Thanksgiving morning, and Manhattan had gone mad. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade had turned Midtown into an ocean of joy. Giant Snoopy and Pikachu balloons floated between skyscrapers, the drumbeats of marching bands deafening the air. This chaos was exactly what I needed. "I'm going to Bergdorf Goodman to pick up that custom coat, then we'll head back to the estate in Long Island for the holiday," I told Mike, the head of security. Mike looked troubled. "Ma'am, traffic is locked down today. Vehicles can't get in. Sixth Avenue is packed with people." "Then park two blocks away. I'll walk. I want to see the parade anyway." I put on my sunglasses, keeping my tone light. "Don't follow too closely. I want to surprise Roman; I don't want him knowing what I bought." Mike hesitated but eventually nodded. After all, in this city, no one dared touch Mrs. Sterling. I stepped into the crushing crowd. Surrounded by screaming children and tourists holding up phones, I slipped into the back entrance of a Starbucks—an employee corridor for the building I had studied on the blueprints two weeks ago. In the cramped restroom, I stripped off the five-thousand-dollar Burberry trench coat and changed into the gray Target hoodie, worn-out jeans, and ordinary sneakers I had stashed in my backpack. I tucked my long hair into a cheap baseball cap emblazoned with "I Love NY" and put on black-rimmed glasses. When I walked out, I was the most unremarkable person among millions of tourists. I moved against the flow of the crowd, crossing Sixth Avenue. The roar of cheers filled my ears, but I could only hear the thunder of my own heart. Moynihan Train Hall was just ahead. There lay my freedom. Unlike the old, dingy Penn Station, it was spacious and bright, making it easier to blend into the masses. I walked to the curb as a massive garbage truck rolled slowly by, ready to clear the post-parade debris. I pulled out the phone Roman had bugged with a tracking system and looked at the screen one last time. Three missed calls. All from Roman. "Goodbye, beast." I let go. The phone fell into the truck's hopper and was instantly buried under a pile of discarded confetti and paper cups. That truck was headed for a landfill on Long Island—exactly the direction we were supposed to be going for the holiday. I turned and walked into the station, buying an Amtrak ticket to Chicago with cash. From there, I would transfer to the *Empire Builder* to the West Coast. I took no jewelry, nor the unlimited American Express Black Card. My backpack contained only a sketchbook, a few thousand dollars in cash, and a fake passport—one Sarah had procured for me. The train jerked into motion, sliding into the dark tunnel. I leaned back against the seat, staring into the darkness outside the window, and finally, the tears came. Not from sadness, but from the tearing sensation of release. The gilded birdcage of Manhattan was finally behind me. ---