Tara had to take a few minutes with her ear to the still locked door, trying to gauge if Vern was up yet. Her plan was to get off the property without ever seeing him once.
Even when no sounds reached her ears, she still lingered, gathering up the courage to leave. She was grateful for his help, truly, but she came here looking for a quiet place to lay low until her situation blew over. It was clear to her now that Vern's yard wasn't that place.
Tara slid the now oiled lock smoothly out of its place. A strange sense of excitement began to bubble in her chest as she opened the barn door a crack.
She was about to go out on her own again. It was terrifying, there was always the chance she wouldn't be able to find another job or a place to live, but it was the electric sense of possibility that kept her feet light and mind off what she'd seen last night.
The morning sun kissed her face sweetly as she poked her head out. Tara surveyed the windows to Vern's kitchen, still seeing no one inside. It looked like he wasn't up yet.
She ran across the yard, looking over her shoulder the whole way until she got onto the road leading off his property.
Tara walked until she got back into town and began her search for a place to stay. She had a decent few bob now and she could afford to rent a place. A few more days with Vern, she probably would have been able to buy some shithole in town, but it would be a waste if she wasn't staying.
She looked around for about an hour. Tara wasn't too concerned where she stayed, if everything went to plan, she would spend most of her time working to save up for Boston.
The landlord of her chosen building had introduced himself as Denny Wayons, a big man with stretched out buttons and a strange smell, but he seemed honest enough.
Denny lumbered in front of her up the stairs to the third floor. He fished the keys out of his pockets and wiggled them around in the door for a little longer than expected. "The lock's a little cracked sometimes." He explained offhandedly before the door finally gave way.
She didn't let it deter her. At least now, not only would she have trouble getting in her flat, but so would anyone breaking in.
It was a small space, but she didn't need much anyway. A large window threw light into the room. A tiny couch sat in the corner and a little kitchen in the other. The bedroom was miniscule. The walls were whitewashed, the corners needed dusting and it smelled like the windows hadn't been opened in weeks.
It was perfect.
She worked the rent to the lowest she could manage, gave Denny his first month's worth and trekked down to the street, grabbing the first paper she could find. Tara skipping straight to the job ads at the back. She skimmed down through them, leaning her back against the wall of the corner shop.
There was a baker looking for extra help, but Tara hadn't kneaded a pound of dough in her entire life. A seamstress down the road needed an assistant, but she'd almost poked a woman's eye out with a sowing needle before, so maybe that wasn't the best fit.
Half the advertisements were for factory work, but Tara shied away from them. Vern's yard wasn't exactly classified as manual labour, but it had bent her backwards and a factory wouldn't treat her much better.
Going through the list, Tara found reasons to opt against almost every single ad. She was beginning to realise how difficult it would be to find a stable job that suited her even a little bit.
Until her eyes landed on one. Her finger paused in surprise, ceasing its paper trailing to examine the print.
Tara lifted her head and smiled with a slight shake of her head. Decent pay, that was if the owner didn't decide to lower it as soon as he saw her. She was vaguely familiar with the place, as in she'd been there a total of once.
She read every letter of the ad in preparation, about to fold up the paper under her arm and set off, but she hesitated. Tara wondered if people were still talking about her. If her story still lingered between the pages.
Her lips pursed. It was best to be in the know anyway. She flipped to the front again, eyes scouring the words for any mention of her. Nothing. Tara moved to the next. Still nothing. Maybe her father had given up, or maybe the papers were bored of her already.
The fourth page proved her wrong. There, in the corner, in a little box, was an account of her crime and a surprisingly lowered reward. She guessed it had become too expensive to pay for her picture printed on the front page, but she doubted her father had fully given up on his search.
She read it a few times, but didn't move on. This was a good thing. It was definitely a good thing. People would forget her face soon enough and she could leave to America like she'd meant to from the start.
With a resigned sigh, Tara folded up the paper and began her walk down the dirty road to the only place with a chance of hiring her.
The Ritter.
❖
"It's not a favour, Jerry, I'm a hard worker and I'll earn every penny I get."
He shook his head. "One hour and they'll have eaten you alive."
Tara blew out a breath to keep her simmering frustration at bay. "I'm good with numbers and I can read. I'll do the books-" He scoffed in blatant disbelief and she fell silent, pursing her lips.
"You don't look like you've worked a single day of your life, love. You won't last here." He shook his head once again, waving her away like a fly bogging his dinner.
She thought it would be distasteful to argue with a prospective employer, so she kept her snide remarks to herself and continued. "You're right, I haven't worked in a bar before, but I'm a fast learner and..."
Tara hesitated. She didn't want to flaunt Vern's name around. If it was common knowledge what he did, it could send the wrong message, but her interview wasn't going anywhere. Jerry wasn't listening to a word she said, unable to look past her blonde hair and the fact she was a girl.
She crossed her arms, not looking away from him. "If you need it, I have references." She only had one, but didn't want to demerit herself any further.
He raised his brows in doubt, waiting for her to elaborate. Hell, what did she have to lose.
"Vern Stokes? He has a yard down by the canal, I-"
Jerry stopped her with a hand, his eyes squinted, less condescending and a little nervous now. "Stokes? You work for Vern Stokes?"
Tara unfolded one of her arms to gesture absentmindedly. "Well, worked, yes."
The barman's eyes glanced to the closed doorway strangely. "You were let go?"
She shook her head, wording her answer carefully. "No, I finished the job he gave me."
He stayed quiet, eyes to the floor for a long second before picking up the mop in his hands higher and walking into the backroom with it, not saying a word.
Tara lingered in confusion. Jerry emerged again, seeming to fidget behind the bar, like he was searching for something to do.
"Does this mean I have the job?" Her question came after an increasingly awkward pause.
Jerry waved his hands flippantly again, but not in the shooing manner he had done before, more like he was eager for the conversation to end whether he got his way or not. "Yeah... yeah you have the job, just... don't bring any trouble around here."
The woman was stunned into momentary silence. She'd expected a little more fight, but it seemed Jerry had a vague, if not crystal clear idea as to who her former boss was.
That warm bubble began to fill up her lungs again. It didn't bother her too much that Jerry had his own assumptions and fears about what it was exactly that she'd done for Vern Stokes if it meant she'd successfully landed her new job.
Tara smiled politely, containing the pride in her chest. "When do I start?"
❖
Tara wasn't looking forward to her first night in a new flat. She knew the unfamiliar setting would do nothing but incite restless sleep and most likely uncomfortable memories.
So when she laid her head down and closed her tired eyes, Tara breathed deeply, trying to clear her head in hopes it would lull her into a dreamless sleep.
She awoke drenched in cold sweat, well into the night, the sight of her cold, unexplored flat greeted her without warmth or comfort. She massaged her numb legs lightly. At some point in the night, Tara had shuffled too far down the bed and they'd hung incommodiously over the edge.
While she lay awake, reluctant to close her eyes again, her thoughts ran wildly and incoherently with wavering wishes into the wind. Tara breathed deeply, feeling the hyperactivity in her head recede slightly with every exhale.
The weight of what she'd done and what she'd have to endure before she got her happy ending was a suffocating mass on her frail shoulders. She tried praying, a tear silently slipping from the corner of her eye. She prayed for the strength to keep afloat, for forgiveness to await her at the end of the line.
And in response, the darkness sat still, undisturbed, taunting her with it's demeaning and patronising silence.
Just as it always had before.