Page 25 of Crow’s Haven (Savage Legion MC #15)

Sharon

I force myself to do some deep breathing as I read through the information. The bus leaves at noon and it’s nine now.

Slowly, I stand and get dressed and tuck the cheap burner phone into my pocket.

My life is a complete mess and the only person still in my corner is my cousin.

Part of me misses Crow and his boys terribly, but another part is pissed that he wouldn’t let me explain the situation.

I understand why he was angry and that I should have told him, but I thought our relationship was stronger than it turned out to be.

His turning on me so easily hurt in ways I could never have anticipated.

My cousin texted me to say he’d been asking questions.

I never wanted her to get involved, though she promised me she didn’t tell them anything about my plans.

I need to forget about Crow and my life in Las Salinas and press on. Today, I’ll finally get to the place my cousin told me about. I’ll be able to disappear, go quietly unnoticed, and be safe from everyone who wants to see me behind bars.

I’ll survive this. And someday, I’ll clear my name and find my way back to Crow and the boys, no matter how long it takes.

And hope that they will forgive me for leaving.

By the time I reach the bus station, dark clouds are gathering overhead. I go inside and since I don’t have any luggage I walk up to the ticket counter nervously. As casually as I can I ask, “Can I get a ticket for Hartford? The noon bus.”

The woman behind the counter hardly glances at me as she mumbles, “That’ll be fifty dollars, cash or card?”

“Cash,” I say as I pay. I take my ticket and slip away as quietly as possible.

My cousin lives very close to this apartment with the secret room, and it’s far away from where I used to work.

I’m worried that being close to my cousin might not be a good idea, especially if Crow has been calling her to ask where I am.

But right now I need a roof over my head.

Once I’m settled I can decide where to go next.

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 next thing 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.

I stand in a rush, the cot screeching against the floor, and press myself against the wall. My breaths come shallow, ragged, as I scan for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes land on the frying pan. Grease or no grease, it’ll do. I snatch it up, gripping the handle so tightly my knuckles ache.

The sound draws closer. A footstep, deliberate, just outside the door.

I hold my breath. The door creaks.

And then—

“Sharon?”

The voice stops me cold. It’s female, higher-pitched than I expect, tinged with hesitation. Recognition flashes like a spark in my chest. My grip on the frying pan falters.

The door opens, and in steps Cassie.

Cassie.

I haven’t seen her in years, but I’d know her anywhere. High school comes rushing back—She looks older now, more tired around the eyes, but it’s her. My chest should feel light, relieved. I should feel grateful to see a familiar face in this nightmare.

But something’s wrong.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t run to me or hug me or even look particularly glad to see me. Her shoulders are tense, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting around the room like she’s already regretting stepping inside.

“Cassie?” My voice is hoarse, unsteady.

She shrugs, lingering near the doorway instead of coming closer. “I spoke to Ronnie, she said you might be here.”

“Thanks for suggesting it.” I’m suddenly not sure what to say. There’s something in her mannerisms that’s unsettling me.

Cassie’s gaze sweeps over the cot, the frying pan, the sad half bath in the corner and me standing there gripping the frying pan like a weapon.

“Sorry,” I say as I set the frying pan back down, trying to collect myself. My pulse hasn’t slowed.

She doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she studies me, her arms folded tight across her chest. There’s no warmth in her expression, none of the old familiarity I was expecting. Instead, there’s suspicion.

“I just…” she swallows, then looks me dead in the eye. “Is it true? Did you kill that child?”

The words hit me like a slap.

I blink, stunned. “What?”

She takes a step closer, though her posture is still guarded.

“Everyone’s saying you did. Ronnie said it was something to do with a patient, but I didn’t realize it was a kid.

I didn’t want to believe it, but…” she gestures vaguely at me.

“Look at you, Sharon. Running from the cops. What am I supposed to think?”

I shake my head hard, anger flaring. “No. Cassie, no. I didn’t do it. I swear to you, I didn’t. I’m being framed.”

Her brow furrows, but not with sympathy—with doubt. “That’s what they all say.”

“Come on,” my voice cracks. I hate how desperate it sounds, but I can’t help it. “You know me. You’ve known me since we were kids. Do you really think I could hurt someone like that? Do you really think I’d kill a patient?”

Cassie looks down, chewing her lip, avoiding my eyes. For a long moment, the room is silent except for the faraway echo of cars on the main road. I watch her, searching her face for any sign that she believes me.

When she finally looks up again, her expression is guarded, unreadable. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

The words slice through me deeper than I expect.

She takes a step back, retreating towards the doorway. “There’s a reward being offered for information on your whereabouts.”

“Cassie—” I start, reaching out a hand, but she flinches like she doesn’t want me to touch her.

“I don’t think you should be here,” she says, her tone distant and detached. Then she slips out the door before I can say another word.

The silence slams back into place.

I stand there, frozen, staring at the empty space she left behind. My heart aches, not from fear this time, but from the hollow sting of betrayal. Crow didn’t believe me, Cassie doesn’t believe me. My cousin is the only person who trusts my words. But what if that trust ends? What do I do then?

I sink back down on the cot and bury my head in my hands and cry.