I continue limping forward, looking left and right for any sign that someone is out and about. In this small town, someone is bound to recognize me. It’s only a matter of time. My only chance is to get out of sight before the sun comes up. Then I can hide until dark.
If I make it that long.
Tomorrow night, I’ll make my way to that broken-down trailer on the other side of town. That place is practically condemned and has been sitting vacant since my dad died two years ago. Unless the state’s taken control of it in my absence.
Breathe, Tessa. One problem at a time.
With any luck, my old first-aid supplies will still be hidden beneath the loose baseboard in my room. The very idea of setting foot back in that place makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn, but there really isn’t much of a choice.
Going to a doctor is out of the question. They’ll have to report the injury, and the last thing I need is anyone in this town knowing I’m back. Especially since I have no idea who attacked me or if they’re still looking to finish the job.
What if they’re monitoring police scanners?
Time to heal.
Time to think.
That’s what I need.
Since it’s nearly two in the morning, I have about three hours before the bakery opens and people start moving around.
Three hours to make my escape or find a place to hide.
Sweat continues to slick my skin, matting my hair, as the pain becomes nearly unbearable. My vision wavers, and I reach out to steady myself against a light pole.
I’m not going to make it far. I may not know much about stab wounds, but I know the amount of blood saturating my leg is hitting dangerous levels. And if I pass out here—I shudder. I can’t think about what will happen if I pass out on the street.
Get it together, Tessa. I can do this. I was in worse shape when I left this place nearly two decades ago.
Most places in this tiny town never had a need for security cameras, but there’s no telling what’s changed in the last eighteen years. Because that’s exactly how long it’s been since I walked the streets of Stormwatch Landing, South Carolina.
When I’d come for my dad’s funeral two years ago, I steered clear of town and hid in the trees of the cemetery so no one would notice me. I’d been successful then, so here’s hoping that luck will carry forward.
The paved sidewalk running between the buildings on Main Street and the coastline hasn’t changed much, aside from some fresh plants placed strategically on either side of the walkway.
A few new benches here and there, but aside from that, everything is pretty close to the same. As soon as I can, I step off onto the grass so I hopefully don’t leave a blood trail on the pavement. In this small town, that would be front-page fodder.
My leg begins to throb even worse as the adrenaline wanes.
I stumble forward and catch myself on the back of a bench.
Supplies.
I need supplies.
Something to stop the bleeding and possibly some thread and a needle, or even some glue to close it up. But where?
Everywhere is closed, and the last thing I need is to get arrested for breaking and entering. I can see the headlines now: LOCAL DRUNK’S RUNAWAY BRIDE DAUGHTER RETURNS AS A THIEF.
I groan.
Why did it seem like such a good idea to come back?
Because I had nowhere else to go.
As I’m stepping off Main Street and coming up on the marina, a familiar boat catches my eye. Its sails are down, and the green striping along the side is slightly faded—but unmistakable.
As is the faded The Tessa painted on the bow of the ship.
