The Witness

equilibrium.
    She worked until afternoon before she was satisfied. Better to step away for an hour or two, she decided, and come back fresh for a last check of the data before she sent it in.
    She’d do the marketing now, even though it was the wrong time of day. Just the wrong time. Then she’d come home, take Bert out for some exercise and training.
    Then she’d recheck the data, program her series of bounces to her contact’s e-mail. After that, she’d do some hard-and-sweaty training of her own, as she’d want that physical outlet after completing her task.
    With the evening free, she’d put a few hours into work on the virus she’d begun developing over the last eighteen months.
    She changed her weapon, strapping on her more compact Glock, covered it with a hoodie. Soon the temperatures would rise too high for a jacket, and she’d have to use an ankle holster.
    As she checked and reset her alarm, let Bert out to put him on guard, she considered acquiring a new gun. She could treat herself to some weapon research that evening.
    The idea relaxed her, and she admitted she found it pleasant to drive into town in the afternoon sunlight, to watch the way that light played through the tender, unfurling leaves.
    She caught glimpses of the delicate drape of toothwort, the bold yellow of trout lily catching the dappled sun along the stream bank justbefore the water took a quick, tumbling fall over rocks. Among those tender green leaves, wild plum added color and drama.
    Everything seemed so fresh and new and hopeful. Spring revived, she thought, offered that new beginning of the cycle. It was her first full spring in this new place, this place she so much wanted to be her home.
    Twelve years. Couldn’t it be enough? Couldn’t this be her place to stay? To plant her garden and tend it, watch it grow and harvest. To do her work, pay her debt—and just live.
    Why should they find her here, in these hills, in this quiet? How could they ever connect Abigail Lowery with that young girl who’d been so foolish, so careless—and such an easy target?
    As long as she stayed prepared, stayed vigilant, remained unexceptional—invisible—she could make a home and a life.
    Stay safe. As long as she stayed safe, she could continue to chip away at the Volkovs and pay that debt.
    She liked the town so much, she thought, as she turned onto Shop Street. She loved the pretty streets and busy shops, the color sliding into it all with pots and barrels of sunstruck daffodils and candy-colored tulips. Tourists added more movement, strangers passing through. Some very likely returned, another holiday or short visit. But they came for the quiet, the landscape, the hiking, the local lore and crafts. Not for nightclubs and urban action, the sort of entertainment that lured men like Ilya.
    Her confidence remained high that she’d never see him or anyone connected to him strolling along the streets here, fishing in the rivers, hiking in the hills.
    And surely if anyone from the U.S. Marshals, the FBI, even the Chicago police, visited here, she wouldn’t be recognized. She was out of place, and a dozen years older, her hair a different color and style.
    If they looked, they might see. But there was no reason to look for Elizabeth Fitch here in the pretty tourist town in the Ozarks.
    If the day came, she knew how to run, how to change, how to bury herself in another place.
    But it wouldn’t be today, she promised herself, as she parked near the market. And every day it wasn’t today was a gift.
    She got out of the car, hit the key to lock it. Even as she heard the lock click into place, she saw Brooks crossing the street toward her.
    She didn’t know what to do with the quick rise of her pulse, the little flutter of … something in her belly. He even walked as if he had all the time in the world, she thought, and still managed to cover ground quickly. He stood beside her before she could decide what to do, or say.
    “This is either really good timing or really good luck.” He took her hand—he was always touching her—and just covered her with his smile.
    “I’m going to the market.”
    “Yeah, I figured. Take a walk with me first. You’re just what I need.”
    “For what?”
    “In general, let’s say. Rough morning, and I haven’t shaken it all the way off.”
    “I need supplies.”
    “Got any appointments later?”
    “Appointments?” People were looking at them. She could feel the glances on the back of her neck.