Chapter 2 - The Vanishing Act
Three days later, in a small, damp apartment above a bakery in Portland, Maine, Evelyn sat at a wooden table counting her cash.
Nine thousand four hundred dollars remained after paying six months of rent upfront under the name "Sarah Miller."
The city smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and fresh bread—a harsh, grounding contrast to the lavender air fresheners and beeswax polish of Marcus’s estate.
She had cut her long dark hair above her shoulders and dyed it an ash blonde in the bathroom sink. She wore oversize sweaters, canvas sneakers, and no jewelry. The five-carat diamond engagement ring Marcus had placed on her finger three years ago sat at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, tossed off the side of the Portland ferry twenty-four hours earlier.
Every morning, she forced herself to eat a piece of toast and drink a glass of milk, managing the morning sickness with slow, deliberate breaths.
On Friday morning, she saw the first sign of his reach.
A black sedan with tinted windows sat parked across the street from the bakery. It didn't move. It didn't leave a ticket. It simply watched.
Evelyn stood behind the lace curtains of her second-story window, her heart pounding against her ribs. She knew the protocol. Marcus didn't send police or missing-persons reports. He sent his clean-up crews—men who moved through local public records, credit agencies, and bus terminal security footage like grease through water.
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She had six hours before they matched her new appearance to the bus manifest.
She picked up her duffel bag, left the remaining five months of pre-paid rent behind, and walked out the back fire escape into the alley.
