The Woman She Became to Survive

Prologue There Is a First Time for Everything . . .

Prologue

There Is a First Time for Everything . . .

For a very long time, I can only stand utterly still . . . surrounded as I am by so much blood. I have never killed anyone before, so I had no idea what to expect.

My heart beats faster and faster, as if it is my blood pooled on the floor. I stare at the injury to my left arm and the cuts on my chest. Some of the blood might be mine. Very little, I am fairly confident. My wounds are shallow.

I stare at the knife in my hand and almost drop it, but I decide against doing so.

There is one last thing I should do first. I raise it high over my head and, using all my strength, bring it down hard and deep into his belly.

The blade slices through skin and muscle until the tip hits bone, or concrete.

My arms vibrate with the jarring impact.

It’s done.

Relief rushes through me as I straighten.

The steps in my plan tick off in my head in a continual loop as I reach for the first of the two towels I placed on the floor on top of my panties and bra.

I remind myself to breathe as I bend down to clean my feet.

I drop that towel, step onto it, and grab the other for rubbing over my hair, cleaning my face and then the rest of my naked body where blood splatter has landed.

Though my whole body quivers now, I hurry to press the cloth against my injuries.

Lastly, and careful of the undisturbed blood near the body, I reach down and wipe the knife handle. With that out of the way, I swirl the cleanest of the two towels around the footprints I could not avoid creating, then stuff both into the trash bag I stashed with my underclothes.

A thorough survey of the room assures me I have forgotten nothing that matters. I carefully searched all spaces earlier today. There is nothing of me here. Really, there never was, except for my body, of course.

With a final glance at my work, I head toward the stairs and the place where he dropped his keys when he saw me standing naked in the middle of the room with blood oozing down my flesh.

The injuries I sustained were by my own hand.

This part was necessary to achieve a response too shocked to notice anything else.

At the top of the stairs, I unlock the door and walk into a small room.

This is the place he uses to transition from the man the world knows to the one I know.

There is a change of clothes—his—and only the very best from the city’s finest shops.

Italian leather shoes—also his. A whip and shackles.

I’ve certainly seen those before, but not for a while now.

I’ve learned to be an extra-good girl. I take the cash from his wallet. He won’t need it anymore.

The next door exits into the little room via a bookcase that conceals it so well no one would ever notice, effectively hiding it from the rest of the elegant home.

It leads into a library with rich wood shelves, somber-looking hardcovers lining each one.

Beyond the rows of books and the artfully arranged seating area are the double doors that exit into an impressive hall, where a lovely spiral staircase leads to the ground level of this prestigious mansion.

But no one who descends those handcrafted iron stairs would know the part of this lower level as I have. The narrow staircase behind the hidden door is the only way to access the space where I have lived for more than nine long years.

Nine. Endless. Years. Plus.

I continue on to the kitchen, with all its lavish details. The staff has gone home for their weeklong holiday break. Oh, the plans he had for the days of extended privacy. I smile. Now he’ll spend them in hell, where he belongs.

In the butler’s pantry, concealed behind a row of boxed dry goods, I find the clothes the younger housemaid stashes there for her occasional overnight stays in the city.

She lives in Brooklyn but has a new boyfriend here in Manhattan.

No matter that I have never seen her, I have heard her confiding in one of the other maids.

I know their schedules and many of their little secrets.

I quickly put on the borrowed jeans and sweater.

The ankle boots are a bit snug, but they will have to do.

Once dressed, I wander back into the ostentatious entry hall and toward the grand entrance.

I unlock the front door. But before I open it—the point of no return—I close my eyes and think of the keypad and all the times I watched him arm and disarm the security system.

My first try at the code is a failure. I hold my breath and try again.

“Security system disarmed,” a sterile computerized voice announces.

My heart leaps as I reach for the door, but then I pause. It’s winter; it will be cold out. I look to the elegant coatrack in the corner and take the wool-and-cashmere coat he’s left there. I slip into it and reach for the door once more.

As I prepare to go, I think of all the things I have heard . . . the secrets shared among the keepers. Such wise and wealthy men should know better than to speak such things out loud. I smile. The knowledge will come in handy one day, I am sure.

I leave the front door standing open for anyone to see.

Then I step outside and down to the street.

I almost stumble walking along the sidewalk since my head refuses to stop swiveling.

It’s snowing, big soft flakes floating in the air, then drifting to the ground.

My eyes cannot take in enough. I cannot stop absorbing the sights and sounds.

The hum of distant traffic and the wail of a faraway siren at once excites and comforts me.

I am outside, and my entire being buzzes with relief, eagerness, and no small amount of fear and pain.

Harder and harder my heart pounds.

Stick to the plan.

Without a backward glance, I disappear into the mass of pedestrians at the next cross street.

I am free!

And utterly terrified.

Later, looking back, I realize this was really the beginning of my life, of what I was destined to do.

But, like most, I became distracted.

You’ll see.