Page 2 of Deadly Oath

I exhale another long breath, pinching the bridge of my nose before standing up. I feel strange, without my jewelry and makeup. But I haven’t had the funds to get the kind of makeup I used to buy, and all of my jewelry is back home. The best I’ve been able to afford is something close to the kind of skincare I used to use. Prioritizing purchases—another thing I’ve had to get used to.

Some of my expenses are covered by the FBI, like the rent on the small one-bedroom house I’m living in, and a stipend for food and basic clothing. The rest—discretionary spending for things like books, skincare, or anything else that goes above and beyond the pitifully small amount deposited into my checking account each month — is up to me. Which is why I took on another new experience a couple of weeks ago—working for the first time in my life.

Just freelance editing work, but it pays something. Enough to cover the expensive moisturizer that I swipe over my skin, and the jug of flavored coffee that I pour myself a cup of as soon as I head into the kitchen. I didn’t think it was all that pricey, but Marie looked round-eyed at the extravagance, when I could have just gotten grounds and inexpensive creamer.

There’s a coffee pot on my counter, one of the things that the house came furnished with, but I haven’t figured out how to use it yet. The first time, I burned myself. The second time, I ended up with grounds in the coffee. The third, it was too watery.

At that point, I just got overwhelmed, and bought a bottle of pre-mixed coffee on my next grocery run.

At least it’s pumpkin-flavored, which is a nice touch this time of year.

I sink down at the table with a bowl of cereal and my coffee, nudging the mini-wheats around the bowl with my spoon. At this hour, the sun is spilling through the large windows above the sink and stove and through the window at the top of the backdoor, lighting up the kitchen with a soft glow. There are a number of treesin my backyard, and the leaves are rust-red, orange, and yellow, adding to the autumn morning ambiance.

It should be peaceful. Relaxing. Marie oohed and aahed over the view from my kitchen windows the first time she was in here. But there’s nothing peaceful about why I’m here. And there’s nothing peaceful about how little direction I have in my life now.

I take a bite of the cold cereal, still staring out of the window at the trees, and wince. There’s nothing wrong with it, but I miss the breakfasts I’m used to. I miss poached eggs with hollandaise and crispy bacon. Toasted bagels with fresh tomato, cream cheese, and lox. Crepes filled with fresh fruit and honey. Quiche. I don’t know how to cook any of those things, and I’m terrified to try. I already feel lost enough as it is, and all the ways that I’m sure I’ll fail will only make me feel worse.

If I told Marie, or anyone else, about all the things I miss, the things I long for that are making me sad, she’d think I was spoiled. She’d be shocked at the kind of excess that used to be normal to me. And maybe Iamspoiled—but it wasn’t my fault that all of it was taken from me. I didn’t ask for any of this to happen. And right now, it all still feels monumentally unfair.

I finish my cereal reluctantly and nudge the bowl aside, sipping at my coffee. Outside, a bird perches in the tree next to my window, chirping with a cheerfulness that reminds me of Marie. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and I consider texting her and canceling our plans. Staying in, getting my editing done, and watching a movie alone or something. Reading a book that I picked out, instead of the book club pick of the month. I’m dreading that, too. Hours sitting in a strange living room that’s not like any house I’ve ever been in before moving here, surrounded by people that I feel confident are all judging me. I want to cancel that, too.

But I can hear Agent Caldwell’s voice in my head—the FBI agent assigned to me after I was put in witness protection. He checked up on me every couple of days, for the first few weeks. Now, it’s a monthly visit. But on those first visits, he saw that I was staying in, avoiding everyone, not making friends.You need hobbies,he said.Thisis for yourprotection, Sabrina, but you need to do your best to fit in. Just because we’ve hidden you doesn’t mean that people might not still be looking. And if folks come nosing around, asking questions, looking—the more you stand out, the more you make yourself a target.

He’d patted my hand reassuringly after that, a sympathetic expression on his face. I remember thinking that he looked like someone’s father—short beard and mustache, a bit of a beer gut, a friendly look on his face. Notmyfather, but someone’s. He looked like he was reassuring me that getting a C in geometry wasn’t the end of the world, not cautioning me to not put a target on my back for people who want to kill me.

So, I joined a book club. I’ve gotten coffee with Marie. Joined her and a few of her other friends on grocery shopping runs. Asked her to give me a ride to Sephora to get my skin-care items, which also horrified her when she saw the cost.

But none of it has made me feel like I belong here. None of it has made me feel like there’s anything to look forward to any longer, anything to be hopeful for. My life has crashed and burned, and I’m sitting here in the ashes, trying to figure out who I’m supposed to be now.

Maybe I should see a doctor. Get something for depression. That’s what this is, right?

But is it? Or is it just a natural reaction to having everything I’ve ever known upended in one night that left me reeling? How long is it supposed to take for someone to recover from something like that?

There’s a knock at the door, just as I lift my coffee mug to my lips again. I jump, startled, setting the mug down with athudas my heart starts to race.

It’s just Marie, I tell myself, pushing my chair back. But Marie isn’t the type to knock. We’ve known each other a little over a month now, and in her world, that’s plenty of time to just “let yourself on in,” as she would say. I can hear it in her voice, in my head as I think it.

Butsomeoneis at my door. And that painful adrenaline starts to race through me, reminding me of a night that I want so badly to forget.

Swallowing hard, I stand up, forcing myself to walk slowly to the door, as another knock sounds on the other side. Forcing myself to try to breathe normally.It’s just a neighbor. A door-to-door salesman.No one has found me. Not so soon. Agent Caldwell promised me that anyone would be hard-pressed to find me at all.

I have a new last name here. A new life. I’msafe.

I’m supposed to be safe.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I swing open the door, pasting the sort of down-home, friendly smile on my face that I know the neighbors here expect. But it falters a little, when I see who’s standing on my doorstep.

It’s a man. A man wearing the uniform of a cop, specifically, with reddish-brown hair that glints the same color as the leaves outside in the sunlight, and green eyes that are fixed directly on me. He is, I think as I stand there stunned, possibly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life.

And then, he says my name.

“Sabrina Miller?”

2

KIAN

The woman standing framed in the doorway is stunning. And entirely out of place.

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