She went right into the bathroom where she knelt down near the toilet and threw up her breakfast until she was dry heaving. Her nerves were at an all-time high and the moment she left this house, she'd constantly be looking over her shoulder, for she was about to betray Genevieve in the worst possible way.

If Genevieve ever found her, she'd kill her.

Deborah sat in the backseat looking out the window, clutching a large nondescript brown bag where she put away the doc.u.ments Gilberto had referred to. She wouldn't need them right away, but she kept them close so as not to forget to take them later on. She tried to keep a clear mind, but her thoughts kept wandering back to the note addressed to Genevieve that she left with her wedding band on top of the dresser in the bedroom, in which she expressed her love, as well as her horror at the abuse she suffered all those years by Gen's hand. She explained how she couldn't take the pain any longer and had to take her own life to escape her suffering.

"Mrs. Murnay, we should be arriving at the spa in less than ten minutes," Gilberto said from the driver's seat.

"Thank you, Gilberto...for everything. I sincerely don't know what I would have done if not for you and Teresa." Deborah cleared her throat, holding back the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes.

"I wish I could have done more," Gilberto replied, his eyes full of discomfort as he looked back at the rearview mirror.

"Please don't blame yourself. What happened to me is all on my shoulders. If I had left the first time Gen hit me, we wouldn't be in this situation. And now..."

"And now what?"

Deborah went to play with her wedding ring when she noticed her finger was bare. She sighed brokenly, blinking away her tears. "And now we've come to this." She leaned forward as the car turned to the right and down the street. "I know we've been over this a million times before. But, when a few weeks have gone by after my 'death,' you and Teresa should go back to your family in Mexico. Take the one hundred thousand in that secret account your friend helped you set up, and disappear. I don't think Gen has power to reach you out of the country, but you never know."

Gilberto parked the car and laid his arm back over the seat. "Deborah" Gilberto cleared his throat as he paused. It was the first time he ever called her by her first name. "Don't concern yourself about me or my sister. We'll be fine. Your wife knows nothing of our family. We made certain not to. Teresa and I will stay around until she thinks you're truly dead," Gilberto said the word "she" as if it was a curse.

Deborah gave his hand a slight squeeze. "I'd hate to think you or Teresa could end up as victims of Genevieve's rage. If she ever found out your part in my-"

"She never will, Mrs. Murnay," Gilberto said strongly and pulled his arm away. "It's time you went to your appointment. You wouldn't want to be late."

Deborah nodded and glanced inside her purse. She took out her sungla.s.ses and the belly chain Gen had given her for their anniversary. She untangled the chain from her gla.s.ses and palmed it, almost giving it to Gilberto, just as she had done with most of her jewelry over the past year for him to sell and raise enough money for not only her, but for him and his sister. But she didn't think this piece of jewelry could be sold. It was too unique. Instead of putting it back in her purse, she put it on her seat. At least if the car was found, not only would Genevieve have her wedding ring, but the chain as well to remember her by.

Deborah pulled on her sungla.s.ses and swung her hair, giving Gilberto a bright smile. "You've been a great friend. Please tell Teresa the same when you see her."

Gilberto nodded and stared straight ahead, mimicking the action he usually did whenever he drove Deborah into town.

She nodded and got out of the car, leaving him behind as his cell phone went off. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Murnay. Yes...your wife has arrived at her appointment safely."

Deborah walked ahead, her face blank as Gilberto talked to her wife, who called to check in on her.

Two hours later, Deborah had been waxed, ma.s.saged, and given a manicure and pedicure. She glanced down at her nails painted with clear nail polish. She couldn't have them with any color whatsoever so as not to be noticed.

Her cell phone vibrated. Genevieve had called two times and left a text message telling her to call her as soon as she finished. Deborah put her phone back in her purse. There was no sense in calling Gen. She'd said her goodbyes to her that morning.

Taking a deep breath, Deborah walked down the hall to the reception desk. She backed against the wall and took out the spare set of car keys Gilberto had given her, along with the other essentials. Knowing time was of the essence, she turned around instead of going out the front. She walked toward the back where another door would take her into the side parking lot.

Deborah didn't run. She even nodded at the employees as she pa.s.sed them by. Her legs didn't tremble as she walked out the back door and across the pavement to the car. Instead of using the electronic key chain to unlock the car, she slid the key into the lock and climbed in. Closing her eyes for a moment, she inhaled and started the car. Less than a minute later, she drove out of the parking lot and down the main road.

The drive took around fifteen minutes. Deborah chewed her nails the entire time, ruining her manicure. She was a ball of tension, constantly looking out the rearview mirror, expecting to be pulled over by a cop, or for some crazy reason for Genevieve to be right behind her, having figured out what she'd done. The road Deborah drove on was practically empty, and when she drove off the highway, she clenched the steering wheel harder. Her knuckles were almost white under her usual lightly bronzed skin as she turned off the road and farther away from the urban area, leading her to a more rocky section surrounded by big boulders and mountains in the distance. Deborah didn't park the car near the picnic tables or where the hiking trails began. She drove further in, trying to keep her cool as she pa.s.sed one or two empty cars.

Finally she parked the car near the entrance of a small bridge that had been under construction for more than a year. The two-lane bridge led to the other side and around the bottom of a small mountain. But Gilberto had informed her when the discussed places for her "suicide" that the bridge was out of commission. It was desolate-and perfect for what Deborah had to do.

Keeping the car running, Deborah got out and carefully stepped up on the bridge. She went to the edge where the river was high enough that as soon as the car hit the water, it would be carried away. Luckily for her, it had been a wet season, a bit out of the ordinary from the dry conditions that usually led to a drought. From the way the water crashed and flowed, the rapids swirling under and beyond her, she had picked the right place to commit her fake suicide. If all went well, the car would be beaten up, pulled under the waves, and taken miles downstream. Perhaps days would go by before it was found and people believed that her body was eaten by whatever fish lived in the river or the rocks, tearing her corpse to pieces.

Deborah checked her watch. Genevieve would be arriving at the hotel and calling either her or Gilberto again since Deborah had never answered Genevieve's original calls or text messages. She threw her cell phone, the last form of communication she'd have with her wife, into the rushing water.

She got back in the driver's seat and pulled the car in reverse until it faced the edge of the ravine. She put the car in neutral and walked behind it. Flexing her arms, glad she'd used weights with a trainer, she walked a few feet away, then suddenly sprinted toward the car. With her fast momentum and her pushing, the car began to roll, picking up speed, and with one final push, the car fell to the water below. The crash came seconds later, a loud boom ricocheting around her. She went over to the edge and watched the smashed vehicle in the water with its wheels up, willing it to start moving.

After a few tense-filled minutes, the car circled around in the rough waters and floated down the stream, bobbing in and out, hitting huge rocks sticking out, causing gla.s.s to break and metal to screech.

Deborah quickly glanced through her oversized bag, pulled out a white scarf, and wrapped it around her head. The disguise wasn't much, but it would keep her protected from the sun. Glad she'd worn her Keds and comfortable capris, she climbed over the barrier blocking the bridge and ran across to where she'd find the road and the ride that would take her to the bus station and to freedom-sweet freedom!

Chapter Six.

A clean-cut, dark-skinned man a good decade older than her waited in a red Corolla on the side of the road. He had rolled down his window and called her by her name, confirming he was a friend of Gilberto's. She got in the car, her heart pounding rapidly as he drove away, not speaking again until he parked at the bus station twenty minutes later. He handed her a disposable cell phone and instructed her to only use it once-to call Gilberto when she arrived safely to wherever she was headed, then to throw it away. He also gave her a white plastic bag with a baseball cap and a T-shirt with some sort of sports logo, recommending she go change in the bathroom before the bus left.

Deborah thanked her driver, and as she walked swiftly toward the bathroom, he drove away. She tried her best not to look wildly around. Again fear overtook her, knowing Genevieve could appear at any moment. No one was in the bathroom when she went inside. She went into a stall and peed since her bladder was ready to explode. She pulled on the T-shirt that was a size too big for her, put up as much of her hair as she could in a black band, then fit the cap on her head. When she finished, she went to the sink and washed her hands. When the door opened and people came in, she dropped her head and walked out to her waiting bus.

She gave her ticket over to the driver, went in the back and into a seat in the far corner, and hunched down so her face couldn't be seen from the window. She tried to stop her teeth from chattering, not from the cold but from the fear flowing through her body.

When the bus drove away, Deborah closed her eyes and silent tears fell down her cheeks in near relief.

The four-hour bus ride was uneventful. By the time the bus stopped in the town of Rockfield, it was near dusk. On stiff legs, Deborah walked off the bus with the rest of the pa.s.sengers, clutching her bag and rolling her stiff shoulders.

She'd only been to Rockfield a number of times since her mother had been admitted into the retirement facility there. The urge to go see her mother first and foremost was strong, but she couldn't yet. She was exhausted, sweaty, and hungry. First, she needed to get to the hotel indicated in the directions written out for her.

The small, five-story hotel was a few blocks away. She hurried along, keeping her head down the entire time, and when she walked up to the front desk, a polite male hotel clerk welcomed her. Deborah smiled through trembling lips and said she was staying for the night and should have a reservation waiting for her under the last name Smith.

"Why, yes, Mrs. Smith, your husband checked in earlier in the day," the desk clerk explained and gave her the electronic key to her room.

Deborah hid her surprise. She couldn't believe the lengths Gilberto went to or the special group of friends he had to help her. For a short moment she wondered if she should had taken up his suggestion at hiding in Mexico where he said he could protect her better. She pushed that idea away since she'd asked so much of him already and didn't want to put him in more danger than he already was.

"Thank you," she said softly as she took the key and went over to the elevators. She rode up to the third floor where her room was located.

She walked down the long hall and pa.s.sed an older couple who gave her a strange look, or so she believed since her paranoia was at an all-time high. As soon as they walked inside the elevator, she rushed down the hall and with fumbling hands, slipped the keycard into the slot of the door. When the green light came on, she opened the door and shut it with a loud slam. She stumbled into the middle of the room, dove face first on the bed, and hid her face into a pillow.

With her breath lodged in her throat, Deborah sat straight up out of a sound sleep. Her eyes were dry and her skin itchy and tight. Her nipples poked through her wrinkled T-shirt and goose b.u.mps covered her body from the chill in the room. She rubbed her arms, her cap hanging off the back of her head barely covering her tangled, sweaty hair.

She couldn't say what woke her. It wasn't a nightmare or even a loud sound that may have come outside. The hum of the air conditioner drowned everything out. Squinting in the darkened room, she noticed the digital alarm clock. It was barely five in the morning. She'd slept for almost ten hours.

Her stomach let out a low rumble and she stretched her arms over her head while flexing her cramping feet. She still felt logy and stiff. But at least her heart didn't feel like it wanted to jump out of her mouth.

Rising from the bed, she turned on the lamp and shuffled over to her bag on the floor. She picked it up, pulled out the cell phone, and flipped it open as if to make a call. But she couldn't do that yet. First she had to visit her mother to make certain she was safe.

Deborah's bladder needed to be emptied and as she yawned loudly and held her hair away from her face, she walked into the bathroom. Among the typical toiletries such as the small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and soap, there were also items on the bathroom counter usually not found in a hotel bathroom. Not only was a black suitcase standing next to the toilet, but near the sink was a box of hair dye, a magazine showcasing all different types of hairstyles and a silver pair of scissors one would find at a hair salon. There was also a makeup kit-not the usual kind a woman would use daily, but more the type one would use to cover her face if going to a costume party or dressing up for Halloween. None of these things came as surprise to Deborah. She expected to find them there.

Deborah pulled the suitcase on top of the toilet, opened it, and found clothes including underwear and bland-colored T-shirts, jeans, capris, and pants that would hide her curves and her femininity.

She pulled off her T-shirt and hung a towel around her shoulders. Grabbing the box of hair dye, she tore it open and began to make herself into a different person.

She cried again in the shower. Deep, hacking sobs shook her body as she thought about all she'd left behind. Genevieve's name echoed in her mind, and even though there was no way she could return to her, she still ached to hear her voice one last time. But she couldn't do that. If she did, she most likely end up dead in the desert with a bullet in her head like the old-time mobsters did to their victims in the mid-twentieth century as Vegas was being built.

After Deborah shed her tears and washed out the dye from her hair, she got out of the shower and dried herself off with the towel. Wiping the condensation away from the bathroom mirror, she stared back at the reflection of a woman with jutting cheekbones and average run-of-the-mill brown eyes. But instead of her former highlighted blond streaks, now her hair was pure black. She was lucky her skin tone wasn't pale. She'd look very strange with her new hair color then.

She still wasn't done with her hair by a long shot. Flipping through the magazine to the section where the short hairstyles were located, she searched for the haircut she needed. After four years of never cutting anything more than an inch, she lifted up a good six inches off her shoulders and began cutting away. This time her eyes were bone dry as her hair fell into the sink and on the floor.

When all was said and done and her hair stood up in spikes only a few inches away from her head, she put in blue color contacts to complete the disguise. A total stranger stared back at her.

Gone was Deborah Murnay and in her place was a new woman- a woman reborn.

Chapter Seven.

"That'll be fifteen dollars, sir," the taxi driver said to his male pa.s.senger sitting in the back seat.

The scruffy young man, who looked a little past college age wearing dark jeans, a bulky gray T-shirt, and a jean jacket even in the ninety-degree heat, dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He mumbled a thank you and grabbed his suitcase as he got out of the car.

The taxi drove away, leaving Deborah in front of the facility where her mother had lived for the past year and a half. Rolling back her shoulders, Deborah lengthened her stride to walk more like a man and went through the automatic sliding doors.

Her cheek itched and she almost went to scratch it, stopping at the last moment. Along with her eyes drying out from the contact lenses she wore, the bronze makeup on her face, neck, hands, and arms made her itchy. She swore she could feel a rash forming where the fake whiskers of hair or scruff she had pasted on her cheeks and chin were flaking.

But she had no choice in the matter. If she didn't go so far as to wear a disguise, she wouldn't be able to see her mother. She couldn't come as her daughter. So she came as her son Wade Whilby instead.

Deborah walked up to the front desk where a rounded, older-looking nurse with gray hair hung up the phone and smiled at her. Deborah cleared her throat deeply.

"Good morning. I'm here to see my mother, Cora Whilby. I should be on the list of approved visitors," Deborah said in a raspy voice and held her breath, waiting for the nurse to figure out she wasn't a man.

The nurse pulled out a binder and opened it. Her finger skimmed down the page and she tapped her cheek as she read. "Wade Whilby, you said?"

Deborah nodded and hunched her shoulders. "Yeah. My sister Deb told me she put me on the list. I'm in town for a few days and wanted to see our mother."

The nurse looked back at Deborah with raised eyebrows.

Please believe me!

"Ah! Here's your name. Sorry for the questions, but the last time your sister was here was more than a year ago. The only visitor since then has been her wife."

"I guess Genevieve checked in on Mom since she's the one paying the bills," Deborah replied easily and waited for the nurse to give her a pa.s.s.

The nurse rested her hand on the phone as if she was going to pick it up, and a trickle of sweat dripped down the side of Deborah's face. Finally, when the nurse took out a white pa.s.s and left it on the top of the desk, Deborah's shoulders relaxed and her knees unlocked.

"Your mother is in room 504. Walk down the hall and make the left where the elevators are. The nursing staff upstairs can help you if need be."

Deborah grabbed the pa.s.s and nodded her thanks. The nurse nodded in return and picked up the phone when it started ringing.

The walk to the elevator and the ride up took seconds, but it felt more like hours. When she arrived on the fifth floor and the doors opened, she walked out into the hall, saw the sign on the wall with an arrow to 504, and went in that direction.

She couldn't believe it had been so long since she last saw her mother. With the cancer eating away at her body, she could no longer function on her own and was stuck to her bed. The last time she had seen her mother was when she and Genevieve had come to visit her at her former facility. The doctors there believed she didn't have much longer to live. Genevieve thought the same and moved her mother into a much more expensive care service after Deborah had come back after the first time she'd left her. Genevieve agreed her mother needed the best care possible. It was also Genevieve's way of controlling her. If she ever thought of leaving Gen again, Gen would take it out on her mother.

When Deborah arrived at her mother's room, she walked inside. The sounds of an oxygen tank filled the dim room, and when Deborah ventured in further, she covered her mouth. Her eyes grew damp as she saw her mother asleep in her bed. She looked so frail and peaceful, as if she was already dead.

"Mommy," Deborah whispered brokenly, and left her suitcase in the corner, walking over to the side of the bed where she pulled over a chair and sat down. She gazed on the woman she loved more than her own life and a sob left her mouth as she carefully picked up her mother's limp hand and held it to her cheek.

Tears fell down her face and she sniffed loudly, unable to stop her shoulders from shaking as she cried. She swallowed and closed her eyes, her chest heaving. Again she whispered, "Mommy."

This time her mother's eyelids flickered and a moan left her mouth as she turned her head. When she opened her eyes, she blinked a few times and grimaced.

Deborah kept her mother's hand against her cheek and licked her dry lips. "Mom, do you know who I am?"

A wheeze escaped Cora Whilby. "I think I know who my own child is, even with that getup on. Please tell me that evil woman you married is dead."

Deborah laughed hoa.r.s.ely and when her mother lifted up her other hand toward her face, Deborah leaned over and embraced her mother, finally reunited after being separated for so long.

"I can't believe you destroyed your beautiful hair. Did you have to make it so dark?" her mother groused as she fingered Deborah's short, p.r.i.c.kly hair.

"You know I had to do it. It's the only way I can be certain I'll be safe." Deborah pointed out as she rubbed a palm over her head. For the last hour her mother not only complained about her hair, but her eye color and the makeup she wore that most likely was damaging her skin.

"You'll never be safe. You know that," Cora said sadly, looking down at her lap, visibly shaken.

"Oh, Mommy, please don't cry."

"Don't tell me what I can't do. If I want to cry, I will. Knowing you've been hurt and almost died at that woman's hands, and there was nothing I could do to stop it... oh, Christ." Cora lifted up a shaking hand to her mouth and closed her eyes.

Deborah squeezed her mother's hand and didn't respond at first. She opened and closed her mouth, taking a deep breath before she spoke. "There's a possibility that could be true, but this is a chance I have to take."

"Just like you took the chance in marrying that viper, even after I told you she'd be trouble?" Cora coughed into a tissue, her back shaking from the force. Deborah pushed the pillows up higher behind her.

"You're right. Is that what you want to hear? I've paid for my mistake in more ways than one," Deborah said softly, wiping her cheek even though no tears fell.

Her mother's brow wrinkled and she grabbed Deborah's hands in both of hers. "We've all made mistakes. I know all too well, seeing as what I went through with your father."

"Are you saying because Dad treated you horribly that I've fallen into the cycle you did?" Deborah asked. Flashes of "arguments" between her father and mother when she was a child popped into her head.