“Come with me,” I said as a joke.
Claire said, “Okay,” like she had been waiting for someone to give her permission to disappear.
At 6:40 on a Friday morning, I was not prepared to accidentally change my life.
I was barefoot in the hallway of our Nashville apartment building, holding a trash bag that had betrayed me. Coffee grounds, eggshells, and something cold were leaking down the side and dripping onto my sweatpants.
That was when Claire Bennett stepped out of 4B.
She had a suitcase in one hand.
Not an overnight bag.
Not a cute little carry-on.
A full-sized, I’m-leaving-town-and-maybe-my-old-life suitcase.
Claire was twenty-nine, a graphic designer, and the kind of woman who made silence feel expensive. She had dark hair tucked behind her sunglasses, white sneakers, a wrinkled linen shirt, and the tired, sharp expression of someone who had spent the night making a decision she could not take back.
