Page 53 of Crow's Haven
After an hour or so of waiting, boarding for my bus begins. I find an open spot near a window and drop down into the seat. I just want this five-hour bus ride to go off without a hitch. As people get onto the bus and all the seats fill up, an older woman sits beside me and starts knitting. I let out a sigh of relief and gradually the pent up stress begins to drain from my body. I make myself comfortable on the worn seat and look out the window at the passengers hurrying towards the buses, their luggage rolling noisily on the pavement. Voices mix together into the background, noises of everyday life, and I realize that I’m here and thankfully, no one seems to notice me.
As the bus engine rumbles to life beneath me, I lean my head against the cool glass, watching the station slip slowly from view. It’s replaced by buildings, streets, and finally open road. No sooner do we hit the interstate, than the heavens open and heavy rain comes down from above, drenching everything.
Something about being warm and dry while it’s raining outside makes me feel safe, and I find my eyes closing. The nextthing I know, is the driver announcing that we’ve arrived in Hartford. I exit the bus and see multiple cabs lined up like it’s still the nineties. I step up to the first cab. “Are you here to meet another passenger?”
“I’m available. Where are you headed?”
I get into the backseat and read the address from the text my cousin sent me.
“That’s not far from here. You in a rush? Because if you are, I can get you there fast.”
Something about his words worries me. It makes me feel like he’s going to drive recklessly or try to take a shortcut that I might or might not approve of. “No,” I tell him sternly. “I prefer to get there in one piece, so no stunt driving.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I know he’s trying to be polite, but his tone of voice seems disappointed.
I take out my phone and pretend to call a friend, telling her not to bother to pick me up because I’m already in a cab. I read off the driver’s license number and joke that if I don’t show up they should look at him first. The driver shifts in his seat and glances uncomfortably at me in his rearview mirror. The minute the cab stops in front of the apartment building, I jump and give him more than enough cash to pay for my fare.
My heart races as I watch the taxi speed away. Being left alone on the sidewalk feels safer than him watching me walk around the back of the building.
I stare up at the apartment building my cousin described. It’s larger than I expected. It’s four stories high, but it’s so wide the perception is of a squat building rather than a tall one.Despite clearly being an older structure, it looks well maintained and flower beds filled with colorful blooms border the pathways.
Taking a deep breath, I glance around, suddenly becoming very aware of my surroundings. There’s only the noise of passing cars on the main road and the sound of a dog barking in the distance. I quickly take the walk that leads around the back of the building, my sneakers making barely any sound against the concrete path as I move. I stay alert and cautious as I pick up my speed. The less time I’m in view of the public the better.
Just as I pass a cluster of tall bushes, a sudden rustling noise nearby makes me freeze in my tracks. My heart jumps into my throat, eyes wide as I whip around sharply. Seconds pass, my muscles tense and I get ready to move, but nothing emerges. Slowly, the rustling subsides, and the silence returns. Relief floods my mind, and I’m shocked at my own jumpiness.
Before anything else can spook me, I hurry over to the low building that’s running parallel to the apartments, there’s a faded sign above it advertising some brand of laundry detergent. Checking no one is watching I run to the entrance. Just like Ronnie said there’s a keypad, I enter the number and hear the click and buzz. Pushing the door open I step inside.
There’s a damp odor that buildings get when they haven’t been used in a long time, and also the nose-tingling smell of detergent. It’s overpowering, but beggars can’t be choosers and fugitives don’t even get to beg. I wander down the corridor until I come to the door at the end. There’s another keypad and I enter the same code. Nervously stepping inside I look around.
The dim room is cramped, it’s little more than a glorified closet, but it’s mine for now. That has to count for something.
The cot bed in the corner is the first thing I notice. It’s one of those metal-framed fold-outs, the kind you’d expect to find shoved in a church basement or a summer camp storage closet. The thin mattress sags like it’s been through years of weight it was never meant to carry, and the sheet stretched over it is scratchy, pilled, and smells faintly of mildew. I sit down anyway, the springs groaning beneath me. It doesn’t matter that it’s uncomfortable. It’s a place to sit, a place to lie down, and I don’t have the luxury of wanting more.
Beside the bed sits a crate turned sideways, serving as a makeshift nightstand. An empty water bottle with a half-burned candle stuffed into its neck rests on top, wax having dripped down the sides. Gazing up at the ceiling and the empty socket I see the reason for the candle, I’ll have to see if Ronnie can get me a lightbulb.
Unless the lights don’t work here.
Across the room, a single-ring electric hob rests on a wobbling table that looks like it was salvaged from a junkyard. On the hob is a frying pan, blackened with years of abuse and now holding a sad, crusted layer of congealed grease. The hardened fat glistens in the shaft of sunlight coming through the slats in the blinds covering the small window. The sight turns my stomach, but I know I’ll probably scrape it clean later and use it because what choice do I have?
The smell in the room is its own creature—an all-encompassing, stale tang of laundry powder that clings to every surface, every breath. It’s sharp and artificial, like walking down the detergent aisle of a grocery store but never finding the exit. I glance at the window, wondering if it opens—but then I remember I’m on the run. No one can know I’m here.
I’ll just have to get used to it.
The door to the half bath creaks when I nudge it with my toe, revealing a toilet and a sink shoved into a tiled cubby. The tiles are cracked and stained in places, and it smells dank. I’m not sure which is worse, the eye-watering detergent or the smell of ammonia from years of the night maintenance man not being able to hit the toilet pan. There’s no shower—of course, no mirror either. Just a shallow basin that will have to double as a wash station and somewhere to wash my dishes.
This isn’t a place meant for living. It’s a stopgap, a hideout. A reminder that I don’t have the luxury of a real kitchen, a real bed, or even a safe home.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, staring down at the rough concrete floor that’s stained with who-knows-what. My mind drifts, unspooling through the same hopeless questions that circle every night. How long can I keep this up? Where do I go next? How do I prove I didn’t kill that child when every scrap of evidence seems twisted against me?
I close my eyes, exhaling shakily. My pulse slows for the first time all day, but it doesn’t last.
Movement.
It’s faint, but it’s there—something shifting, just beyond the thin walls. My head snaps up, my ears straining, my heart hammering all over again.
Someone’s here.
Panic claws up my throat before I can stop it. My first thought is that it’s the cops, that they’ve found me, already. That someone was watching the bus station.
