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gave her abuser an excuse to beat her senseless.
    Leaving would do no good and killing him would put her in danger of going to prison, leaving her child motherless. It was time for her to do what she had been avoiding for years.
    She peeled her aching body up off the kitchen floor and called her neighbor to come and watch her son. If she made her way downtown now, she could get there before the library closed and her bruises were too noticeable to cause her embarrassment.
    She quickly went into the bathroom and began the cover up job she was all too familiar with, applying layer after layer of make-up to her tender skin. She needed to get out of here before he came back and made it impossible to leave. She had years to do what she was getting ready to do but desperate times called for desperate measures.
    If she didn’t do what she had in mind, he was going to kill her. Even if he didn’t do it on purpose, he would by accident in a blind rage. It had been different before she had her son. It had been easier to hide the shame and embarrassment of being an abused spouse but with each passing day, her son was getting older and would soon realize what his daddy was doing.
    The thought of raising a boy who would grow up thinking that this abuse was the normal way for a family to function was reprehensible. That she had allowed herself to be beaten was bad enough, but putting her implied seal of approval on his abusive behavior with her continued silence was unthinkable.
    She greeted the babysitter, gave her last minute instructions for the baby, and quickly headed to her car. Even if he did catch her leaving, there was one place he never forbade her to go—the library.
     

     

Elaine made her way around the library, replacing books to their rightful shelves and whistling while she worked. She was very pleased to have found a new member in the chat room who seemed as if she was serious about escaping her abuser.
    It was easy to get discouraged with the volunteer work she did when over and over she witnessed their inability to leave the men who beat them.
    The abuse they suffered went far beyond the cuts and bruises that would heal over time; it burrowed into their psyches and stained their souls. She knew firsthand how deeply it affected a person. She still suffered from the psychological trauma of having to give her daughter up for adoption against her will.
    Her late husband had gotten just what he deserved when that whore had choked the breath of life right out of him. She’d often wondered if it was an accident or if the woman had enjoyed seeing his bound body thrash against the wooden chair she had tied him to. She wished she could have seen his eyes bug out of his head as he pleaded unintelligibly for mercy through his gag. It would have been worth all the embarrassment she suffered when the details of his death made the front-page news write up. The bell on the door alerted her to a patron’s entrance.
    She looked up to view a young woman with what appeared to be scratches on her face, though she had made a valiant attempt at trying to hide them. The woman’s tremulous voice pulled her from her observations.
    “Hello, I’m looking for Elaine Thompson.”
    “I’m Elaine Thompson. What can I help you with, dear?”
    She would never forget the look on the young lady’s face as she answered. “I think you might be my birth mother.”
     



Chapter Thirteen
    Agent Turner opened the trunk so his partner could throw in a couple of overnight bags. They both wanted to make sure the bags, and their personal relationship, remained hidden from colleagues. She slammed the trunk and made her way to the passenger side of the car to get in.
    She eyed him intently as she spoke, “This isn’t me moving in, David.”
    “It’s Agent Turner,” he interrupted her, meeting her gaze.
    “This isn’t me moving in, David, ” she purposely repeated before continuing. “This is just keeping a few extra items at your place, nothing