My foot hovered over the accelerator, ready to hit the gas if necessary, as I drove past the car …

I exhaled. Through the window, I saw a woman.

It wasn’t him. I hadn’t been found. Not yet.

Slowly, I pulled into my driveway and got out.

I squinted as I watched the woman emerge from the car, my headache from this morning still lingering, joined now by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

‘You’re home!’ the woman said cheerfully, walking quickly toward me. ‘Don’t worry, I only just got here.’ Her body was round and soft, and she was draped in one of those loose-fitting earth-toned dresses that obscured your curves, the kind you had to be at least forty to pull off; all the shops in town sold them. In the sunlight, a cluster of gray hairs stood at attention on the crown of her head, popping against the rest of her deep-auburn hair. Her eyes were pale blue and piercing – same color as the sky.

‘Sorry, but do I know you?’

She laughed as she tugged at the neckline of her dress. ‘Of course you don’t. I’ve started this off all wrong.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I used to live here,’ she said, taking mine in hers. ‘I’m Rachel.’

‘Oh,’ I managed, quickly pulling my hand back. In person, she was nothing like the woman I’d imagined. Older, for one thing, definitely mid-forties, but it was more than that. By the way John and Vera had talked about her, I’d pictured some sort of vixen, a femme fatale. This woman was attractive, sure, maybe once she’d even stopped whole rooms with her bottomless eyes and Titian hair, but not now. Now she’d blend right in with the rest of the Woodstock ladies of a certain age, clad in amethyst rings and Birkenstocks. I stole a quick look at her feet, confirming.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, er …’ She paused, an eyebrow raised.

I had no choice. ‘Lucy.’

‘Lucy,’ she repeated. ‘It’s just, I have a freelance client who sent one of my checks here. I had the mail forwarding turned on at the post office when I left at the end of July, but it only lasts a month. I put my new address huge on the top of my invoices, but this man apparently can’t be bothered to read that even when it’s printed in bright red ink. I could ask him to reissue it, but I’ve already been waiting for over a month, and I kind of need the check. I didn’t want to bust into your mailbox while you weren’t here. That would be creepy,’ she said.

‘And a felony,’ I added.