Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(78)

She rolls her eyes and waves her hand in front of her face. ‘Don’t be silly! Where are you going?’

‘Providence,’ I say.

‘I can take you. Don’t worry about it. I would love the company,’ she says, and as I thank her, I remember her name.

Susan. Her name is Susan.





EPILOGUE


I went missing a year ago.

There are a lot of places along the border in Vermont where someone can hike into Canada. No one can see the forest for the trees, and I took advantage of that. So much for Homeland Security.

Even though I had been expecting the police to be waiting for me in Point Judith, there was no one. I read in the paper later that they were all at the airport because of the charter flight reservation. Apparently a local taxi driver, Steve McQueen, who was a close friend of Tina Adler, aka Nicole Smith, told the police that he dropped her off there after he helped her hide for the night while she waited for the flight. I could only hope that he wasn’t in too much trouble for that.

I don’t know what happened to Ian – there was no mention of him, but I do know that the money from Paul Michaels’s account never went anywhere, and Tony DeMarco would find a bonus there, thanks to a wire transfer from Robert Parker’s account. The money went the wrong way – at least, that would be the way Ian would see it. So while Ian didn’t get the money he thought he was owed, Tony did get his and had no reason to kill him. Not yet.

Susan drove me to the train station in Providence. When she got back to Block Island after her girls’ weekend and found out she’d harbored a fugitive, I was already halfway to Vermont after hitching a ride with a couple of elderly women who took pity on me because my husband had abandoned me. I never picked up the documents Tracker arranged for me. I didn’t trust anyone anymore, except for Steve, and that ‘other job’ Tracker supposedly had still worried me. I’d had the idea of going to Canada, but I couldn’t officially go through customs. So I bought some hiking equipment and ended up hiking across the border.

Today I’m sitting on the front porch of my little house on Isle-aux-Coudres, in the middle of the St Lawrence River in Quebec. It’s smaller than Block Island but has the same sort of feel about it. Peaceful, as if nothing will go wrong here. As if nothing has ever gone wrong here. I don’t know much about the island’s history, except Jacques Cartier discovered it four hundred years ago and named it after the hazelnut trees. But since I don’t need to know history or island stories, I am not seeking out the stories I needed on Block Island for my business. I’m learning the nuances of Quebecois and shedding some of my Parisian French so I don’t stand out quite so much.

I am painting. A few small galleries here are selling my work, scenes of the island, of the rocks that jut out of the long, muddy shoreline at low tide, the picturesque tidy houses, the magnificent church that dominates one end of the island, the two tiny shrines that are nearly identical to each other, the windmill at the grist mill where the scent of fresh bread baking in the outdoor oven by the parking lot wafts along the breeze and tempts me to try my hand at bread baking. So far, though, I have only bought their bread, which is rich and thick and when I close my eyes I smell the freedom it’s given me.

A ferry brought me over here after I spent a few days in Baie-Saint-Paul. My paintings brought me a few dollars and I bought a bike. I coasted down the long hill to the ferry dock, discovered it’s free – Canada’s taxes are high but I have found few discomforts – and planned to spend only a couple of days biking and exploring yet another island.

I found a house to rent the first day.

I do take the ferry to the mainland, however, borrowing a friend’s car because the hill that’s easy to coast on a bike is brutal on the legs going up. My paintings are popular; I have settled into life here easily. It is a true extension of my life before. Not the one two lifetimes ago, just the previous one. I have made a couple of friends. We drink beer and eat club sandwiches. There are no beaches here for swimming, but I’ve taken to kayaking. The shores on either side of the river are clear, and the sunrises are spectacular as the red globe peers over the horizon and spreads its pinks and reds and yellows and orange streaks into the sky. The gallery owners tell me these are the most popular of my paintings, and I keep them in stock, making enough money to support myself.

Winters are brutal, but I have learned to cope and take long walks along the lonely roads.

There are no cliffs here, but the flowers in spring are magnificent.

I have found another oasis, another place to reinvent myself.

My name is Susan McQueen.

I don’t think they’ll find me here. But I never say never.