Always. Address attached.
The reply came with a location pin and a short string of numbers. The code for the front door is 8520. It's a smart lock. Given the circumstances, please consider this a safe place to stay until we can sort out the official details. Your safety is the priority.
Amira called an Uber. It wasn't a black car. It was a dented Toyota Camry that smelled of pine air freshener. She sat in the back, hugging her bag, watching the city change through the rain-streaked window. The skyscrapers of Manhattan gave way to the lower, brick skyline of Queens.
The car stopped in a quiet neighborhood. Tree-lined streets. Brownstones.
The address was a modest, three-story house. It looked well-kept, but simple. No doorman. No gold plating.
She punched the code into the keypad by the door. It beeped green, and the lock clicked open.
She dragged her suitcase inside.
The interior was sparse. Minimalist. The furniture was clean lines, neutral colors. It looked like the home of someone who lived on a budget but had good taste. To Amira, it looked like freedom.
She walked into the kitchen. There was a note on the island, written in a sharp, angular handwriting.
Make yourself at home. Room on the left is yours. - C
Beside the note was a box of tea. Earl Grey with Lavender. Her favorite. Aunt Rosa must have told him, she mused, a small, tired smile touching her lips.
She walked to the room on the left. It was small, but the bed looked soft. There was a window that looked out onto a small garden.
She sat on the bed. The mattress gave under her weight, welcoming her.
She felt safe. For the first time in eight years, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosened.
She took out her phone. She plugged it into the charger on the nightstand.
She opened her contacts. She found Ethan Dejesus.
She pressed Block Contact.
She went to her photos. She selected every photo of him. Delete. Delete. Delete.
She unpacked the photo of her parents and placed it on the nightstand.
She went to the bathroom and showered. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, washing away the mud, the blood, and the smell of Ethan's cologne that seemed to cling to her.
She put on an oversized t-shirt and made a cup of the tea.
She sat by the window, sipping the hot liquid. It was quiet. No paparazzi. No yelling. Just the sound of rain on the glass.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Carleton.
Safe?
Amira typed back.
Yes. Thank you.
She smiled. She was marrying a poor actuary, living in a small house in Queens, and she had never been happier. The phone screen went dark, reflecting her own calm, exhausted face. Outside, the rain finally began to soften, washing the city clean.
