Deadly Oath

1. Sabrina

1

SAbrINA

I stare down at the clothes on my bed, a despondent feeling settling somewhere in the pit of my stomach, as I tug my bathrobe a little closer around me.

It’s been a little over a month, and I haven’t even started to get used to this new set of circumstances.

Reaching down, I pick up the pair of black denim jeans, one of the pieces of clothing I was taken to buy the first day I arrived here. I need to do laundry, so I’m down to just this pair and a couple of plain long-sleeved shirts.

Laundry . Less than six weeks ago, someone did that for me. Less than six weeks ago, my favorite pair of jeans was a dark-wash, boyfriend-cut pair that felt like butter against my skin from Dior. It paired perfectly with my favorite Chanel silk blouse, nude Louboutin pumps, and a pair of diamond stud earrings my father gave me for my eighteenth birthday. It was one of my favorite outfits, before.

Now—I don’t have a favorite outfit. I don’t have a favorite restaurant, or coffee shop, or part of town to shop in. I don’t even have friends.

“Sabrina?”

Speaking of friends. The chirpy, happy-go-lucky voice of my neighbor two houses down, Marie Woodson, comes through the speaker of my phone and reminds me that I got lost in thought for a minute there. She, and a few other women that I’ve met here, are the closest thing that I have to friends these days.

But friends know personal things about each other. They know secrets and important moments, fears and hopes and dreams. I can’t tell these women any of those things, so I can’t really call them friends .

Not that I have hopes and dreams either, any longer. The ones I had before—such as they were—are all gone.

“I’m here,” I say distractedly, pulling on the Target-brand jeans and long-sleeved shirt. I grab a hair tie from my nightstand with one hand, scraping my blonde hair up into a loose, messy bun. My hair is my one holdout from my old life still—I had it done right before the night when everything went upside down. The expensive balayage and perfect cut look out of place next to the dressed-down outfit, and every time I leave the house, I can feel people looking at me. Noticing that while my clothing might have changed, the polish that’s leftover from my old life, the way I’ve been taught to carry myself since I was small, the way I speak—it all sets me apart from everyone else in this small town.

“Daphne texted the group this morning with the new title for our book club. Did you see it? Cozy mystery is the theme this month. I was thinking we could go get coffee, and then swing by the bookstore to grab our copies. Unless you can’t get away from work today?”

“No, that’s fine. I make my own hours. I’ve been working more at night lately, anyway.”

“Night owl,” Marie laughs, clicking her tongue. “I’d be the same if it wasn’t for the kids. I used to pull all-nighters all the time in college. Now I’m lucky if I make it to ten before I’m in bed.”

“Yeah, me too.” I can hear how hollow it all sounds. How detached my voice is. Marie must notice it, too, but she’s not the kind of person to point it out. She brought me cookies the first day I moved in. Homemade, with those big chocolate chunks in them. I remember staring at them and crying because I couldn’t make myself eat one .

I can’t remember the last time I ate a cookie. My looks have always been my currency. My hair and my skin, and my figure have always been immaculate. But here, no one cares about that.

They seem to care about kindness. Friendship. Goodwill. Neighborly affection. The people I grew up around didn’t value those things. And what was an elegant, sophisticated distance in the life I remember comes across as cold haughtiness here.

“You sound tired.” There’s a hint of worry in Marie’s voice now. “Maybe you shouldn’t be pulling so many late nights. Sleep is important, you know. I keep telling my son that, every time he wants to stay up late playing video games.”

“I’ve just had trouble sleeping lately, is all.” I sink down on the edge of the bed, reaching for the black ankle boots that I bought last week. They look like a knock-off of a favorite pair I used to own, and I thought that buying them would make me feel better. But actually, it just makes my chest ache, every time I look at them. “I’ve always had trouble with insomnia. I thought being out here in the country would help. That it would be more—quiet, I guess. But it’s been persisting.” That’s my cover story, flimsy as it is—that I moved away from the city because it was getting to be too much. That I needed a break, like a hysterical Victorian woman going to the seaside for her “nerves.”

“Well, if you ever want to see a doctor, and you need a ride, just let me know. Dr. Thompson at the clinic here is good, but he’s older, so he’s skeptical of prescribing things like sleeping pills. I went to a doctor in Louisville when I needed anxiety medication. Fixed me right up.” Marie’s chirpy voice brightens. “Dr. Thompson wasn’t happy when I had to tell him at my next check-up, but at that point, what could he do about it? I already had the prescription.” There’s a conspiratorial note in her voice now, like we’re sharing secrets. “Anyway, if you need a little help getting better sleep, there’s no shame in it. I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

“Thanks.” Not for the first time, I wish I had a car. I wish I knew how to drive . If I want to go anywhere further than the few stores that are within walking distance of my house, I have to get a ride from someone. I can’t imagine actually explaining to anyone here how, at twenty-two years old, I don’t know how to drive. I could pass it off as having lived in Chicago my whole life, I suppose, but it would still lead to more questions.

And questions are something I’ve tried very hard to avoid. Not easy in a small town, I’m finding, where everyone gossips about everyone else, and everyone knows everyone else’s business.

“That’s what friends are for!” Marie exclaims, and I can hear her indrawn breath as she gears up to run off on another tangent. She’s like a small, excitable dog. A Pomeranian, maybe. Sweet and full of energy, and always ready to talk. I interrupt her, quickly, because I need a little time with my own thoughts before I spend the rest of the afternoon with her.

“I need to finish getting ready. But I’m fine with a coffee and book run. Can you pick me up in, say—an hour and a half?” I think that should give me enough time for coffee and my breakfast, quietly, before the day starts.

“Sure thing! I’ll see you then.”

The phone clicks off, and I release a breath that I hadn’t known I was holding. I reach up, rubbing my temples, fending off a growing headache. Everyone here is just so—much. All the time.

I grew up with distance. Private school, where everyone was as stiff and formal as my father and his associates at home. A staff at the mansion I grew up in, who always kept a careful space between me and them. Friends from the same school, the same social circles, who also grew up believing that that kind of distance was the only acceptable way to behave. Even my closest friends and I gave each other air kisses instead of hugs. I can’t actually remember the last time anyone hugged me.

The first day I met Marie, she gave me that plate of cookies. The second day I met her was at the book club I hesitantly attended, where she grabbed me in a full-body hug and told me how excited she was that I’d taken her invitation. I’d gone stiff, unsure of what to do. Marie hadn’t seemed to notice, too caught up in her own excitement, but everyone else certainly did .

It set me apart from the very beginning. But that was always going to happen.

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 trees in 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 I am spoiled—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. This is for your protection , 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. Not my father, 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 a thud as 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.

But someone is 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’m safe .

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?”