Page 32 of Toxic
"Thanks. I'vegotit."
"Someview,huh?"
He isn't wrong. Even through the blacked-out windows of the bus, Los Angeles is stunning. Crowds of people traverse the sidewalks near the bus depot, and I can't wait to lose myself in them. The isolation of Upper Michigan was so complete that having so many people around should debilitate me with anxiety, but it doesn't. I wait impatiently for the others to disembark, and as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I lift my face to the sun and luxuriate in its warmth and imagine myself being bleached clean by the heat. It helps alleviate the suffocating guilt, but onlymarginally.
I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to, but it doesn't scare me. The overwhelming relief wars with that guilt and the struggle carries me away from the bus depot and toward the increasingly strong scent of salt on the air. I don't know how long I walk or where I'm going, all I care about is losing myself. Maybe if I can do that, I'll somehow findmyself,too.
I hear the waves before I see the beach. The sound of them crashing against the shore fills my head, blocking out the replay of warm blood splattering against the tile, of a bullet tearing into the fragile framework of skin. My knees wobble as I come to a red light. Those around me jostle with impatience, but I pay them no mind. I move forward with the crush as the light changes and let it carry me across the road to theboardwalk.
The weight of my bag digs into my shoulder and knocks rhythmically against my thigh as I stumble my way down the weathered stairs to the spill of brown sugar sand. I kick off my shoes, roll up my pants, and shed the light sweater I'd been using to battle the frigid air conditioner on the bus. After I stow the items in my bag, I bee-line for the surf and sink my toes into the sand with a loud sigh ofpleasure.
Maybe I'll be okay, and maybe I won't. Either way, I'm going to stop being the victim and start fighting back. No one will ever make me feel like Vic did again, not evenGracin.
I stay at the beach until my toes are blue from the chill and the beach is nearly empty of families and teenagers. The burner phone I picked up is almost dead, but there's enough life left in it for me to track down a cheap hotel to crash in for the night. On the way there, I snag some fries, a hamburger, and a coke from a street vendor, which turns out to be the best food I may have ever eaten in myentirelife.
I wish I could say my luck held out, but it doesn’t. The hotel looks straight from an episode of American Horror Story, but it's cheap and I'll only need it for a couple of nights. Cracked, water-stained stucco and scuffed floors are the least of my worries. The receptionist doesn't bat an eye at my rumpled, stained clothes, and I prepay for a three-night stay and request a room on the first floor near the busy side of the street in case I need to make a quick exit. After a quick shower in the small, but thankfully clean bathroom, I change into clean clothes and pass out on top of the comforter, my gun within reach, justincase.
It takes all of the three days to locate a suitable furnished apartment and arrange for the change of utilities. I give them a fake name and a forged passport I bought off the internet. The landlord doesn't question it, and neither does the utility company. On the fourth day after arriving in LA, I have a place to live and have landed a job as a waitress at a nearbyrestaurant.
While I wait for my first day of work, I clean the apartment and set up an exit plan. I don't want to be caught unawares and trapped. I'm not sure if Gracin cares enough to come after me. He probably couldn'tcareless.
I use a portion of the money to stock up on ammo for the gun I purchased on the way to LA along with mace and a Taser. I keep the mace and Taser in my purse and the gun in an accessible drawer in my living room. With permission from my landlord, I purchase extra deadbolts and chains for the doors. The windows are already painted shut, but I test each one to make sure they aren’t going to budge. The preparation makes the days and nights go by quickly. Despite my trepidation, I sleep like the dead each night without the threat of Vic's presence bymyside.
On the morning of my first day of work, I get up extra early to dress and navigate the bus route. I turn to lock the deadbolt on my front door and come face to face with adrawing.
Ifreeze.
Nearby a child screams with laughter, and I flinch away from the sound. Heart jack-hammering, I spin and scan the area for anything out of the ordinary, but the tenants in the nearby apartments are still fast asleep and there isn’t a single sign ofGracin.
The picture shows me on my first day in LA at the beach with my feet in the water. I'd been so entranced I hadn't even thought to look for anyone. Why would I have? I was all the way across the country and I hadn’t left any clues as to where I washeaded.
For a long moment, the urge to get on a bus and escape overcomes me, but my already short supply of cash is rapidly dwindling. I can't keep running forever. Once reason returns, it occurs to me that if Gracin wanted to see me, he would have just found a way into my apartment while I wassleeping.
He hadn’t, which told me that while he knew where I was and wanted me to know that, he wasn’t going to force me toseehim.
I just didn’tknowwhy.
Ican’t be sure,but I think someone isfollowingme.
In the eight weeks since I arrived, I’ve been paranoid to the point of insanity. I always triple check my locks, take roundabout routes when I go to and from work, and religiously scour the news for signs of Gracin, any leads about the police investigation into the deaths at Blackthorne, or my disappearance. There haven’t been any successful leads, but that doesn’t mean I should be any lessvigilant.
For good reason,apparently.
The man sitting in my section has requested to be seated in my section for the past week straight. Regulars aren’t out of the ordinary, but there’s something about this guy that has my whole body going on high alert. It’s nothing he’s done, per se, but after being cornered by one violent criminal, I don’t want it to happen again. Everyone is a possible connection toGracin.
“I think someone has a fan,” another waitress, Melinda, says as she sidles up to the window to wait for her order. “You don’t ask for his number, I will,” she adds as she sails away through the crowd with a platter of food lifted overherhead.
Her brash attitude and bluntness make me smile, even if it feels a little out of place on my lips. She’s exactly what I love about this city. The sheer number of people, cunty ones included, makes me feel safe. After years living in the desolate isolation of Upper Michigan, the warmth and anonymity appeal to me. At least the people here are upfront about it when they’re complete and utterassholes.
It doesn’t even bother me that my rent for a one-bedroom apartment is outrageous or the Van Nuys neighborhood it’s located in borders Hispanic gang territory. After what I’ve been through, the thugs on the street don’t even faze me. In fact, they’re almost reassuring. I’d much rather have a gun in my face than a sweet-talking, good-looking man who will stab me in the back with falsepromises.
The man leaves by the end of my shift. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for him, which will be almost impossible since he looks a lot like any other Californian. Nondescript jeans, leather sandals, and a button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves. His hair is neither blond, nor brown, and he’s of average height. But I’ve learned in my two-month crash course to find one feature that sets each person apart. For my lunch companion—it’s his eyes. Not the color, like Gracin’s unnatural green, but their shape. Specifically, hisbrows.
I noticed them because they reminded me of the caveman from that car insurance commercial. They emphasize his deep-set eyes and lend a brutality that reminds me all too much of everything I’m trying to run away from. More than likely he’s a perfectly nice guy, and I’moverreacting.
Still, I keep a mental pictureofhim.
Justincase.