But not for much longer. One way or another this was going to end soon.
Scott had no intention of letting Natalie rest in peace. He could kill her for what she’d done. Too bad someone else had gotten to her first.
Two
KENSINGTON, VERMONT, NEAR THE CANADIAN BORDER
This wasn’t good for her paranoia, which admittedly was running on all cylinders already.
Natalie—no,Jennifer, she reminded herself—pulled the old Yankees ball cap down lower over her brow. But she couldn’t hide completely from the curious glances cast in her direction as she moved around the town center doing her errands.
She’d known this would happen, which is why she had so many things to do. She’d put off coming to town for as long as she could, but she’d needed supplies from the hardware store, fresh food, and, more imperatively, almond milk for her coffee.
Done in by millennial taste buds. Wouldn’t that be the height of ridiculousness after everything that had happened the past few months? But Natalie couldn’t hide out at the farm forever, and the stuff in a jar just wasn’t cutting it. Her morning coffee was one of the few small pleasures she had left in life. She was miserable enough without suffering powdered creamer.
If there was ever a made-for-TV movie about her life—and it certainly cried out for one—she could just see it now:
Why did you leave the safety of the farm to go into town?
I needed almond milk for my coffee.
And the wisecracking handsome detective—they were always handsome—would of course add with just the right hint of sarcasm:And did you pick up avocado for your toast as well?
Ugh. She’d probably be played by some airhead reality TV blonde, despite the fact that Natalie’s hair was more golden brown now.
Well, she’d worry about that injustice later. Right now she needed to focus on not doing anything to draw attention to herself. Check that.Moreattention to herself.
She’d grown up in a small farming community like this one so she understood the interest. New blood always drew attention. But attention was the one thing she couldn’t afford right now. She needed to keep her head down and blend in until it was time to move on to the next town. This was her fourth in three months, and she wanted it to last longer than a few weeks.
Natalie finished paying for her groceries, holding her breath as she did every time when the credit card went into the machine. But a few minutes later, she exhaled as the approval came through.
You are safe. No one is looking for you.
But three months wasn’t long enough to reassure her that she’d gotten away with it. That she’d gotten away at all.
She left the store, bags in hand, and sighed with relief. It was amazing how a few errands could feel like a major accomplishment. But they did, and now she could return to her rented farmhouse and avoid the prying, questioning gazes until the next time she needed milk. She’d beenable to order most of her supplies online, but fresh grocery delivery hadn’t made its way to this part of Vermont yet.
Natalie crossed the street to where she’d parked. The market was located in the town’s main shopping mall, which, like many malls in rural communities, had seen better days about thirty years ago. Along with a grocery store and pharmacy (Kensington wasn’t big enough to have a Walmart), there were a couple of restaurants—the ubiquitous pizza place and what appeared to be a Chinese buffet—a gym, and a duty-free shop as the town border to the north was Canada—Quebec, to be specific. The only evidence of the town’s dairy farming base was the small ice-cream shop, boasting “made from local Kensington cows.” Maple and apples, the town’s other traditional industries, had been left off the poster.
The mall was situated right off Main Street, where she’d found the hardware store and, interestingly, a craft brewery and a small coffee shop that roasted its own beans. These last two businesses hinted at the small organic-and-sustainability-focused businesses that were moving into many of Vermont’s traditional farm communities. Some people disparagingly called the young people who ran them “hipsters,” but she thought that was unfair. Probably because a business along those lines had always been her dream.
One day, she told herself. In a town just like this. When she was sure no one was looking for her, and she had an identity that no one could connect to Natalie Andersson.
Rounding out Main Street were the post office and the town’s municipal building, which presumably served as the headquarters for the local government. There wasn’t a police station in town—a bonus, as far as she was concerned—but the volunteer firehouse was at the end of the block.
Natalie had just finished putting her grocery bags in the trunk of Jennifer’s ten-year-old BMW convertible that she’d retrieved from New Jersey—a car Natalie never would have purchased even if she lived in California, and in Vermont it was just plain silly—when she heard the first notes of a Tchaikovsky waltz that would stop her in her tracks anywhere. It reminded her of her childhood. HerMinnesotachildhood. Although Natalie knew now that it probably went deeper than that. Blood deep.
Not long after she and her sister had come to live in America, her adoptive father had taken her to seeThe Nutcrackerin the city. Not Mankato, which was the biggest city close to where they lived, but to therealbig city: Minneapolis.
Her father had worn his Sunday best and had even put on a tie for the occasion. She’d had a new plaid dress that her adoptive mother had had to coax her into putting on. She’d never had anything so beautiful before, and she couldn’t believe it was for her. The white tights and black patent leather shoes made her feel like a princess.
But the real magic had begun when she’d heard those first few notes of the overture. When the ballerinas had twirled onto the stage, she’d been absolutely transfixed.
Only years later did she understand why.
She’d been just five at the time, but the memory stuck with her because it was the first time she could remember being happy. She’d had so many good memories afterward, but that had been the first. It had seemed to be a demarcation; a line separating the sad past that she wanted to forget and the happy future that she could look forward to. And ithadbeen happy. Perfectly boring, normal, and wonderful. Until four years ago, when another demarcation had sent her life into a tailspin.
She shook off the memory and let the music take her back. She and her father went to Minneapolis to see theballet every December until a few years ago when his prior heart attack and worsening diabetes had put an end to car trips. When her sister, Lana, was old enough she and their mother sometimes joined them, too, but the tradition had always been with her father, and they’d never thought of going without him.
