Chapter 1 - Claire
I limp down the deserted sidewalk of Blackwater Falls, each step sending jagged pain through my ribs.
The bruises beneath my clothes map out the history of Tommy's rage. The oldest yellowed and fading, the freshest still deep purple and throbbing. The ones from three days ago, when Vincent Kemp died, are the worst.
The sun is setting, casting long shadows that seem to reach for me like grasping fingers. My heart hasn't stopped racing since I slipped out of our apartment last night while Tommy was passed out drunk, his knuckles still crusted with someone else's blood.
I'd waited, counting his breaths until they became the heavy rhythm of unconsciousness, before sliding out of bed, packing the few things I could carry, and disappearing into the darkness.
I shiver as a cool evening breeze cuts through my thin jacket. The temperature is dropping with the sun, and I have nowhere to go. The bus station was my first stop this morning, but routes out of town have been suspended "indefinitely due to security concerns." Blackwater Falls is effectively cut off—no one in, no one out—while the motorcycle club war rages.
"Stupid," I mutter to myself, adjusting my grip on my duffel bag. "So stupid."
I should have left months ago, the first time Tommy raised his hand to me. Or weeks ago, when his aggression escalated from slaps to closed fists. Or even days ago, when I overheard him and the other Eagles planning their retaliation for Vincent's death. Plans so violent they made me physically ill.
But I didn't. I stayed, telling myself the same lies that women like me always tell themselves: He doesn't mean it. He's under pressure. He loves me. It will get better.
It didn't get better. After Vincent died, something in Tommy broke, or maybe it just finally revealed itself. He came home wild-eyed, covered in blood, ranting about how everything was going to change now, how the Eagles would show everyone what real power looked like.
When I suggested postponing the wedding, his eyes went cold in a way I'd never seen before.
"You don't get to make decisions anymore, Claire," he'd said, his voice terrifyingly calm before the first blow landed. "You belong to me. And soon, everyone will understand what that means."
I touch my side gingerly, feeling the raised edge of the boot-shaped bruise through my shirt. He'd never used his boots before. Never continued once I was on the ground. Never looked at me like I was nothing but a thing to be owned.
I pass a diner with its CLOSED sign up, though according to the posted hours it should be open for another two hours. The whole town seems to be battening down, preparing for a storm everyone can feel coming but no one can see yet.
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday. The meager cash in my pocket—all I could grab from Tommy's wallet without him noticing—might be enough for a meal, but there's nowhere open to buy one.
"Just keep walking," I whisper to myself. "Find somewhere to sleep tonight. Figure out the rest tomorrow."
But where? The motel on the edge of town had a NO VACANCY sign, though the parking lot was nearly empty. The clerk's eyes had darted nervously when I asked about a room. "Nothingavailable," he'd said, not meeting my gaze. "Nothing for at least a week."
He was lying. I'm sure of it. But I also understand why. No one wants to get caught in the crossfire of this war, and a woman clearly running from something, or someone, is exactly the kind of trouble people are avoiding.
I pass a boarded-up storefront, its windows covered with plywood despite the intact glass behind it. Preemptive protection. Smart.
The sound of a motorcycle engine in the distance makes me freeze mid-step. My body reacts before my mind can process. Heart racing, palms sweating, breath catching. I duck into the narrow alley between buildings, pressing myself against rough brick as the engine grows louder.
Please don't be Eagles. Please don't be Eagles. Please don't be Tommy.
The motorcycle passes without slowing, its rider just a dark silhouette against the dying light. Not Tommy. The build is wrong. I sag against the wall in relief, then wince as the movement aggravates my injuries.
I give it a full minute before emerging from the alley, glancing in both directions to ensure the street is empty. The encroaching darkness is both blessing and curse. It hides me from searching eyes but makes finding shelter more urgent.
At the end of the block, I spot a small park with a children's playground and public restrooms. Not ideal, but it might offer temporary shelter for the night. I quicken my pace as much as my injured body allows.
The park is deserted, the swings moving slightly in the breeze like ghostly children at play. The women's restroom door islocked, of course, but the men's yields to my push. The smell hits me immediately: urine and disinfectant in equal measure. I cover my nose with my sleeve and step inside.
It's basic. Two stalls, two urinals, a sink with a cracked mirror above it. But it has four walls, a ceiling, and a door that closes. Right now, that's luxury.
I lock the door behind me and set my bag on the least disgusting part of the floor. In the harsh fluorescent light, I get my first good look at myself since fleeing last night.
The woman in the cracked mirror is a stranger. Pallid skin, dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, a yellowing bruise on her cheekbone partially covered by poorly applied concealer. Her blonde hair is limp and greasy, pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks haunted. Hunted.
"You got away," I tell my reflection. "That's what matters."
But did I? I'm trapped in a town paralyzed by fear, with no transportation out and no safe place to stay. Tommy will be looking for me by now. The Eagles have eyes everywhere in Blackwater Falls.
