Finally, I saw it. It was quaint, royal blue, with a tiny wooden porch surrounded by uncut grass. Hell, it even had a porch swing, something I’d always wanted, back when I’d imagined Davis and me, far away from the city, a little girl with my eyes and his mouth playing with blocks at our feet. The possibilities seemed endless then, our future stretching out like dominoes, one day triggering the next.

I parked and quickly freed Dusty from his prison. He peed on the first bush he could find, then followed me onto the porch. I entered the code on the lockbox, and a silver key fell into my hand. The front door opened easily, almost too easily, and once inside, I checked the dead bolt three times.

The place was furnished. The last tenant had been a single woman, too, but the house was owned by an older couple who’d relocated to Phoenix a few years ago to be near their grandson – all info Jennifer Moon had offered before I had a chance to ask.

Dusty did a perimeter check, just as he’d done at the shitty Days Inn in Queens where we’d been holed up for the last two days, his tiny white body fluttering around like a giant cotton ball. I surveyed the room: two small navy sofas in front of a wood-burning stove with logs sitting next to it; bookshelves filled with Catskills hiking books, a Buddhism paperback, and a set of encyclopedias; a wooden rocking chair in one corner and double windows on either side.

The bedroom was a sardine can, with a wrought-iron bed my mom would have loved and a gaudy floral quilt she would have hated, a desk too small to be useful, and a closet in the corner. I grabbed my tote bag and emptied the contents onto the bed:

– Birth certificate

– Social Security card

– Passport and IDs

– Debit and credit cards

– Mom’s scarf

– Dad’s hammer

– Envelope of cash

Arranging them on the bed, I touched each item, as if it might disappear in front of me if I didn’t keep tabs. Dusty scrambled across the papers, but I shooed him away. This was my life. Plastic and paper, cash and silk. I grabbed the envelope, counting the money once again – just over ten grand – then placed the hammer on the nightstand for protection. I fingered the scarf, creamy white and bordered with a stripe of royal blue and flower buds. Lifting it closer, I inspected the marred, murky brown corner. I would never forgive Davis for that. I let it fall to the bed, then stared at the rest of my things, trying to figure out what to do with it all.

Outside, a twig snapped, sharp as a firecracker.

Dusty barked and I bolted up. I grabbed the hammer and ran to the window, pulling back the drapes, heart like a drum.

A rabbit, long-footed and gray. It hopped off.