Claire looked at the cake, then at the back door. She could run again. Change her hair, her state, her name. But then she looked at the photo. Found her. Not will find. Found.
The room smelled of copper and lavender.
She used her real name, just once, whispering it while cracking eggs. Claire Bennett. The name felt like a stranger’s coat—heavy, ill-fitting, but undeniably hers. Outside her rented bungalow in Bend, Oregon, the rain fell in sheets, washing away the last of the autumn leaves. Inside, she lit a single candle.
