Chapter 2 - The Cold Rain
Teresa sat on our living room sofa, holding a cup of tea, while seven-year-old Mateo sat on the rug violently ripping the packaging off Sofía's birthday doll.
As I walked toward the front door holding Sofía's small hand, Teresa set her teacup down with a loud clink.
"If you walk out that door, girl," Teresa shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceilings, "you will never set foot in this family again! We will make sure you don't get a dime in the divorce!"
I didn't even turn around. "Keep the door locked, Teresa. Because the next person coming through it won't be me—it'll be a police officer."
"You wouldn't dare!" she shrieked.
I pulled open the front door and stepped out into the freezing October rain.
The air was brutal, soaking through Sofía's thin birthday dress within seconds. I carried my daughter in my arms, my suitcase rolling clumsily behind me across the wet driveway. Sofía buried her wet face into my neck, her small body shivering violently against mine.
"Mommy, where are we going?" she whimpered. "Is Daddy coming with us?"
"No, sweetie," I murmured, squeezing her tight as tears mixed with the cold rain on my cheeks. "Daddy isn't coming. It's just you and me now. But I promise you, nobody is ever going to hurt you again."
I reached my small ten-year-old sedan parked on the curb. Diego hadn't been able to take the car because the title was solely in my maiden name—a small gift from my father before he passed away four years ago.
I buckled Sofía into her car seat, threw the suitcase into the trunk, and got into the driver's seat.
My gas tank was half-full. My bank account was zero. My wallet contained exactly twenty-four dollars in cash.
I turned on the engine, put the car in drive, and pulled away from the suburban neighborhood where I had spent seven years building a life that had dissolved into a nightmare in less than twenty minutes.
I drove six miles down the highway until I reached the lit parking lot of a 24-hour diner near the state border.
I parked under a bright light, turned off the ignition, and pulled my phone out.
My mother had passed away when I was in college, and my father was gone. I had no siblings. The few mutual friends Diego and I shared were all colleagues from his corporate law firm who would report my location to him immediately.
I had one phone number left in my contacts list that I hadn't called in three years.
Lucia Santos.
Lucia had been my college roommate—a fierce, brilliant woman who had gone on to become a top criminal defense attorney in Chicago. We had drifted apart after my marriage to Diego, mostly because Diego hated Lucia's loud, unfiltered honesty and had subtly manipulated me into cutting ties with her.
With trembling fingers, I pressed call.
It rang four times before a sharp, familiar voice answered: "Lucia Santos speaking."
"Lucia..." My voice broke completely, a sob tearing from my throat. "I'm so sorry to call you this late... I didn't know who else to call."
"Verónica?!" Lucia's voice shifted instantly from professional to intense concern. "Where are you? What's wrong? You sound hysterical."
"I left Diego," I sobbed, squeezing the steering wheel. "His mother hit Sofía with a leather belt... and Diego told me to apologize. He wiped out our bank accounts... I have twenty-four dollars, Lucia. I don't know what to do."
There was a three-second silence on the line, followed by the distinct sound of car keys jingling in the background.
"Where are you parked right now, Vero?" Lucia asked, her voice turning into cool, focused steel.
May you like
"The Denny's off Highway 4."
"Stay right there. Lock your doors," Lucia commanded. "I'm forty minutes away. Do not answer the phone if Diego calls. Do not move. I'm coming to get you."
