Do not look back.
I looked back.
Hersh stood near the curb, unmoving, his eyes on my car like he could see straight through the lie I’d just handed him.
My chest ached.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though he couldn’t hear me.
Then I drove away.
The streets of Eagle River rolled past in a blur of sunlit brick buildings, old oak trees, and the kind of small-town charm that should have made me feel safe.
It had.
For six months, it almost had.
That was the cruelest part.
I had started to like it here.
The little café with the good black coffee.
The bookstore two doors down.
The river behind the house, the FBI had placed me in.
The quiet mornings.
The way people waved even when they didn’t know you.
For the first time in months, I had almost let myself pretend I might survive long enough to testify and getmy life back.
Then Hersh McDougal had walked across a sidewalk and said my name.
Not the name the FBI gave me.
Not the last name on my paperwork.
My name.
The one that belonged to the girl he used to love.
My phone sat in the cup holder.
I should call Agent Michael Jones.
I knew I should.
Running into someone from my past wasn’t a small problem.
It was a disaster.
Witness protection came with rules.
No old contacts.
No familiar places.
