“Someone knows I’m gone. No one knows I’m here.” The point was critical.
Lila nodded, a sad smile on her face, looking as if she wanted to say more.
&nb
sp; “That’s fine, then,” she said. “Your secrets are safe here.”
“I appreciate that so much.”
“When you’re ready, I hope you’ll talk with one of us, Sara or myself or any of the other counselors. We’re here to help. And anything that’s said within these walls stays here.”
“Thank you.” She’d met Sara. Had liked her. But Jenna could probably facilitate any counseling session these good women had to give. There was nothing they could tell her, in terms of battered-wife recovery, that she didn’t already know.
And sometimes all the knowing in the world, all the protection in the world, wasn’t enough.
Sometimes a woman had to be enough all on her own. No matter the consequences.
“You’re sure you don’t want us to notify the police?”
“No!” She almost sat up at that. And calmed herself. “Please, no,” she said. This point was not negotiable. “It does you no good to do so behind my back, right?” she felt compelled to point out. To reassure herself. “There’s nothing to report if I don’t speak up.”
“That’s correct. But we wouldn’t go behind your back in any case, Jenna. Not unless you were a minor or had a minor with you. In that case, we have no choice but to involve the police.”
She nodded. Understanding. And concentrated on relaxing her muscles. One at a time.
The diary in the desk was bothering her. Burning at the edges of her concentration. She was going to have to hide it. Or have it on her person at all times.
“Do you have my cell phone?” she asked now. Lila had mentioned a prepaid device that she could have if she wanted it.
“I do.” Reaching into the pocket of her suit jacket, she pulled out an old-fashioned looking flip phone.
It would do nicely.
“You can’t text or get email, but you can make calls....”
“That’s fine,” she said, sitting up to take the phone and liking the way she could clutch the thing securely in one hand. “I don’t have anything to text or email to anyone.”
And she wouldn’t send either if she did have something to say. Data could be traced.
She had a phone. An untraceable phone. The air in the room lifted. Being without a phone had not been good for her. Making a mental note to have an extra prepaid cell phone on hand at all times, she waited for Lila to stand and go.
“I know that there’s nothing I can say that will help you trust me, Jenna,” the woman said instead. And frowned. “Very few of our residents trust any of us at first. I understand that. Trust has to be earned....”
And sometimes trust came too late to do any good.
“But you...you’re different.”
Yes, she was. Oh, she’d been a battered wife like everyone else staying in the bungalows at The Lemonade Stand. But the physical beatings she’d taken had been the easiest part. “I get the feeling that you’ve been here,” Lila said, unsettling Jenna with the uncanny resemblance to her own thoughts just minutes before. “I’ve been at The Lemonade Stand since day one and I know I’ve never seen you before.” Lila shook her head. “And yet, I feel as though you know this place. Or one like it.”
Four like it. The shelters had been the only places Steve had never been able to breach. Most often, the general public knew of them, but didn’t know the exact location of the buildings where the women stayed. At The Lemonade Stand they were sprawled across several acres hidden behind a two-block strip of shops also owned and run by the Stand.
Others had had a known home office, with housing buildings situated in various and changing locations around the city in which they were located.
In each shelter, in different cities, she’d become reacquainted with the self she’d been before he’d found her again. She’d found a way to believe once more. To venture out...
Not this time. Her stay at The Lemonade Stand was for one specific purpose only. To have a safe place to formulate her plan. She needed a little time to research the psychology of abuse, to get so deeply inside Steve’s head that she could figure out how best to manipulate him. Undercover work at its best. Ironic that she’d take what she’d learned while living with an abusive detective to finally be free of him. She’d do the necessary research at the on-site library, or from a computer there. Figure out where and how to meet up with him. Practice until she could act in her sleep.
And then, as quietly as she’d arrived, she’d leave this place.