bathroom and changed my shirt, turning the one I’d been wearing inside out before putting my hoodie over it. A pathetic disguise, but it was all I had. I kept my head down as I navigated through the crowded streets, constantly checking over my shoulder.
The business card with Damian’s number burned in my pocket. I should call him. Tell him I wasn’t going back to the shelter. But then what? He’d try to help, find another place, spend more of his finite time on me. And Marcus would find that place too.
No. I needed to disappear where Marcus wouldn’t think to look.
I took three different subway lines, doubling back twice to make sure I wasn’t followed. My ribs ached from the constant movement, the lingering bruises still tender beneath my clothes. By the time I emerged in Moss Park, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the streets.
This part of Toronto wasn’t in any tourism brochures. Boarded-up storefronts, people huddled in doorways, the sidewalks stained withsubstances I didn’t want to identify. But it was exactly what I needed—a place Marcus Delaney would never set his fine Italian leather shoes.
The neon sign of the Parkview Motel flickered erratically, several letters burnt out. PARK IE MOT L. The irony wasn’t lost on me—there was no park to view, just a concrete lot where two men were arguing over something clutched in a paper bag.
I pushed through the grimy glass door into a lobby that smelled of cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Behind a scratched Plexiglas barrier, a middle-aged man with a patchy beard barely looked up from his phone.
“Need a room,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Forty cash per night, two hundred per week. Hourly rates available.” His tone suggested he assumed I wanted the latter.
