Now.
I spin around and back up, bumping awkwardly into the rail, raising my hands and shaking them. The man in the hoodie, an oblivious player in my little drama, draws closer, and I slow down, act scared, clutch my chest. My mouth opens in a silent scream as I climb the railing. My tears are real, even if the reason isn’t. I must be fast now. No second thoughts or time for doubt, for the man in the black hoodie to intervene. I have both feet over when our eyes meet.
His steps slow. He stares at me, silent and wary. I can see the sense of obligation warring with his desire to stay unattached playing across his face. I want to tell him he’s too late. There’s nothing left of me to save. I want to tell him about my and Henry’s first date at the Peninsula Grill. How he introduced himself to me by allfournames—Henry Excelsior Walden Davenport. How he pronouncedfoie graslike he’d been saying it since birth. How he made me read that whole menu aloud a year later while he stood masturbating over me, a foot against my neck. I want to describe all the ingenious ways he found to torture me, sometimes in plainview of others. The ways I became invisible. The people who looked away.
But there’s no time.
The man’s eyes widen with alarm. Mine narrow. If I could stop and explain without ruining the effect I’ve so carefully orchestrated, I would. Instead, I straighten my spine as I count to three, throw my hands out in mock self-defense, and leap backward off the edge, dropping like an arrow. Legs straight. Arms tucked.
I squeeze my eyes tight as everything falls away and I resist the urge to flail. Henry trained me well.
When I break the water, the force ricochets up my bones. I splinter with pain—icy and needle-sharp—in a thousand places at once. But I don’t pass out.
Instead, I swim.
2Acacia
The mouth of the Atlantic is right there, waiting to swallow me whole. I’d swim farther, but I can’t risk it.
I come up near the Charleston Harbor Marina, the bridge still hovering in the growing sunlight behind me. The boats are lined up like prize Thoroughbreds in a stable, bobbing gently on the surface, white and guileless. It’s a dangerous move coming into these narrow, crowded channels. I could be spotted, and I can’t afford any miscalculations. Henry can’t know I climbed out of this river. But I’m still too stunned to think and driven by a survivalist instinct to leave the city while I have time. The clock is ticking, and every second counts. Once my absence is discovered, I won’t be safe in Charleston.
I paddle down a central channel toward the shore. A dockhand in khakis and a faded T-shirt is helping a man pump out the holding tank on his boat despite the early hour. I hear the clipped stream of their conversation and try to make myself smaller in the water, moving closer to the boat bows, ducking between them to pass undetected. I want to sink beneath the surface, but the life vest makes that impossible. Unzipping my raincoat, I make quick work of the vest’s plastic buckles and pull both pieces off. I leave the vest on a nearby cross dock—we’re in a marina after all—but hold on to the raincoat. Henry’s seen it before. The less I leave for him to piece together, the better.
“Thanks again for meeting me,” the older man is saying with an entitled tone, as if he expected it. “I want to get an early start.”
“No kids this time, Tom?” the young man asks.
“The wife took ’em to her sister’s place in Summerton,” the other replies flatly.
I freeze as their voices near, but the water laps softly, pushing me into their field of vision. I dip low, so only my eyes are above the surface. They’re across the dock from me, angled toward the craft, but any sudden movement could garner unwanted attention. I pull my arms carefully to my sides and hold my breath, my gaze steady on them as the wavelets push me by. My heart pounds erratically, tripping over fear.
“Carol’s always saying she wants to come, but then she always makes plans,” the man begins complaining. “If it were up to her, I’d never get out on the water. You have to put your foot down,” he says to the boy, instructive. “Can’t let ’em boss you. Understand?”
The kid nods, disinterest hidden behind the reflective lenses of his polarized sunglasses.
I drift by, disembodied, unattached. A phantom of the harbor. For once, I enjoy being invisible.
Just as I think I am free, the kid yawns and turns his head in my direction. I drop below the surface, praying he doesn’t notice the ripples. Through the murky waves I see him stand. My lungs burn but I don’t dare come up until I’m hidden on the other side of a large deck boat. I push my face toward the sky and take a deep breath.
“I thought I saw a head, a woman. But it went down again,” I can hear the kid explaining.
“Manatee,” Tom says with confidence, clapping the kid on the back so hard I can hear it. “You’re not the first to be fooled, son.”
Grateful, I don’t wait to hear the rest. I slip back under and carefully propel myself forward, coming up only when they are far enough behind for me to not be heard as I move. I swim between pilings to the bank. The light is spreading, but colors blend together, lacking sharpness. I pass through the marsh grass and drag myself onto the scrubby shore undetected. I fall onto myback and breathe, my eyes searching the sky for a portent that might tell me if I’ve pulled this off. But the clouds stretch long and thin, diluting the blue in meaningless smears, giving nothing away. I still have a very long way to go before I’m safe.
Now the pain begins to register. A terrible ache is radiating up the outside of my bare right foot. The first thing I did as the shock of my plunge gave way, and I began to rise toward the surface, was kick my shoes off into the water. I sit up to examine my foot, and a sharp pain pierces my left side. I bite back a cry. I’ve cracked a rib. Maybe two.
Carefully, I study the rest of my body. My jaw aches where my teeth ground together, and my chin is rubbed raw from the impact forcing the life vest up. My nose still stings from the water that rushed into it. Water I coughed out as I first cleared the surface, the taste of mud scrubbing the pokeweed from my mouth. But I am whole, if broken in a few places. The rib will heal. The foot worries me more. It is already swelling. There’s no apparent bruising yet, but it will come. I press gently along the side and wince as I near the fracture. I’m lucky this is the worst of it, lucky the force of the impact didn’t blow my hips out of their sockets. But a broken foot is not a triumph. I have a long way to walk.
I press myself up on my hands, gathering my good foot below me. Wrapping my arms around my middle protectively, I turn and start toward the beach club, keeping low so as not to be noticed. The pool will soon be full of shrieking kids and women working on their tans. I crouch so the boardwalk will shield me from view of early risers. Every other step is agonizing, and yet I delight in the pain. It is the first thing that’s truly mine in two years’ time. And I’ve had worse.
The street is quiet when I cross, the fine hairs around my face already drying out. Red has begun gathering beneath the skin of my foot. By tomorrow, it will turn purple-black.
I pick my way across the golf course to the nature trail, skirting the greens to remain inconspicuous. I came here three weeks ago, stopping at a local breakfast place in case he asked, making sure tobring back his favorite for an unconventional dinner that night. Henry has always taken a guilty pleasure in biscuits and gravy, though he rarely indulges in food he considers lowborn. I took him to a Waffle House on our second date. I don’t think he ever forgave me for it.
It’s not much, this park. A few trees and some lookout towers. But it’s enough. There’s a small culvert running under the trail. I watch an errant dog walker pass before ducking down and poking my head in. The backpack I taped under here on my last trip is thankfully still waiting. It takes a moment to peel the duct tape away. I rip it from the pack once I manage to free it, stuffing the tape inside. The trees and scrub provide some cover as I tug the raincoat and tank top off, stuffing them into an empty trash bag I had waiting. I pull on theMiamiT-shirt I bought with some cash at Goodwill a few weeks ago, its faded pink and turquoise design a welcome sight. Bending down, I peel off my drenched leggings and pull on the dry underwear and jeans I packed. Everything wet goes into the trash bag, which I tuck inside the backpack. I find a hair tie inside and knot my damp, blond hair behind my head, pulling a bucket hat down over it. Next are a pair of slip-on sneakers, also purchased at Goodwill. They’re a size and a half too big—an issue I thought would be problematic. Now, I’m thankful. It’s the only reason I get the right one on at all.
I emerge from the park looking for all the world like just another tourist on a hike, but I keep my head down. There’s a grocery store near the bridge. I’ve shopped in it before. I follow the road for nearly a dozen blocks and take a cross street over. Whenever possible, I walk behind the lampposts, hoping to avoid CCTV cameras. By the time I make it to the shiny, automated doors, I’m rigid with pain. I beeline for the pharmacy and find a walking boot in the first-aid aisle. It’s one of those conspicuous Velcro numbers that doubles the size of your leg, but it’s my only hope of healing this right without going to a hospital. I grab a pair of compression socks, a super-size bottle of aspirin and some water, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a hair-coloring kit in Cinnamon Kiss. I payat the pharmacy window with cash I hid in the lining of my pack and make my way behind the store to put the sock and boot on.
