Page 21 of Liar Byrd
“What’s with the Amish dress?” she asks so suddenly, I peer at my light blue linen dress.
It’s filthy.I’mfilthy. Between the dumpster, sleeping under the bridge, and hours spent rolling around on a truck bed, it’s been through it. So have I.
“It’s not an Amish dress.”
“Then what kind is it?”
I shrug.
“You a nun or something?” she asks when I don’t respond.
“Or something.” The less people know about Jeremiah, the better.
She makes a sound at the back of her throat, a slight limp to her strides I hadn’t noticed before.
I wouldn’t have walked into the shelter on my own. The woman handing out food was right. It isn’t far at all from the church. Five minutes away. I ran past it when I thought the man who stole my food was chasing me.
When I stop outside the frosted glass double doors, the homeless woman glares so hard at me that I peek over her shoulder as she stands with one door slightly open.
I read a big sign that says,Women’s Shelter, painted in bright letters on the white wall. Then, I step around the homeless woman and walk in.
I stay at the shelter for two nights.
For two whole days and nights, I let myself believe that I am safe. That Jeremiah is in the compound, has forgotten about me, and has picked out a new wife among the women who would view the role as an honor instead of a curse.
I’m leaving the shelter to go for a walk when I see him, and my stomach drops.
The man with black combat pants, a navy blue tunic-style shirt, and a thick black beard that covers the bottom half of his face.
All the men dress like that.
His eyes, an intensely focused dark brown, sweep the streets. Another of Jeremiah’s acolytes stands beside him. He’s holding a piece of paper that he’s showing to a security guard outside a shop.
Except, it’s no piece of paper. It’s a photograph, and I can’t see it from here, but I would bet my life that it’s a photograph of me.
I spin around, walk back into the shelter, and let the door slam shut behind me.
“Everything okay, Aria?” Megan, one of the volunteers, smiles at me from the couch where she’s watching a movie with some of the other women.
Thankfully, I had the presence of mind, even while half-starved to death, to give a fake name instead of my real name.
“Fine,” I lie, hovering at the entrance as I debate what to do. If I stay here, it’s only a matter of time before they come to this door. If I leave, I might run into them on the street.
I need to leave New Mexico, but how can I do that when I have no money?
This is a women’s shelter, and I’ve seen my fair share of bruised wrists hastily covered when they caught me looking, and black eyes that a thick layer of concealer doesn’t quite hide. Meghan and the other volunteers would do their best to protect me, I’m sure of it, but this place is temporary.
I cannot stay here forever, hiding from the world, no matter how much I might want to.
Jeremiah has found me once. He will find me again.
I have to leave.
Now.
The shelter provided a couple of changes of clothes and some personal hygiene items. I’m wearing a pair of blue jeans, a size too big, a navy hoodie, and white tennis shoes. That’s fine as a disguise. It’s my hair that’s a problem.
My hair is a distinctive white-blond, so I tuck it into my hoodie, leaving the hood down for now.
