She scowled as she stacked cans of beef stew. Spyros still hadn’t been caught. Special Agent Dennison thought the hitman had holed up somewhere to heal. The day after her attack, an ophthalmologist’s body had been found in his clinic’s bloodied surgery room. Had the eye surgeon been forced to operate on Spyros’s eye?

Feeling guilty about the doctor’s death was foolish, but…if she hadn’t hurt Spyros, the doctor would still be alive. God, the last thing she’d ever wanted was for someone to die because of her.

But here, a continent away, she didn’t pose a risk to anyone—not buried in a small town no one had ever heard of. There were no traffic cameras, no reporters. She’d abandoned the wigs and disguises…aside from makeup to cover the remnants of bruises. It’d been nice to look in a mirror and see herself again—blonde hair, gray eyes, a few freckles.

The store door opened and a bearded man in overalls and flannel shirt walked in accompanied by the stench of an unwashed body.

Ew. She gave him a polite nod and took her place behind the counter to ring up his purchases. Because that was her job now.

How long was she going to have to hide out in Alaska? Her life was in Chicago. Her library job, her cozy apartment, her friends. Okay, maybe she had possessed more work acquaintances than friends, but still…

Surely, she wouldn’t have to scurry around like a terrified mouse forever.

At least she’d figured out how to use software to hide her IP address so she could keep in touch with Dennison by email. He’d told her they’d found Quentin’s body. The author had been tortured before being killed.

Tortured. Her hands fisted with her fury. Her fear.

Dennison wrote that, despite frustrating obstacles, the pharmaceutical research company would be prosecuted.

However, he hadn’t found Spyros’s informants in the FBI. And when a task force started investigations, her involvement with Quentin had surfaced—and her picture had appeared in the Chicago papers.

I want to go home. Depression settled like a heavy weight around her shoulders.

Footsteps crossed the store from the back, and she shook herself. Smile.

Scowling, the bearded man thumped a six-pack of beer on the counter. “Gimme a pack of cigarettes. Those.” He pointed to the brand.

She took the pack and rang everything up. Before she could tell him the total, he tossed her a wad of bills, his mouth still turned down. Someone had really woken on the wrong side of the bed today.

Silently, she made change. He headed out, passing Chief MacNair at the door. When the chief got an identical glare, Audrey felt better. The man’s animosity wasn’t confined to her.

Her relief disappeared as the cop headed straight for her.