I waited for nearly an hour before I came out of that toilet stall. And then I took another hour with the main bathroom door locked, to shower and get ready. Then, only when I was as certain as I could be that the coast was clear, did I make my move.
When we’d cleared out my house, I picked my bedroom to pack up for two reasons. One, because I didn’t need King pawing through my underwear. And two, because I had a stash of cash hidden in my closet, along with my spare key fob for my minivan. A minivan that now happens to be parked in King’s garage.
One of my thin hoodies has zippered pockets, so I hid the money and key in those pockets and hung it up with the rest of my clothes, hoping the hide in plain sight trick would work. And as I shove my arms through the sleeves, I applaud myself for doing at least one thing right.
I can’t walk out of here with a bag slung over my shoulder, so I have to be clever about how I dress. Because what I wear out of this house will be the sum of all I own in the world. Which means layers. I’ll overheat in ten seconds flat, but I only need to get off the property, then I can start to strip down.
I have on two pairs of socks inside my tennis shoes. Undies of course, leggings, and then a pair of baggy sweats over that. Day wear and pajamas. Then I have on a comfortable wireless bralette––that I won’t mind wearing every day––and stuffed between my boobs are three more pairs of underwear. Over that is a tank top, then a t-shirt, and a cardigan that you can’t see once I put on my hoodie.
I look pudgy on my own, so with all these layers I look like I’ve tacked on 20 pounds overnight, but hopefully no one will be looking that closely. And I need the seven hundred dollars I squirreled away to stretch, so I can’t be using it to buy clothes.
Hopefully, not too long from now, I can get my hands on a phone, or find a library with email. Then I can send a message to Mandi to have her sell the handful of paintings that I’ve kept in her warehouse and wire me the cash.
Feeling as confident as I possibly can, I let the key fob dangle from my fingers and I walk, shoulders back, all the way through the house, down the stairs, and into the garage.
Act like you belong.
Act like nothing is wrong.
I slap my hand against the far button on the wall, hoping it’s for the door at the far end of the garage where my van is parked, and nearly shout with joy as the right overhead garage door rumbles open.
Act normal.
Eyes forward, I make my way across the garage, and click the fob to unlock my van doors.
As I climb in, I see that everything is still how I left it. My reusable, and paint-stained, water bottle in one cupholder, random trash in the other, a variety of painting supplies tucked into pockets in the back seat, and my sunglasses clipped to the visor.
Movement up ahead draws my attention, and I force my hand up to wave at the man walking across the driveway with his head turned in my direction.
Not waiting for him to think twice, I slip my sunglasses on, start the van, then pull forward.
Someone else can shut the garage door.
The man nods a greeting as I pass, then continues on his way.
Am I actually going to make it?
I drive down the long ass driveway and no alarms sound, no guns are raised.
I think I’m gonna make it.
Then the driveway crests and I see two men standing at the closed gate, guarding the way on, and off, the property.
Normal. Normal. Normal.
Inside, I’m freaking out, but the sunglasses help to obscure the terror in my eyes as I slow to a stop a few feet from the gate.
A man I don’t recognize circles around to my window, so, with shaky hands, I press the control to lower it.
I don’t wait for him to speak. “Hey there! I’m just headed out to pick up some paintings.” I smile and use a thumb to point to the empty back of the van. The missing seats making it the perfect vehicle for transporting large canvases.
The man inclines his head. “For the Mrs., right? Heard she was an artist.”
Heard she was…
This man doesn’t know it’s me. Doesn’t know that I’m the Mrs.
“Yep!” My octave hits an all new high, but he just grins.
“Well, hurry back. I heard there’s gonna be some thunderstorms later tonight. You won’t want to be driving in that.”
I don’t have to fake my grimace. “Yeah, sure don’t.”
Then the man, my new favorite person, taps the hood of the car twice and gestures to the other man still stationed by the gate.
“See ya!” I call out, as I roll up my window and pull out of the driveway, careful not to stomp on the gas and give myself away.
Stress sweat is already soaking through my many layers of clothes, but I made it.
I fucking made it!
