Five days later, Judith calls.

"Eleven days," she says. "June fourteenth. Mark it."

I'm standing at the kitchen counter. There's a coffee cup in my hand. Half full. Cold.

"Eleven days," I repeat.

"You good?"

"I'm good."

"Stay good," she says, and hangs up.

I set the phone down. I pour the coffee into the sink. I watch it spiral down the drain.

Eleven days.

I say it again in the bathroom mirror that night after Creed falls asleep. I say it the next morning while I brush my teeth. I say it in the elevator at the bank on Lexington where I rent a lockbox Creed doesn't know exists.

I put my passport inside. My birth certificate. The deed to the cottage in Vermont my grandmother left me. The one in my name alone.

The lockbox clicks shut.

Eleven days becomes ten. Then nine. Then eight.

I am so close.

---

The cemetery is on Long Island. Quiet. Old trees. Stone paths worn smooth.

The service is small. A minister Creed found. My mother standing twenty feet back with her hands folded. Two men from Creed's firm in dark suits.

And Demi.

She wasn't invited. She came anyway. Structured black dress. Heels. Mochi on a leash.

I don't look at her.

The minister speaks. I hold the urn. It's small. Ceramic. White. The weight of it is wrong. Too light. A whole life shouldn't be this light.

Creed stands to my left. His hand rests on my lower back. Steady. Supportive. The perfect grieving father.

The minister asks us to respond. I open my mouth.

"We commit this soul to—"

Movement behind me.

Demi steps forward. Too close. Her elbow swings out.

It connects with the urn.

The ceramic hits the stone edge of the step. It splits. The top half tumbles. The ashes pour.

Gray powder across the granite. Across my shoes. Into the leaves below.

I don't breathe.

I turn.

Demi's mouth is open. Her hand is at her throat. "Oh my God," she says. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

Something in me snaps.

I lunge.

My hands are on her shoulders. I'm screaming. Words I don't recognize. Sounds that don't have language.

Then pain.

Sharp. Bright. Across my cheekbone.

I stumble back.

Creed is in front of me. His hand is still raised. His face is red.

"Stop it," he says. "You're making a scene. You're embarrassing everyone."

I open my mouth.

He shoves me.

Hard.

I go backward. My heel catches the edge of the step. I'm falling. Four steps. Stone edges. My ribs hit the corner of the lowest step. My lip splits on granite.

I land in the leaves.

The world tilts. I can't breathe. There's copper in my mouth.

I stare up at the sky. Gray. Flat. The color of old paper.

Voices above me. Creed. The minister. My mother.

I don't move.

There are ashes on my hands. In my hair. Ground into the fabric of my dress.

I press my palm into the dirt.

I feel the thread break.

The last one.

The one that connected me to the woman who loved him. Who believed him. Who stayed.

She's gone now.

I close my eyes.

Someone is crying. I think it's my mother.

Creed's voice. Closer now. "Ada. Get up. People are watching."

I don't get up.

I lie in the leaves among the ashes of my son and I count.

Seven days.

Seven days and I'm free.

---

They take me to the ER. Creed drives. He holds my hand in the waiting room. He speaks to the nurse in a low, concerned voice.

Two cracked ribs. Split lip. Bruised cheekbone.

They wrap me. They give me pills. They ask if I'm safe at home.

I say yes.

Creed takes me home. He helps me into bed. He brings water. He kisses my forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I just—you were out of control. I didn't know what else to do."

I stare at the ceiling.

"It's okay," I say.

He exhales. Relief. "I love you."

"I love you too."

He leaves the room.

I wait until I hear the TV. Then I reach under the mattress.

The burner phone is still there.

I open the folder labeled Recipes.

I look at the screenshots. The link. The video. The chat sidebar. The tip counter.

I look at the security app notification from the night I was kidnapped.

I look at the date.

Seven days.

I put the phone back.

I close my eyes.

I press my thumbnail into my palm until I can't feel the ribs anymore.

Seven days.

Then I disappear.

I don't go home.

The car idles at the cemetery gate. The driver asks where to.

"Midtown," I say. "Fifty-Third and Third."

Creed's voice is still in my head. *Get up. People are watching.*

I look down. There are ashes on my hands. Gray powder ground into the lines of my palms.

I don't brush them off.

The car pulls away. I watch the cemetery disappear through the rear window. The trees. The stone paths. The place where my son's ashes are scattered in the leaves because my husband's mistress knocked them there and my husband hit me for objecting.

I press my thumbnail into my palm.

Seven days.

I can't do seven days.

---

My mother opens the door before I knock. She takes one look at my face and steps aside.

"Kitchen," she says.

I follow her. She fills the kettle. I sit at the table. The chair is the same one I sat in as a kid. Wooden. Wobbly left leg.

She doesn't ask what happened. She saw. She was there.

She sets a mug in front of me. Chamomile. I don't drink it.

"I need to borrow your laptop," I say.

She brings it without a word.

I open the browser. I search flights. JFK to Paris. One way. Tonight.

There's a seat on the 11:55 p.m. Economy. Aisle.

I book it.

The confirmation email arrives. I screenshot it. I close the laptop.

My mother is leaning against the counter. Arms folded. Watching me.

"How long have you known?" I ask.

"Three years," she says quietly.

I look at her.

"I never trusted him," she says. "But you loved him. So I kept my mouth shut."

I nod. I stand. The ribs shift. I bite down hard.

"I'm leaving tonight," I say.

She doesn't argue. She walks to the spare room and pulls a carry-on from the closet. She sets it on the bed.

I pack. Passport. Laptop. The lockbox documents I picked up yesterday. Three shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Underwear. Socks. The worn notebook. My grandmother's ring.

I zip it closed.

My mother is standing in the doorway.

"Call me when you land," she says.

I cross the room. I kiss her cheek. She smells like lavender and old books.

"I will," I say.

She holds my shoulders. Her hands are warm. Steady.

"You should have left three years ago," she whispers.

"I know," I say.

She lets go.

I walk out. I don't look back.

---

JFK is bright and loud and full of people who are going somewhere.

I check in at the kiosk. I print the boarding pass. I go through security with my shoes off and my ribs screaming.

Gate 47. Boarding at 11:30.

I sit. I wait. I watch the clock.

My phone buzzes.

Creed: *Where are you?*

I turn it off.

I drop it in the trash can beside the gate.

---

The plane is half empty. I find my seat. 32C. Aisle. I lift the carry-on into the overhead bin. My ribs crack. I taste copper.

I sit. I buckle. I close my eyes.

The engines start. The plane moves. We taxi. We lift.

I don't open my eyes until we're over the ocean.

---

Somewhere past Newfoundland, the pain changes.

It's not sharp anymore. It's deep. Spreading. Like something inside me is tearing open.

I shift in my seat. My shirt is damp. I touch my side. My hand comes away red.

I cough.

Blood hits the tray table. Dark. Too much.

I try to stand. The cabin tilts. My knees buckle.

I'm falling.

Then I'm not.

Hands catch me. Large. Certain. Already there.

A voice. Low. Steady. "I've got you."

I try to focus. The face above me is blurred. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes I almost recognize.

"Stay with me," he says.

I want to. I try.

But the edges go soft. The cabin dims.

The last thing I feel is his hand holding mine.

The last thing I hear is his voice, quiet and sure, like a promise I didn't know I was waiting for.

"I've got you."

And then there's nothing.