Chapter 4 - The Miami Mirage
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The apartment in Little Havana was a stifling, second-floor walk-up that smelled permanently of bleach and stale cigarette smoke.
Her cousin, Maria, was working a double shift at a local diner, leaving Clare and Maya alone in the cramped space. Clare spent her first three days in Miami trying to build the illusion of a normal life. She bought cheap groceries, set up a small pallet of blankets for Maya in the corner of the living room, and ironed her only professional blouse for the nursing interview she had lined up at a nearby clinic.
But the ghost of her past refused to stay behind in New York.
Every time a car door slammed on the street outside, Clare flinched. Every time her cheap burner phone buzzed, her stomach plummeted, terrified it was Richard. He was a financial compliance officer, a man who understood algorithms, tracking, and digital footprints. She had used cash for almost everything, but she had used her debit card once at a gas station near the airport before leaving New York.
It was a small mistake, but in her world, small mistakes were fatal.
On Thursday morning, Clare dressed for her interview. She looked in the cracked bathroom mirror, applying a thin layer of concealer over the fading, yellowish bruise on her cheekbone—a parting gift from Richard before she fled.
“Mommy, I don't like it here,” Maya whispered, standing in the doorway clutching her one-eyed stuffed rabbit. “It’s too hot.”
“I know, baby,” Clare sighed, kneeling down to kiss her forehead. “But we’re safe here. Nobody knows where we are.”
She stood up, grabbing her resume.
As she walked out of the apartment building and down the sunny, palm-lined street toward the bus stop, a chilling sensation crept up the back of her neck.
Clare stopped. She turned around slowly, scanning the busy sidewalk. Tourists, locals, delivery trucks. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.
But parked across the street, idling in the shade of a massive banyan tree, was a sleek, black town car with heavily tinted windows. It wasn't the kind of car that belonged in Little Havana.
May you like
Clare’s breath hitched. She turned and walked faster, her heart hammering. She tried to convince herself she was just being paranoid. Richard drove a sensible sedan. Gabriel Salvatore had no reason to track down a woman who had refused a nanny job.
She was just a ghost, blending into the Miami heat. Or so she thought.
