I would still be the same broken woman I was when I left prison. I wouldn’t be the woman who is seeing a therapist and pursuing a new purpose in life.
Heck, if Johann hadn’t risked his life to rescue Angelique after she was arrested, the Gestapo or whatever prison camp she was shipped to would’ve more than likely killed her. Lizzie wouldn’t have existed—and neither would Anne. Johann gave up his plan to save his mother and sister in order to protect the woman he loved and their unborn child.
And indirectly, Johann also saved me.
I wipe at the new tears that are falling because of everything Iris lost. Hazel. Johann. Getting to hear Lizzie call her Mummy instead of Auntie. “How about we go for a walk and work on your training?” I ask Bailey, needing to clear my mind.
She scrambles to her feet, indicating she’s all for the idea. The walk part of it, anyway.
I take my laptop and reference books inside the house and make a move to leave them on the kitchen table, but the edge of my computer catches on a chair, jarring the pile in my arms. One of the books slips off and falls to the floor. A piece of paper flutters down next to it.
I put the pile on the table and pick up the fallen book and scrap of paper. I turn the paper over and discover a Morse-coded message. Troy must have hidden the note in the book, but I hadn’t seen it until now.
I should just toss it away and pretend I never found the message. I should. But instead, I straighten and spend the next few moments decoding the dots and dashes.
You are the sexiest writer I know.
I bite my lower lip, keeping back a giggle, but I’m unable to stop the unexpected grin from stretching across my face.
And then I remember my new reality, and my heart crumples. I release a rough sigh.
I still don’t throw the paper away. I return it to the book, unwilling to get rid of the message just yet.
I grab Bailey’s leash and pop the straw hat on my head. Between that and the new hairstyle and color, I don’t, at first glance, resemble the woman who moved to town five months ago. But there’s not much I can do about the prominent scar on my face—the one thing that gives away my identity.
Bailey and I walk to the off-leash park. The neighborhood street is busy with kids playing hopscotch, chasing each other, biking, and enjoying the last days of freedom before school starts next week.
The weird prickling on the nape of my neck from the other day returns. I look over my shoulder, but nothing seems out of place. No one appears to be paying attention to me.
I pick up my pace and walk the several blocks to the park. The off-leash area is busier than I would like, with a dozen or so dog owners playing with their four-legged friends.
I find a quiet area where Bailey is less likely to get distracted and reverse away from her, her training leash slack with the length I’ve unwound. “Stay.” I keep moving backward.
A dog from somewhere on the other side of the field barks. Bailey’s head twitches to the side but she stays put. Her full attention returns to me.
“Good girl!”
We spend twenty minutes training and head home, walking across the grass where dogs need to be on a leash. Bailey trots by my side, not pulling or lunging—just being the perfect service dog in training.
A woman sitting on a picnic blanket watches her three young children kicking a soccer ball on the grass in front of her. She laughs and her gaze falls in my direction. Her eyes narrow, but I’m not sure why. Because she recognizes me and is another member of theI hate Savannahclub?
I glance down at the grass, hoping it’s enough to keep her from noticing the scar—if she hasn’t already seen it.
She rises to her feet and stalks toward me. I jerk my head up in time to catch her face pinch into a frown.
She stops a few feet in front of me, blocking my path. “How dare you come here, Savannah!” The growl in her tone, like that of a high-strung Chihuahua whose bone has been swiped, startles me. My heart clambers into my throat.
Bailey presses her body against my leg, sensing like she always does the growing tension in my muscles. Sensing my fear of mean words chosen to destroy what I’ve been repairing and rebuilding.
“We don’t want your sort here,” the woman blusters on. The soccer ball rolls to the side of the picnic blanket, forgotten as her kids watch on with interest. Listening. Learning that bullying is okay. “I can’t believe the mayor even let you into this town. I won’t be voting for her during the next election.” The woman’s chest puffs with each poison-filled word.
“That’s enough, Meg,” Lance says, jogging over to us. His tone is firm, his frown unyielding. “The school teaches children it’s not okay to bully others. You’re setting a bad example for your kids.”
“I’m not bullying!”
Bailey whimpers from the heat in the woman’s voice. Or maybe it was me who whimpered.
Lance stops in front of me, a bulwark against her hatred. “You and I clearly have different definitions for bullying.”
