Jayme Barnes POV
Sleep was out of the question.
I went straight to the hotel, my hands shaking as I packed my single bag.
My phone was vibrating on the nightstand, dancing across the wood with each buzz.
Autry.
Autry.
Autry.
I didn't block him.
I needed to know he was looking; I wanted to imagine him desperate.
I called the front desk.
"I need a taxi to the airport," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Immediately."
"Ms. Barnes," the concierge said, his tone laced with nerves. "There are... men in the lobby asking for you."
Autry's soldiers.
He was trying to cage the canary again.
"Is there a back exit?" I asked.
"Through the kitchen," he whispered.
"I'll be down in two minutes."
I grabbed my bag.
I grabbed my teddy bear.
I left the rest of my clothes where they lay-shedding a skin I no longer needed.
I slipped through the service elevator and out into the alley behind the hotel.
A taxi was waiting, engine idling in the damp air.
I didn't go to the airport.
He would have men there.
"Take me to the train station," I told the driver.
I considered the obvious route: a train to Paris. Then a train to London. Then a flight to New York.
No.
That was exactly what he would expect.
Instead, I took a train to a small town called Arles.
I found a cheap hostel tucked away on a quiet street.
I called Chloe.
"I need you to do something for me," I said.
"Anything," she replied instantly.
"Log into my social media. Post one picture. A black square. Caption it: Goodbye."
"And then?"
"Deactivate everything. Delete the accounts."
"Jayme, are you sure? That's your career."
"My career was built on his name," I said, the realization cold and sharp. "I want it dead."
"Done," she said.
I hung up.
I took the SIM card out of my phone.
I snapped it in half and flushed it down the toilet, watching the pieces swirl away.
I went to a local jazz bar that night.
I needed a drink.
I sat in the corner, nursing a whiskey that burned pleasantly on the way down.
The music was loud.
The saxophone wailed, a mournful sound like a dying animal.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
The lights flickered on, stark and blinding.
The manager walked to the center of the room.
He looked terrified.
"Everyone out," he stammered. "Gas leak. Emergency. Everyone out now."
People started grumbling and grabbing their coats.
I stood up.
I knew the smell of a gas leak. There was none.
This wasn't gas.
This was power.
I walked toward the exit, heart hammering against my ribs.
A large hand blocked the door.
It was Mark.
Autry's shadow.
"He wants to see you, Jayme," Mark said quietly.
"I'm not here," I said.
"He cleared the bar. He knows you're here."
"Tell him I died in the gas leak."
I pushed past Mark.
He didn't stop me.
He looked at me with something like pity, a crack in his stoic armor.
"He's going to tear the city apart," Mark warned.
"Let him," I said. "I won't be in it."
I ran down the street.
I flagged down a passing car.
It was a beat-up Peugeot.
"Marseille Airport," I told the driver. "I'll pay you double."
I got to the airport.
I bought a ticket to the furthest place I could find on the departure board.
Tokyo.
Then Sydney.
Then back to Europe.
I zig-zagged across the globe for three weeks until the world blurred into a series of terminals and takeoff lights, until I landed in London.
I was exhausted.
I was broke.
But I was invisible.
I sat in the terminal, watching the planes take off.
I borrowed a stranger's phone to call Chloe one last time.
"It's done," she said. "The accounts are gone. The press is saying you had a breakdown."
"Good."
"Autry called me," she whispered.
My heart skipped a beat.
"What did he say?"
"He didn't say anything. He just breathed into the phone for a minute and then hung up."
I looked out at the runway.
A plane was taxiing.
"Goodbye, Chloe."
"Be safe, Jayme."
I handed the phone back to the stranger.
I walked onto the plane.
As the wheels lifted off the tarmac, I felt the gravity letting go.
I wasn't Jayme Barnes anymore.
I was just a girl in the sky.
