Chapter 1

Katrina

I shift in the uncomfortable bus seat, watching as trees zip past the window. My hands fidget with the strap of my bag, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the worn leather.

"Now approaching Oakbridge," the driver calls out, voice crackling through ancient speakers.

The announcement sends a jolt through my system. This is really happening. I'm doing this. Starting over in a town where nobody knows my name or my story.

"First time to Oakbridge?" The elderly woman beside me smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"That obvious, huh?" I try to return the smile, but my lips feel stiff, unpracticed.

"You've got that look. Like you're running toward something and away from something all at once." She pats my hand. "It's a good place for fresh starts."

The bus lurches around a curve, and through the smudged glass, I catch my first glimpse of Oakbridge. My breath catches. The town unfolds before me like something from a postcard—weathered brick buildings with colorful awnings, lamp posts wrapped in climbing flowers, people strolling unhurried down tree-lined sidewalks.

No skyscrapers. No honking horns. No memories lurking around each corner.

"Pretty, isn't it?" My seatmate nods toward the window.

"Beautiful," I whisper, meaning it.

The bus hisses to a stop at the small depot, a brick building with a wooden bench out front where an old man sits feeding pigeons. He tips his hat as we pull in.

I gather my bags—everything I own now fits in two suitcases and a backpack. Pathetic or freeing? I haven't decided yet.

"Good luck, dear," the woman says as I stand to exit.

"Thank you." For the brief kindness. For not asking questions.

Stepping off the bus, the air hits me different here—cleaner, carrying scents of freshly baked bread from somewhere nearby. A family-owned bakery sits across the street, its windows steamed up, a bell jingling as customers come and go.

I take my first real breath in Oakbridge. It doesn't burn going down.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably Melissa again, her twentieth apology text this week. As if sorry could erase the image burned into my brain—her tangled in my bedsheets with Jonathan, both of them wide-eyed when I walked in early from my shift.

A sharp pain stabs behind my eyes.

Don't think about it. Not now.

But the memories flood in anyway, a dam broken. Jonathan's face twisted in anger when I told him to get out. "You're nothing without me, Kat. You know that, right?" The way he grabbed my wrist, squeezed until I winced. How many times had I forgiven similar moments? Too many to count.

The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. With shaking fingers, I pull it out, ready to block another number.

But it's not Melissa. It's him.

I know where you are. You think you can just leave? We're not done.

Ice floods my veins. I delete the message, then the thread, then power off the phone completely. He's bluffing. He has to be. I told no one where I was going, not even my mother.

A man brushes past me, mumbling an apology, and I flinch away from the contact. His confused look makes me realize I'm standing frozen on the sidewalk, clutching my phone like it might bite.

Breathe, Katrina. Just breathe.

Across the street, a coffee shop with hanging plants in the windows catches my eye. "Oakbridge Brew" declares a hand-painted sign. Through the window, I see people laughing, working on laptops, living normal lives. I want that so badly it hurts.

"You need a hand with those bags, miss?" A cab driver calls from the curb.

I study his face for any hint of threat and find none. Just a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a wedding band.

"I've got it, thanks." Trust is something I'll have to rebuild slowly.

I heft my bags and start walking toward the address I've memorized. The small apartment above the bookstore, rented sight-unseen, my salvation.

As I navigate the unfamiliar streets, I take in everything—children playing in a small park, an older couple holding hands outside an ice cream shop, a group of teens laughing on a corner. Normal, peaceful life happening all around.

No one looking over their shoulder.

No one calculating each word before speaking.

No one wearing long sleeves in summer to hide bruises.

My chest tightens again with the memory of Jonathan's last words before I walked out. "You're mine, Kat. Always will be."

I shake my head sharply, dispelling his voice. Not anymore. Not ever again.

I reach the bookstore after a ten-minute walk, my suitcases feeling heavier with each step. A bell chimes as I push open the door, the smell of old books and cinnamon greeting me. The shop is cozy—shelves packed tight with colorful spines, a fat orange cat lounging on the counter.

"You must be Katrina!" A woman in her sixties with silver hair and bright purple glasses emerges from behind a shelf. "I'm Martha, your landlord. We spoke on the phone."

"That's me." I shift my bags, extending a hand. "Thank you for—"

"Honey, put those heavy things down before you hurt yourself." Martha guides me to a side door. "Apartment's right up these stairs. Let me help you."

"I can manage." The words come out quicker, sharper than intended—my automatic response to offers of help.

Martha raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. "Alright then. Door's unlocked, key's on the counter. I've left some essentials in the fridge. Come down if you need anything—shop's open till six."

I navigate the narrow staircase, bumping my suitcase against each step. By the time I reach the top, my arms are trembling, but the burn feels good. Real. Something I can control.

The door swings open to reveal my new home. Sunlight streams through two large windows opposite the entrance, illuminating floating dust motes. The floors are worn hardwood, scuffed from years of use. One wall is exposed brick, giving the space a rustic charm.

I drop my bags by the door and step fully inside, taking inventory. The main room is open concept—a tiny kitchenette with a breakfast bar separating it from a living area that contains exactly one piece of furniture: a faded blue couch that's seen better days. A doorway leads to what must be the bedroom, and another smaller door likely hides a bathroom.

It's sparse. Almost empty.

It's perfect.

"No ghosts here," I whisper, running my hand along the kitchen counter. No memories of screaming matches or shattered dishes. No corners where I cowered, arms raised to protect my face.

My phone stays powered off in my pocket, a dead weight. Jonathan's text replays in my mind: I know where you are.

"He doesn't," I tell the empty apartment, my voice sounding stronger than I feel. "He can't."

Pittsburgh is hundreds of miles away. I paid cash for my bus ticket. I changed my email, my social media. No one knows I'm here except Martha, and she only knows my first name and that I'm from "out of state."

I cross to the windows and look out at Main Street below. People stroll past on their lunch breaks, ducking into cafes or browsing shop windows. Normal people living normal lives. Maybe I can be one of them.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since a candy bar on the bus six hours ago. The refrigerator holds a carton of eggs, milk, butter, and—bless Martha—a container of homemade chicken soup with a note: "Welcome to Oakbridge."

The simple kindness brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them away, annoyed at myself. Crying doesn't solve anything. Never has.

After wolfing down some soup standing at the counter, I unpack my meager belongings. Clothes go in the bedroom's small closet. Toiletries in the bathroom. Books—my one indulgence—stack neatly beside the couch.

I place my therapist's parting gift on the nightstand, a small stone with "Courage" engraved on it. Beside it, I carefully set a business card I picked up from the community center back in Pittsburgh. Melanie Jones, LCSW, Trauma Specialist. She had come recommended for her work with survivors of abusive relationships here in Oakbridge. I've been carrying her card in my wallet for three months, working up the nerve.

My fingers trace the embossed letters of her name, then flip the card to reveal the handwritten note on the back: "When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. Recovery isn't linear."

Maybe tomorrow I'll call. Maybe.

For now, I need to find work. I spotted at least five restaurants within walking distance—surely one needs a server with six years of experience. Tomorrow I'll print resumes at the library, buy some decent interview clothes if I can find a thrift store.

Tonight, though, I just need to exist in this space. To prove to myself that I did it—I got away. I draw a bath in the clawfoot tub, watching steam rise from the water. It's the first time in years I won't be looking over my shoulder while I bathe, wondering if the door will burst open, if I'll be criticized for taking too long.

I sink into the hot water and close my eyes, trying to focus on the gentle sounds filtering through the open window—distant conversation, birds, the occasional car passing. The sounds of a town that doesn't know my name or my shame or my past.

A town where I can be whoever I want to be.