The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(69)

He scrubbed his face with one hand. This wasn’t the answer he wanted. It would hurt all of Ken’s friends, especially Rowan. He had more digging to do. Just because Ken had worked with Jerry at one point didn’t make him a murderer.

“Hey, Noelle?” he called to the other side of the big room.

“Yeah?”

“I need your help. We’ve got some research to do.”

I can’t tell Rowan until I’m positive.





37


As we park at the home of the first electrical job of the day, I immediately know it’s in the perfect location.

It’s in Bend and adjacent to a four-lane, busy street with lots of trees and shops. Plenty of places to dart between, take cover, and hide. It’s exactly the setup I want.

I thought about my escape all night, mentally preparing in case the perfect opportunity presented itself. My best chance would be to leave from a work site near town, so I needed to be ready. Today I wore a T-shirt under my work shirt so I can remove that shirt and not stand out like a bright-red flag when I leave. I wish I had a hat, but only Liam has hats, and I didn’t dare take one. I want to take the truck keys so he can’t immediately come after me, but they’re always in his pocket.

This homeowner hired us to install under-cabinet lighting in his kitchen. The owner is chatty, carrying on a conversation with Liam about baseball. I know little about baseball. I purposefully leave behind some tools in the truck, positive he will call me an idiot and send me back outside for them.

We start in the kitchen. I’m sweating, and I know it’s not because I’m wearing two shirts on a summer day. My heart rate won’t slow down, and I worry he’ll ask why I’m nervous, so I prepare a lie.

My gut doesn’t feel great.

He hates intestinal issues, and I know he won’t ask more questions.

I’m terrified I won’t go through with it, but I must. I try not to think about how angry he’ll be if he catches me. He’ll soak me with the hose and put me in the box for days with no food. He’ll take away all my clothes for weeks. I’ll have to move piles of rocks back and forth for no reason, naked in the freezing cold or hot sun. These punishments run on a loop in my thoughts.

I shove them out of my head.

My plan has to work. There isn’t another option. I’d rather die than be brought back.

I have sixty-two dollars that I’ve saved over the years, finding a stray bill here and there. Sometimes at work, sometimes in our kitchen. Usually my money is hidden next to my borrowed book. This morning I tucked the stack of bills into my socks, knowing I need to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. It’s not much, but I don’t need much. I’ve survived with very little for many years.

I’m confident my family will help me.

The problem is locating them. I’ll need help. I can’t go to the police and ask for assistance. They’ll ask too many questions and might link me as an accessory to those murders. I have to find a stranger willing to help me.

This part of my plan frightens me. There are too many elements that can go wrong. I think I should ask a woman for help, but I worry I might scare her. I don’t want to ask another man for help . . . What if he’s no different than the man running my life now?

What if they call the police?

Twenty minutes into the job, Liam calls me an idiot and sends me out to the truck for the tools I left behind.

Time to go.

My heart tries to pound its way out of my chest.

At the truck I tear off my work shirt with shaking hands and shove it under the seat, so he won’t know I changed. I pause, wanting to disable the truck somehow. I’ve read it’s possible but don’t know how to do it.

I quietly close the truck door and run.

I head toward the busy street, passing three other homes on this road. I feel as if eyes watch me from every window. I know people have cameras outside their homes, but I doubt he would knock on doors to ask to see footage. When I reach the main road, I turn and jog north, scanning the store signs ahead. I see a 7-Eleven, but it’s too soon to stop.

I want to buy a hat and maybe shave my beard. But I need to put more distance between me and him. I keep running and my chest starts to hurt. I never run at home, and he keeps me very thin, so I know I’ll need breaks. I pass two mothers with strollers. They are busy chatting and don’t even look at me. A truck waits to turn out of a parking lot and waves me across in front of him.

I feel as if I’m under a spotlight, and being on my own seems foreign.

I’ve worked enough electrical jobs to know how to act in public, but I have the sensation of a big target on my back. As if something I’m doing is completely wrong and making me stand out to everyone. I know jogging in jeans isn’t normal, but I don’t think it’s too bad.

Is it?

I cut through a parking lot and run behind a long line of stores. I feel a million times more comfortable in the shade and away from so many eyes. I pass two guys lounging behind a building, smoking cigarettes. They watch me run by.

“What’d you steal, man?” one of them yells.

“I’m late,” I shout back.

“Yeah, right.” They both laugh.

My anxiety doubles, and I struggle to breathe. What if he stops here and asks them if they’ve seen someone like me?