Hair wet and draped into a loose bun, she sat at the desk and opened her computer. For the briefest of moments, she laid her fingers on the keys and wanted, so badly, to open her internet browser and type in her name. See what the world was saying about her. But she knew that was how she’d be found. One of the books she’d read had been very specific. It was by a skip tracer, a man who hunted down people who disappeared to avoid jail, or paying large sums in divorce settlements. People who faked their own death.

The first rule: don’t Google yourself.

She slapped the laptop closed. Sipped some water. She had a dreadful headache from the champagne, and the sex. An orgasm hangover.

She’d followed all the steps, all the rules, for disappearing. For the few weeks leading up to her departure, she’d carefully plotted out her path without a qualm. She needed the freedom of starting over. She needed the anonymity being in this city could bring her. She couldn’t be Sutton Montclair anymore.

But just in case someone really came looking for her, like a detective, or private investigator, she’d followed the course of action she’d found in a book. It was a trick recommended for battered wives who need to leave their husbands. She’d left behind a single Post-it note with a single phone number in her Day Runner. The phone number rang directly to the Metro Nashville Sex Crimes desk.

If—if—a professional investigator came searching for her, they’d get that number and realize she was running away from an abusive relationship. They’d back off. They’d leave her be. She’d be free.

When she’d left the number, she’d felt badly about it, for a fraction of a second. The police might think there was foul play, a woman disappearing from her life in such a manner. They might look at Ethan. They might make his life hell. But he’d made her life hell, so tit for tat seemed fair enough.

The thought of his name, his face, so familiar to her, caused the strange feeling of love commingled with guilt and hate to rise up in her. She must stop thinking about the past. She needed something to help her focus on the future.

Constantine? Perhaps, though she hardly wanted more than a roll in the hay from the man. He’d be gone soon enough, and she could continue moving on with her life. Justine Holliday was writing a book in Paris, and it was going to be a smash hit.