She would move in the same day; the tourist season was ending and the owner was tired of short-term rentals. He’d been working with a property company that catered to tourists and was desperate to leave the city and retire to Chamonix, where he planned to run a small coffee shop and ski as much as possible. The real estate agent would tell her the owner was grateful for the unexpected and quick offer to rent the apartment for a year, payment in full, up front.

Moving in wouldn’t take long; she’d only have a backpack with her new laptop, new tablet, and a few worn, well-loved notebooks, a battered Hartmann carry-on bag she’d found at a local Goodwill store, along with three changes of brand-new clothes, all black, and some basic toiletries. Everything else she’d left behind.

Everything, and everyone.

And when the door closed, and she was alone, she would look around her new life. Spare. Empty. Perfect.

Safe.

What amazed her was how closely her long-held fantasy resembled her reality. Her new reality.

It didn’t take as long as she expected. It always pays to do your research. She found the perfect flat in the perfect area on the most perfect street the first day. Took the keys, handed over twelve months’ rent, and climbed the stairs to her new world in her gilded, ivory tower.

She’d escaped with her life. And really, that was all she could ask, wasn’t it?

* * *

Sutton dragged the Louis XIV desk in front of the window, set all her writing tools on the worn wooden top. She had no internet access yet, no wireless, which wasn’t an issue; she’d logged out of all of her accounts before she left, changed passwords to nonsense no one could figure out, especially her. Every single one, from Facebook to Twitter to Instagram (look, cats!) to Gmail. She’d downloaded all the files that mattered onto a thumb drive and put them on the new laptop, then reset her Dropbox account. Turned off all cloud support. It was damn hard to disappear these days, but it was doable, if you were smart. And Sutton was very, very smart.

No one had her new phone number, no friends, no business associates. Nor Ethan. Especially not Ethan.

She ignored the stab his name elicited, continued tidying her new space.

Ethan didn’t know where she was. He was probably beginning to miss her now. Or not. She didn’t care. She’d left a short, to-the-point note on the kitchen counter, on the richly veined Carrara marble she’d lovingly handpicked when they renovated the house. Don’t look for me, it said. I need some time.