It was time I got to the station according to plan B-7b scribbled in her blocky Cyrillic handwriting last June over whiskey sours with expiry dates tattooed across contingency plans…
“Lucia—”
“Go,” she cut me off gently as brakes squealed seventeen floors below us both hearing sirens where there were none yet. “Be ordinary woman who picks ugly ceramic roosters at thrift stores now, yes?” Her smile traveled through satellites. “And text when you reach Amarillo so I know which fools to kill if you don’t”
The line died first like she always did, leaving me with static worse than silence.
Marble floors leached warmth through my socks as I made the final sweep. Crystal decanters threw prismatic daggers across the breakfast nook where he’d shattered a Waterford tumbler last Thanksgiving. My hip still carried the faint mark from where he’d shoved me into the Sub-Zero, punishment for suggesting we donate to a food bank instead of pretending to host another “fundraiser” where I knew the money would go directly into his bank account.
The foyer clock ticked through its Westminster chimes. 12:00 p.m. Flight risk window closing. My tote slumped againstthe Biedermeier console, pocket gaping where I’d torn out the GPS-tracked luggage tag. Through arched windows, Manhattan sprawled like a circuit board—every blinking light a potential witness.
I touched the wall where his fist had left a hairline crack in the Venetian plaster. Two years of learning which textures muffled footsteps (Persian rugs), which surfaces hid fingerprints (brushed nickel), which silences meant he was counting pills in the study. The click of my keycard against the sensor pierced the stillness like a pistol cocking.
At the threshold, I pressed my forehead against the doorframe we’d brought back from Versailles. The carved oak left indentations on my skin. Two years of memorizing which floorboards creaked, which wine glasses rang at specific frequencies, which silences meant danger. My keycard hovered above the sensor.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bettencourt,” the elevator AI chimed. I stared at my distorted reflection in the brass doors—a raven-haired ghost in last season’s trench coat and ball cap. When the car hit the lobby, I walked past the concierge without meeting his eyes, my large tote pulling at the collarbone he’d broken last Christmas.
“Heading out, Ms. Bettencourt?”
The concierge’s voice slithered up my spine as the elevator doors parted. My gloved hand tightened around the tote’s strap.
“Just returning some library books.” The lie flowed smoother than the South African syrah he’d force-fed me at our engagement party. “Harrison prefers physical copies.”
Mario’s gaze lingered on my ball cap. Ineverwore a ball cap. His nostrils flared. Whether at my drugstore perfume or the sweat blooming beneath my polyester blend turtleneck, I couldn’t tell.
“Shall I schedule the Escalade?”
“He’s sending a private driver.”
The lobby’s black lacquer doors swung open on a gust of diesel-tainted air. I stepped into the concrete canyon, my shadow stretching gaunt across Fifth Avenue. Somewhere beyond the sulfur-yellow haze, a Greyhound idled at Port Authority—its plastic seats and rattling windows my chariot to oblivion.
The trench coat’s belt dug into my ribs as I merged with the afternoon crowd. Every man’s shoulder bump became his hand on my neck. Every shouted cellphone conversation his slurred threats. By the time the subway grate blew hot garbage breath through my makeshift bangs, I was running.
Chipped sapphire tiles announced the E train’s approach. A teenager in Air Jordans eyed my tote. I clutched the burner phone’s corpse in my pocket, plastic shards biting into my palm’s flesh. When the downtown local screeched into the station, I let three cars pass before boarding.
Between 42nd and 34th Streets, I transformed from Upper East Side trophy wife to middle-aged tourist to whatever feral creature would emerge in Amarillo.
The bus terminal’s fluorescent lights exposed more than the Penn Station mob. I kept my chin tilted at precisely fifteen degrees—the angle security cameras rarely captured. Ticket machines whirred objections to crumpled twenties fed sideways. Behind bulletproof glass, a clerk with spiderweb eyelashes snorted.
“One-way to Amarillo?”
Her acrylic nails clacked the keyboard. “Got family out there?”
“Something like that.”
The Port Authority’s flickering fluorescents turned every face into a suspect. I wove through bodies smelling of stale pretzels and desperation, my heavy tote bumping against hip bones still slightly bruised from last month’s “lesson.” A toddler’s ice cream cone smeared across my white sneakers, a vanilla bloodstain on synthetic leather. Good. More camouflage.
“Amarillo, 3:15,” barked a voice through crackling speakers. My new name tasted sour on my tongue when the ticket clerk demanded identification. Julia Harris from Newark smiled up from a library card.
“Transfer in St. Louis?” The clerk’s nicotine thumb dented my precious ticket.
I nodded, throat tight. Every syllable risked exposure. “Final destination’s Amarillo.” Lie nesting within lie—Dairyville didn’t merit printed destinations.
Two men in Rangers caps lingered near Gate 22. Not his build, not his walk, but the way they scanned the crowd tightened my bladder. I bought burnt coffee from a kiosk, watching their reflections in the stainless steel napkin dispenser. Three sugars stirred clockwise—counting seconds until boarding.
I shouldn’t be worried. He wouldn’t have missed me yet. It’s his mistress night. He’d take her to whatever sex club they went to on Tuesdays. His discovery wouldn’t happen ‘til he got home after two in the morning.
A janitor’s cart blocked the women’s restroom. Strategic accident or surveillance tactic? I veered toward the family bathroom, lock clicking like a cocked pistol behind me.
