One year later. Seattle. The rain here was different from New York. New York rain was impatient, barbed, stinging the face; Seattle rain was a lingering, gentle mist, like protective camouflage. People here didn't use umbrellas—if you carried one, you were instantly pegged as a tourist. Everyone just pulled up the hoods of their North Face jackets and kept their heads down. I stood in front of a red brick building in Pioneer Square, looking at the fresh lettering on the glass door: "Rainier Design." The place had a 19th-century vintage vibe, with the ruins of old Seattle buried underground. The air was a mix of the salty tang from Puget Sound, old brick dust, and the scent left behind by transients. "Elly, your oat milk latte." Old Joe, the owner of the bakery next door, handed me a steaming cup. Here, no one knew Elena Sterling. They only knew Elly, an interior designer who favored flannel shirts and waterproof Chelsea boots. "Thanks, Joe." I took the coffee, inhaling the aroma of rain and roasted beans. Over the past year, I had learned how to find color in this perpetually gray city. I no longer wore the red-bottomed heels that deformed my toes, trading them for comfortable Blundstones. Every day, I climbed the hill to Pike Place Market to buy a bouquet of fresh tulips, dodging tourists who only had eyes for the flying fish. My studio was small, just me and a part-time student assistant from UW. We took on renovation projects for old houses. The margins were thin, but every penny was earned by my own hands. That sense of groundedness was something I never felt while living in the clouds. My phone rang. It was Sarah. "Hey, runaway bride," Sarah's voice was as vibrant as ever. "Just saw the news. The Sterling Group acquired a tech company in Bellevue. The madman has extended his reach to the Pacific Northwest." My hand trembled, scalding coffee splashing onto the back of my hand. "Did he... find anything?" "I don't think so. The FBI contact says he's been tearing through Europe and South America like a rabid dog looking for you. He thinks you went abroad. After all, who would imagine the pampered Elena hiding in Pioneer Square among the homeless and hippies, living a life where she has to sort her own recycling?" I let out a breath, watching the drizzle outside. "That's good. Sarah, I'm doing well. Really." "I know, honey. But be careful. If that beast smells blood, he won't let go." Hanging up, I looked at myself in the mirror. Without the expensive makeup, the fine lines at the corners of my eyes were visible, but my gaze was bright. I thought I was safe. I thought that memory was buried three thousand miles away on the East Coast. Until the shadow descended. ---