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Getting out of the house was the easy part. Getting help ... wasn't. Father had chosen to be spiteful in the one way I couldn't have predicted - making sure I was unable to get the help I so desperately needed. No one in Fischers End would listen, and it was the same in Colliers Lane and Derry Hill. I was told "politely" by everyone I asked that they didn't wish to invoke the Alpha's wrath by assisting an outcast who'd tried to murder her own sister, and that it was "best" for me to submit to Father's will and apologise.
Finally, as lunchtime beckoned, I sat on a park bench, tired, hungry and footsore. I had an apple, gifted to me when the son of the last shopowner I spoke to took pity on me, and there was a nearby water fountain. Once I'd finished my apple, I had a long drink of water before assessing my situation. It was clear Father wasn't as ready to let me go as he'd claimed, not when it meant I could tell the truth of my childhood to any willing ear. Hence why three towns so far had been unwilling to lend me a hand, swallowing his lies like eager kids gobbling down candy. I had no idea how far his sphere of influence extended, and no way to test it, not without a wolf to use her finely tuned instincts to detect to what lengths Father would go to keep me muzzled.
Fed up, I stood, stretched, and picked up my suitcase. If I had to walk to the other side of the country to get away from Father's influence, I'd walk holes through my one good pair of shoes. I wasn't going back to the packhouse, no matter what Father tried to pull, and one way or another, I would break free of his toxic influence so I could finally start healing.
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In the mid-afternoon, I reached Saint Albans Park, and because I was tired and thirsty again, I decided to try my luck at the modest bluestone pub, which called itself The Naff All. It was dark and cool inside, and blessedly quiet, save for the owner, a tall man on the older side, with grey hair and equally grey eyes. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked.
I set my suitcase down. "Just a glass of water, please," I said. "And five minutes to sit out of the sun. I won't get in your way, and I'll be gone before you even notice I'm here." I'd used that line before, and each time I'd been requested to move on before I had the police called on me. I prayed it wouldn't be the same this time.
Mercifully, the owner had no objections to my borrowing a bit of real estate, and said so. "I've got no one coming in till later," he said, "but if you're willing to help wash dishes, I might consider letting you stay for a few days while you get your feet under you."
I took a deep breath to quell the sudden onrush of gratitude. "I'd really appreciate that," I said. "I ran into a bit of trouble at home, and it was either leave or ... well, I really don't know."
"I know the type," the owner assured me. "Say no more. Here, let me show you where you put your things. My boys are respectful, but if you need to bare your fangs at them, please do."
This covert reference to my wolfish nature caught me off guard, but I had no time to wonder how he knew I was a werewolf. As I followed him upstairs, however, I vowed to find out, and despite my caution about fully trusting him, I felt as if I'd reached a safer haven than I realised.
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