My mother-in-law shoved me down the stairs while I was eight months pregnant—then told my husband I had thrown myself down to frame her.

I ducked down below the window, my hand clamped over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream.

The taxi merged onto the highway.

I risked a glance back.

The Mercedes didn’t move.

Margaret didn’t know I’d left. Not yet.

I let out a shaky breath and sat up. The driver, an older guy with a gray ponytail and a Red Sox cap, glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“Trouble with the in-laws?” he asked.

I nodded, too tired to lie.

He grunted. “Ain’t nothing worse than family who hates you. My ex-wife’s mom once tried to poison my dog ‘cause she said I didn’t make enough money. People are crazy.”

He didn’t ask any more questions.

When we got to the bus station, he helped me out. I paid him with a twenty and told him to keep the change.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” he said.

I bought a ticket to Portland, Maine. Cash. Fake name: Sarah Miller. The bus left in twenty minutes.

I sat in the back of the waiting area, the backpack on my lap, scanning every face that walked through the door. Old men with suitcases. College kids with backpacks. A mom with two toddlers. No Margaret. No Ethan. No men in black suits.

My phone buzzed.

Jesse:

I’m 45 minutes from the hospital. Where are you?

Me:

South Station. Bus to Portland in 15. Meet me at the diner off exit 17 in 3 hours. The one with the neon lobster sign. Don’t tell anyone. Not even your boyfriend.

Jesse:

On my way. Keep your head down.

The bus pulled up. I climbed aboard, sat in the very last row by the window, and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head.

The ride was a blur of trees and highway signs. I didn’t sleep. Every time a car passed the bus, I flinched. Every time the driver slowed down, I thought it was the police.

We pulled into the Portland diner three hours later.

I walked inside, my legs shaking. The place smelled like bacon and coffee and grease. It was warm. Safe.

Jesse was sitting in a booth by the window. She looked exactly the same as she had three years ago—curly brown hair, a nose ring, a leather jacket covered in band patches. When she saw me, she jumped up and ran across the diner, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a tray of pancakes.

She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.

“I saw the video,” she said into my hair. “I’m gonna kill them both. I’m gonna drive back to Boston right now and run them over with my truck. I swear to God—”

I pulled back, tears running down my face. “I missed you so much. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry I fought with you—”

“Shut up. None of that matters now. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all I care about.”

She helped me sit down, ordered me a plate of eggs and toast and a chocolate milkshake. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

I hadn’t. Not really.

I told her everything as I ate. The six months of hell. Margaret hiding my wedding ring. Margaret telling Ethan I was cheating on him with the guy who fixed our roof. The bank records I’d found. The $2.3 million missing from his dad’s company retirement fund, all traced back to Margaret’s personal bank accounts. The fight we’d had the week before the stairs, when I’d told Margaret I’d give her a year to pay it back or I’d go to the police.

Jesse’s face got harder and harder with every word. When I finished, she was gripping her coffee mug so tight her knuckles were white.

“So she tried to kill you to keep you quiet,” she said. “And Ethan helped her.”

I nodded. “He nodded, Jess. He stood there and he nodded. Like it was a plan they’d made together.”

A waitress dropped the check on the table. Jesse paid in cash.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ve got a cabin in the White Mountains. My dad left it to me. No cell service. No neighbors. No address on file with anyone. We’ll lay low there for a few days, figure out our next move.”

We drove north for another two hours. The roads got narrower, the trees thicker, the houses fewer and farther between. The cabin was small, made of logs, with a porch that looked out over a lake. It was beautiful. Quiet.

Jesse carried the backpack inside. I stood on the porch, breathing in the pine air, and for the first time since I’d woken up on the bottom of those stairs, I didn’t feel like someone was watching me.

We put Clara’s crib—an old portable one Jesse had dug out of the attic—in the bedroom. I lay down on the couch, exhausted. I was asleep within five minutes.

I woke up to Jesse shaking my shoulder. Her face was white.

“Lila,” she whispered. “Wake up. There’s someone outside.”

I sat up, my heart slamming.

We crept to the window.

A man in a black hoodie was standing by Jesse’s truck. He had a camera up to his face, taking photos through the cabin windows.

Jesse grabbed the baseball bat she kept by the door.

“Stay here,” she mouthed.

She slipped out the back door.

I watched through the window. She crept around the side of the cabin, bat raised. The man heard her. He turned and ran into the woods.

Jesse chased him for fifty yards, then stopped. He was too fast.

She walked back to the porch, holding something in her hand.

A black leather notebook.