Set Me Free

Chapter One

I left New Haven late last night with ninety-one dollars and a thrift store suitcase. The cash and everything in my suitcase came from months of hoarding: one dollar, one lipstick, one pair of tights at a time. Nothing that Rhys would notice, though he noticed almost everything. After all this time, I'd finally left him—in secret, at night, while he was out of town. Mission accomplished.

What now? I had no idea.

I'd driven all night with no destination and ended up crossing a bridge to an island off the Maine coast. I wanted to keep going—as if I could drive across the Atlantic Ocean to my dad's flat in London. Instead, I found a coffee shop tucked back into the silvery pine forest and pulled into its gravel lot. Then I sat in my car, clutching the steering wheel, and wished I knew what the hell I was doing. I had reached the end of the line, and not just because I'd run out of land to drive across. Buying more gas would mean less money for food. The snacks I'd stolen from the house wouldn't last much longer, no matter how carefully I rationed them. I needed to stop running and come up with a plan. A plan. I swept a hand across my forehead.

I'd never thought I'd actually need a Step Two. I had never truly believed I would leave him.

Coffee first, I told myself. If I were only a little less tired, I could think of something, I was sure of it.

I went into the coffee shop, which was all warmth and gold light, with a counter on the left and a quaint country store on the right. At a cluster of café tables, three women gossiped over steaming coffees, and an old man fed pieces of bagel to a scraggly dog.

One of the women looked up, her mouth pursing with disdain as she took in the sight of the tangled hair falling across the collar of my leather jacket and the mascara smudged under my eyes. I hesitated by the fudge case, my stomach aching, and wondered if I should leave.

A blonde woman in a flowery red apron straightened up from behind the counter with a delighted smile. "Good morning! What can I get you?"

I edged forwards, drawn to her friendliness despite the unfriendliness of the others. "Can I have a small coffee, please? To go." My gaze strayed to the fat cinnamon buns in the pastry case, but they were two dollars each.

"It's early in the season for us to have visitors," the woman remarked, filling a paper cup at a shining coffee urn. "Are you here for the half-marathon?"

"Oh, no, I'm not a runner. Not for exercise, anyway." I didn't mean to say it, and it came out awkward and strained. She glanced curiously at me. She had an open, expressive face, with clear blue eyes behind red cat's-eye glasses. Something about her made me want to ask for help, but I had no idea where to begin.

"It's so nice to see a new face this time of year," she said lightly. "We get tourists in the summer, but not a lot of people otherwise. Too cold for most folks, I suppose. I'm Claire Larsen, by the way."

"Miranda Lewis." It was a struggle to say my name aloud, as if Rhys could hear me. But he didn't even know I had left. He was still at his competition in D.C. and wouldn't be home for another two days.

"Such a pleasure to meet you, Miranda." The way Claire said it, her voice full of warmth, I could almost believe her.

The front door jingled. A gust of wind blew cold air and a dusting of snow across the café floor. This time, all of the other customers fell silent, looking at the door. The air tightened with tension. I felt a sudden wrench of fear myself—still painful, no matter how irrational it was—and glanced at the door, my throat dry.

A man stood in the shadowed doorway. He was much too big to be Rhys: his head nearly touched the doorframe, and his shoulders were as broad as barn doors. A wolf pelt and ax would have suited him better than his flannel button-down and jeans.