The McCann family parts like the Red Sea for my departure, not bothering to disguise their disgust. Pretending to side with his wife, Mr. McCann arranges an expression of loathing on his face as I saunter by, taking advantage of the opportunity to get a good look at me. His body language is rigid, but I recognize desire in his wide eyes. If his wife could see past her own ignorance, she’d see it, too. Most men are truly one-dimensional.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Mrs. McCann says, unable to help herself.
“You’re right,” I say with a smile. “I should be.”
Gasping, Mrs. McCann grabs her young daughter by her shoulders and pulls her out of my line of sight, like being a mistress is contagious.
Arrangements to collect the payment for my time can easily happen on a later date, but now I have a point to prove.
I’m not a mistress.
My only intention is to capitalize on indulgence.
I’m a harlot.
Retreating back into the room with Dr. Goodmen and his now hysterical wife, I clear my throat to announce my presence. The dentist takes one look at me and drops his head back to stare up at the ceiling, maybe praying for divine intervention. Maybe he thinks if he pretends I’m not here, I’ll disappear. No such luck this time.
I hold out the palm of my hand and say, “Pay up.”
“Megan,” he says in a pleading tone. “Please, don’t do this right now.”
“Eric,” I counter. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Left with no choice but to do as I ask, Dr. Goodmen reaches into his back pocket to retrieve the same stack of cash he used to taunt me with before karma had its way with him. He deposits two thousand dollars for services rendered into my awaiting hand with the audacity to look insulted. Dr. Goodmen’s wife now knows he pays for sex, and he has nobody else to blame but himself.
Closing my fingers around the money, I wink and see myself out before Susie picks up another weapon. The elevator doors open like it knew I was coming, and I wait until I’m inside before kicking my shoes off. My bare feet earn questionable stares as I stroll across the lobby to the front of the building, where a dark SUV waits for me.
Grand Haven, a small Bay Area city in northern California, is drowsy under a blanket of cloud cover. The sidewalk is cool below my feet. I can taste the ocean on my lips, and the scents of fishing boats and the salty sea swirls in the crisp autumn air. It’s a far cry from the dusty town I ran away from almost two years ago, and I could not be more grateful for this tiny piece of heaven on earth. I’d run through the streets right now, until my hair was damp with sea spray and the bottom of my feet were filthy, if my driver were not waiting on me.
“Ma’am,” Yael greets me with a curt nod and a polite smile.
“It’s Camilla, Yael. I’m too young to be a ma’am,” I remind him for the millionth time, accepting his help and taking his hand as I step into the back of the vehicle.
“Yes, ma’am.” Since accepting the position as Hush’s lead driver, Yael, a dark-skinned, white-haired man with heavy freckles across his nose and cheeks, has hired on a few more chauffeurs. He’s my favorite, and I request him whenever he’s available. He asks, “Should I drop you off at home or the office?”
“Home,” I interject in a voice too loud for such a small space. “Please, drop me off at the apartment.”
Untouched by my sudden outburst, Yael nods again and pulls away from the curb, leaving Dr. Goodmen, his wife, and Betty behind for good. I turn on the seat warmer and sink into the firm leather seat, still amazed that such a thing exists. Sundays were the only day I was allowed to ride in the car when I was a girl, but my parents’ old Volkswagen Beetle didn’t have seat warmers. The heating and air conditioner didn’t work at all. In the winter, I froze. In the summer, I wasted away. But these seats feel like a warm blanket on a rainy day.
As Yael weaves in and out of traffic, passing by crowded eateries and art galleries in a blur, I retrieve my cell phone from my purse and send a text to the only contact I have.
On my way home. We need to talk.
My fight-or-flight instincts kick in, and the devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear,run.It would be so easy to throw the phone from the window, order Yael to the nearest airport, and run from my problems. I’ve proven to be great at reinventing myself, and Hush has given me everything I need to leave Camilla Hearst behind and live my life entirely as Megan Rice.
Like he can sense my worry, Yael meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Do you need to make a stop on the way home?”
Yes.
“No.”
If I run away, I’ll end up where I started, alone and scared. Or worse, I’ll find my way back home to North Carolina.
Twenty minutes later, I don’t know if I’m relieved or worried that the throwaway burner phone I recycle every month has yet to buzz with a response message. Yael’s passed the airport, parking outside my apartment complex, where the rain now falls from the sky in sheets. He trots around the front of the SUV, opening a black umbrella. The brim of his driving cap captures the rain before dripping onto his shoulders, where it beads upon the thick fabric of his jacket.
Drenched in the earthy smell of the rain before the drops have a chance to touch me, I peel myself away from the cozy heated seat and step barefoot into a cool puddle of water on the sidewalk.
“You need something for your feet,” Yael says. He closes the Suburban’s door after my exit and follows me with the umbrella over my head.
