Salami-guy got off at Bedford Avenue, his vacated seat quickly taken by a hipster who emanated a distinctly foresty fragrance. Nat was grateful her new neighbor didn’t smell like cold cuts, but she may have been allergic to his beard oil. She wrinkled her nose in an effort to stave off a sneeze.

No matter how uncomfortable her commute, how tight her budget, or how lonely she sometimes felt in the giant, anonymous city, Nat never regretted her cross-country move. Living in New York wasn’t supposed to be easy. It was hard, but it was worth it. Especially for an artist, like Natalie. She fed off the creativity running rampant through these hallowed streets, drawing inspiration from the artists who came before her. The city nourished her soul, stimulated her mind, filled her entire body with a humming, vibrating, energy.

New York meant possibility.

Her life, had she stayed in Blaine, was easy to imagine. She would have gone to a nearby college and studied something practical: accounting, or marketing, maybe. She’d have gotten a job at a bank, or in an office, or at the duty-free store. Her sketching would have been relegated to a hobby until life got too busy and she gave it up all together. She would have married Cole, her handsome high school boyfriend, and had a couple of kids before she was thirty. They would have settled into a small but comfortable home, purchased with a down payment provided by Cole’s parents, who owned several fishing boats and a mail company servicing Canadians who wanted to avoid cross-border shipping fees. And then . . . and then what?

Would Cole Doberinsky have been a domineering husband, dictating her clothes, her hobbies, her friends? He was the only child of wealthy parents; he was used to having things his way. When they’d dated, Nat had seen glimmers of a controlling nature. He texted her constantly, required instant responses. He needed to know where she was and who she was with. What she was doing, thinking, feeling . . . But she had never considered him obsessive, had not considered him dangerous.

Until he broke into her house.

She suddenly felt queasy, but it was not motion sickness, not a reaction to the abundance of fragrances wafting around her. It was the memory of Cole and that night, shortly after she’d articulated her plans to leave Blaine, that turned her stomach. He’d been hurt and angry when she ended it. She’d regret this, he’d said. After all, he came from money, a stable home, had been accepted into a nearby business school. Nat was the product of a messy divorce, a low-income upbringing, was heading down a dead-end career path. He’d been mean and condescending. But she could never have predicted what he had done.

Cole had broken a basement window and squeezed himself inside her family’s darkened home. He had crept toward Nat’s upstairs bedroom (across the hall from her toddler brother and sister; her mom and Derek slept on the main floor). What would have happened if her stepfather hadn’t woken up, hadn’t intercepted the younger man, hadn’t beaten him until he was barely conscious before realizing he knew the culprit? Would Cole have harmed her? Her young half siblings? Himself?