Tonight, though, it shows.
It shows in my broken truck rattling behind us on the trailer like a shame parade. It shows in the boxes strapped down under bungee cords and bad luck. It shows in the duct tape holding one corner of a plastic tote closed because the lid cracked two towns back. It shows in the grocery sack full of clothes I packed for August because his dresser drawers wereclosest to the bedroom door, and I didn’t have time to be organized when I was busy trying to disappear.
My hands hurt from gripping August’s backpack in my lap.
My eyes burn.
My cheeks feel hot from crying and humiliation and the terrible knowledge that the first man to help me in months had my panties stuck to his face before he ever knew my name.
God has a sense of humor.
It’s ugly as sin.
Derby rides ahead of the tow rig like the road belongs to him. Broad shoulders. Black cut. His bike is loud enough to rattle the fillings in my teeth, but I’m grateful for the noise because it keeps me from thinking too much. It fills the space where my panic wants to crawl in and make a home.
Every few seconds, I look in the side mirror.
Nothing but darkness.
No headlights.
No black SUV.
No familiar shape of my husband’s brand-new ride.
No Jeremy.
Still, my stomach refuses to unclench.
I keep waiting for him to appear because men like Jeremy don’t let go. They don’t call it chasing. They call it concern. They don’t call it control. They call it love. They don’t call it punishment. They say, “Look what you made me do,” with asad face, like your bruises wound them worse than they ever wounded you.
Beside me, August sleeps with his head tilted to the side, mouth open, dinosaur clutched under his chin. His lashes are still wet. He’s five years old and already knows how to cry quietly.
That’s the kind of thing that can kill a mother without leaving a mark. I look at him and my throat tightens so hard I have to swallow twice.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though he can’t hear me over the Harley, the tow rig, and the road.
I’m sorry for the shouting. Sorry for the running. Sorry for the way I shoved clothes into bags while my hands shook. Sorry for telling him we were going on an adventure when every adventure he has ever seen on a cartoon involved snacks and songs and not his mama crying over a flat tire on a backroad.
Mostly, I’m sorry I waited until tonight.
The sign for Hell comes out of the dark like a warning.
WELCOME TO HELL, KENTUCKY.
Somebody has spray-painted a red crown over the H.
The town rises out of the rolling hills in pieces. Not pretty pieces, not the kind of place that puts on lipstick for tourists. Hell looks like it has survived floods, fires, fights, and men who think rules are suggestions made by people with soft hands. Old brick buildings line the main stretch. Some are boarded up. Some glow with neon. A bar squats on the corner with motorcycles angled outside like a row of sleeping wolves. Farther down, a church steeple cuts a white shape against the black sky, and something about it makes my skin go cold.
Derby signals, and Wildcat follows him past the bar, past a closed diner, past a mural of a snarling crown-wearing skull painted across the side of a building. The closer we get to the end of town, the more motorcycles I see. Parked against curbs. Tucked beside alleys. Lined outside a fenced compound with lights blazing through the night.
Then I see the jail.
At first, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me.
The building is old stone and brick, squat and severe, with iron bars still visible over some of the windows. A sign hangs out front, black and silver, the letters sharp enough to cut.
KINGS OF ANARCHY MC.