The name still feels wrong in my mouth. Like wearing someone else's clothes that almost fit but not quite. I've practiced saying it a thousand times. Written it on forms and applications, and the name tag at the coffee shop where I work mornings. Responded to it when neighbors call out in the hallway.
But I'm not Emma Richardson.
I'm Maggie Brooks. Magnolia Brooks. The woman whose brother sold her to a cartel. The woman who shot him in the shoulder and watched him bleed. The woman who kissed a Guardian operator in an abandoned ranch while a dozen enforcers closed in.
The woman who's been waiting for permission to make a phone call.
Eighteen more months to go.
I wipe down the counter and check the clock: 2:47 PM. Three hours until my shift ends. Then home to my apartment that isn’t mine, to cook dinner I don’t taste, to watch TV I don’t care about, to sleep in a bed where I dream about warehouses and the man who saved me.
The dog tags are heavier today. Or maybe I'm just more aware of them. Sofia's name is engraved in worn metal, a reminder of wrong choices, guilt, and penance. Except they're not penance anymore. They're a promise.
Two years,Colt said.Then you call that number.
But it's only been six months, and I'm not allowed to call anyone from before. Not friends. Not former Army buddies. Not the man who saved my life and gave me his promise in the pre-dawn darkness.
At 6:00 PM, I clock out. Walk three blocks to my apartment in the rain. Climb three flights of stairs. Unlock door 3C.
The rain gets heavier, drumming against the window. November in Portland means gray skies, wet streets, and forgetting what sunlight looks like.
I should make dinner. Should eat something. Should pretend Emma Richardson is a real person with a real life.
Instead, I sit at the kitchen table with cold coffee and Sophia’s dog tags warm against my chest.
My phone buzzes on the table. Unknown number.
I stare at it for three full rings before I reach for it. Unknown numbers are usually spam. Student loan forgiveness I don't need. Extended car warranties for a vehicle I don't own. Nobody calls Emma Richardson because Emma Richardson doesn't exist.
But my hand is shaking when I pick it up.
"Hello?"
Silence. Just the faint sound of breathing and rain—not my rain, different rain, somewhere else.
Then: "Magnolia."
My heart stops. Completely stops. Then restarts so hard I feel it in my throat, in my ears, in my fingertips wrapped around the phone.
That voice. Low and rough and saying my name like it's something precious.
"Colt?" I'm on my feet without remembering standing up. "How did you?—"
"I kept my promise." His voice is quiet, controlled, but I can hear something underneath it. Relief. Longing. Six months compressed into three words. "I'm outside."
The phone nearly slips from my hand.
Outside. He's outside. Right now.
"You can't be here." But I'm already moving toward the window, looking down at the street three stories below. "The program—the rules—if they find out?—"
"I don't care about the rules."
Of course he doesn't. He went rogue for me six months ago. Violated orders. Risked his career. Why would witness protection protocols stop him now?
I see him.
Standing on the sidewalk across from my building, rain soaking through his jacket, phone to his ear, looking up at my window like he knew exactly which one was mine.
