Her choice of neighborhood had been inspired. She was so close to the Seine. She already had her bearings, could sense the river to her left, how the sky lightened between the buildings. Ten minutes later she found herself by the gray ribbon of water. She strolled along the quay toward Les Invalides. There were houseboats lashed to the banks below the ponts—why hadn’t she thought of that? Living on the water, able to lift anchor and float away if necessary, the constant glow of the sun on the small rippling waves, would be the perfect life for a woman trying to remain unseen.

But it might be hard to work on the laptop, she did get a bit seasick. At the thought, a small qualm went through her. She chased it away with a nice, deep lungful of heady river air.

A bateau-mouche full of tourists cruised below her. They waved madly and shouted when they realized they’d caught her attention. Students, by the looks of them, young, carefree, so open and ready. Did they have any idea what waited for them in the world? The sorrow and pain and misery? Were they simply lost in their own narcissistic little lives?

When she was their age, she was heavy with... But no, she didn’t want to think about that today. Today was for reveling in her new life. Today was for Justine Holliday.

She waved back, and they cheered.

Oh, the possibilities. Oh, the places you will go.

The Seine is a dynamic beast, ever changing as the day goes by, and she witnessed its many variations with pleasure. She walked miles, up the left bank, past the Pont Neuf, down to Notre-Dame. Pont des Arts’s charm was no longer—the new Plexiglas barrier was disheartening; she’d so been looking forward to seeing all the locks attached to the wires, half a century of lovers’ declarations. She crossed the Seine on the Pont de Bercy, moved back up the right bank until she found an open bench beneath a willow, and watched. Lovers, tourists, businessmen, artists. The banks of the Seine drew them all, like moths to a flame.

She preferred the right bank; the wide paths were lined with willows and lindens and horse chestnuts, their leaves green and yellow, begging to shelter.

The gray stone and stormy water and the green trees with their brown bark, peeling in places, waving to and fro in the gentle Parisian spring breeze, allowing bits of sunshine to peek through, made for a lovely afternoon. Sutton wrote in her notebook, napped a bit, allowed herself to unplug. Dropped petals from a lily she found into the water, let their passage sweep away her shame. Let the guilt and horror she’d been living with go.

Lighter of spirit, she walked slowly up the river toward her new home. It all felt so right. So good.