?? ?? ??
The bell above the door gave a little ping every time someone came in. By mid-morning, the air in the newsagent’s smelled of coffee, newspaper ink, and the faint sweetness of the boiled sweets that filled the plastic jars on the counter. Sana’s mum barked orders in a mixture of English and Punjabi, and the radio hummed behind the till.
The husband-and-wife duo were pretty hilarious to watch. They swapped shifts with banter and smack talk. Either that or they had a weird way of flirting.
It wasn’t glamorous work—stacking papers, counting change, sweeping the floor—but it was honest. Simple. The kind of quiet I hadn’t known in months.
By the end of my first week, I’d learned the rhythm of the shop: the pensioner who bought the Telegraph at ten, the school kidswho spent their pocket money on crisps and sweets. Ordinary people living ordinary lives.
During the lull between customers, I sat on a crate in the storeroom and let my hand rest against my stomach. The flutter there was small and steady, a reminder that I was no longer running, no longer watched.
For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine the future not as a trap but as a doorway.
A baby. A home. A chance to build something that was mine alone.
I smiled to myself and drew a long, calm breath.
The world outside could rage all it wanted.
For now, I was safe.
Chapter 21
Laurent
The car slowed, and I peered out the window toward her apartment. The light was on. I’d thought she was sick, or just needed time to herself, but each day she didn’t show up made me more suspicious. When she stopped calling in to Evelyn, irritation turned to unease.
Garrett parked the car, and I pulled the handle to open the door.
“Good luck,” he said, glancing back at me.
I ignored him. I didn’t need luck—only meticulous planning.
At her door, I smoothed back my hair and checked my tie before knocking.
I waited.
And waited.
I was about to knock again when I heard movement.
The door opened, and I was ready to unleash every pent-up accusation—until I found myself staring at a chestnut-haired man in his thirties.
“Who are you?” I growled.
He frowned. “I should be asking you that, mate. You’re the one knocking onmydoor.”
“Your door?” I checked the number. No mistake.
“I’m looking for Lucia Hart,” I said, but a cold sweat prickled as her words came back to me—something about running and hiding. The system.
Fuck.
Why hadn’t I paid attention?
“Hold on,” he said, shutting the door in my face.
A moment later, he reopened it and handed me a bundle of letters.
