Figuring out my next step would happen tomorrow. Or the day after. Once my bruises healed and the stitches were removed, but damn, I desperately wish I still had my phone.

Townhomes appeared, large and vast and as rich as the homes, if only smaller in size, until my taxi stopped in front of a building, two townhomes next to each other, both with three-car garages attached. Both homes were completely dark, not an outdoor light on at all, but I figured safety wasn’t much of an issue in this neighborhood. Not with Officer Kevin at the gate and his weathered, aged, but irritated face and muscled body to protect them.

I almost snickered at the thought, but the taxi slowed and pulled to the curb of one of the homes.

“This is it.” He glanced around, probably noticed the lack of lighting like I had, and met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I can wait. To ensure you are safe.”

His gaze dipped to the gash near my left eye. It still throbbed with pain, but less than earlier. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay.”

I used the credit card Heather gave me earlier for “incidentals” as she called them, seeing as I shared an account with my ex-fiancé and I didn’t want him knowing where I was. At least, not yet.

I stepped out after I paid and hitched the small overnight bag I’d bought at Target filled with a couple of days’ worth of clothes and makeup and hair products. Basics, until I could get a new bank account and transfer money.

I closed the door, and the taxi waited until I was on the dark front porch and the bag dropped to my side.

Twenty minutes. I had nothing to do, nothing to keep me occupied. So I turned, plopped my ass down on the top step, and rested my head against the wall as the taxi slowly pulled away, seeming hesitant to leave me there alone.

A stranger had been more kind to me than a man I was supposed to marry.

The thought made my nose and throat burn, and as I sniffed, the very painful and vivid reminder of what Lincoln did earlier pulsed at my cheek. Above my hip.

It was nearing midnight, but that meant it was three o’clock in the morning my time, and I’d been up for almost thirty-six hours.

I hadn’t even been able to sleep on the plane. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lincoln.

His fist.

I shook my head and tried to brush the images out of my mind.

One fight. Hours in the emergency room. Three hours later, Heather was there, rushing to me after hopping a ferry from Martha’s Vineyard, where she was working for the summer, to be at my side.

“That’s what best friends do,” she’d said, hugging me tightly.

One hour later, I was discharged, and I turned down the offer to press charges.

I doubted anyone would believe me. Not in Boston.