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JESSICA
March, Present Day
Maple Ridge
The vibrationsof the bus under my feet do nothing to calm me. But I don’t think I’ll ever be truly calm again after spending five years in prison for killing my husband. My abusive husband.
I stare out the window. Blue sky peeks between gray clouds, so different from the endless blue I left in San Diego three days ago. Snow-topped mountains reach up, their sides blanketed with pine trees.
My fingers close around an imaginary camera in my hand. My old camera. And they itch to press the shutter-release button, to capture the beauty of the mountains. The freedom.
I glance at my watch, one of the few possessions I still own. If the bus is on schedule, we’ll be arriving in Maple Ridge, Oregon in fifteen minutes.
A place where I can easily disappear. Start a new life. Leave my past behind.
I twirl a goldish strand of hair around my finger. I haven’t gotten used to the color yet. Until three days ago, I’d spent my thirty-one years as a brunette.
From what I’ve read about Maple Ridge, the scenic town seems to be a haven for tourists traveling to the mountains. Someone is less likely to recognize me from all the “Wife Murders Heroic Cop” coverage than if I’d stayed in California.
The bus pulls up to the depot, which is nothing more than a tiny brick building. I wait for everyone to get off, then make my way down the aisle. My heartbeat is a series of large waves crashing against rocks during a storm, the rhythm and intensity due to fear or excitement or a combination of both.
My small suitcase is on the sidewalk when I step off the bus. I grab it, turn to the building, and see a woman looking at me through the large window of the bus depot. She’s in her early fifties, wearing jeans and a navy-and-white-striped top. Has to be Anne Carstairs. My new landlord.
Her straight, chin-length blond hair is ashier than mine. The sunny streaks look like the result of a salon. She didn’t grab a cheap hair color like I did while picking up bread, peanut butter, and a couple of apples at the grocery store.
I hitch up my black pants, which hang awkwardly on my body, and shiver. My short-sleeved top isn’t meant for the chilly temperature. It’s better suited for San Diego’s cool spring nights versus Maple Ridge’s brisk afternoons.
There wasn’t time to go clothes shopping once I was released from the women’s prison. No time to make a quick trip to the mall while Florence drove me to a motel. I didn’t want to deal with the media circus my release ignited. “Abused Wife Exonerated of Husband’s Murder.”
The next day she took me to the bus station. “Assuming the media doesn’t discover you’re in Maple Ridge, you should be able to get a new start. No one has to know about your past.”
“Does Anne know anything about it?” Is she okay with a former convict—even one innocent of the crime—living in her house?
“She knows you as Jessica Smithson. She doesn’t know you’re Savannah Townsend. I told her something traumatic happened to you, and you need a place to heal for a few months. She is happy to help. And you don’t have to worry about her asking questions. If there’s anyone who respects someone’s privacy, it’s Anne.”
I pull out of the memory and scan the bus depot. No one seems to be paying attention to me. The couple at the ticket counter is busy buying tickets. The woman with a baby is strapping the sleeping infant into its car seat. I’m just another nameless person arriving in town.
I’m safe now.
Safe. It’s been a lifetime since I felt that way. A lifetime since I didn’t have to constantly check over my shoulder or brace myself for another mean word or slap or kick or punch.
Anne opens the door for me, and I step into the warm brick building. The inside has a quaint, small-town feel. Clean and cozy and welcoming. Picture perfect for the tourists, and hopefully a taste of what I can expect for the rest of Maple Ridge.
“Hi, you must be Jessica.” Her gaze flicks briefly to my mouth and the two-inch scar from the corner of it down to my jaw. The result of a surprise knife attack. In prison.
I fight the need to duck my head, and I will my mouth into a smile, which fails to hit the mark due to the scar. “Yes. And you must be Anne.” I hold out my hand to her, the polite girl I was raised to be temporarily stepping up for the one who fears being touched. Fears, but at the same time craves the physical contact of another person. A grandmother’s touch. The touch of a best friend.
Anne shakes my hand, her grip confident and friendly. She doesn’t seem to recognize me from all those times my picture was flashed on the news during my trial. But why would she? Savannah Townsend was gorgeous. Unforgettable. The two words my husband called me the first time we met.
Jessica Smithson is the one with the scars on her face. The scars the media never found out about.
I’m safe now. They’ll never find me.
“Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“I did, ma’am. Thank you.” My voice sounds rusty to my ears, the result of years of speaking as little as possible. Of trying to be invisible. For my own safety.
