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But I'm careful. I stay off social media, and I don't let people take my photo. I bought a prepaid cell phone, and I try not to google anything about myself or the murders. And somehow, after all this time, I've stayed off the radar.

So have Silas and Tate. I don't know where they are or evenifthey are, but I know they haven't been caught. The media refers to what happened that night as the Multnomah County Massacre and named me an accomplice, just as Tate said they would. There were candlelight vigils and promises to leave no stone unturned, but months went by with no sign of Silas or Tate, so no one really talks about it anymore.

But it was in the local paper last month on the anniversary, reminding everyone of the tragedy. And even though there was a small, black-and-white photo of me in the article, which sent me into a panic, no one here looked at me twice.

I don't need reminders; I'll never forget. My body will never forget, and that's another reason I needed Mason out of here.

I have this…routine. It takes a long time.

After I dry my hair, put on makeup, and get dressed, I go to the kitchen and prepare some eggs, strawberries, and toast.

The toast is pretty easy to get down. I've gotten to the point where I can eat small bites of dry, crunchy foods, and they won't come back up in my throat. But I can't survive on just crackers and toast, even though I did for quite some time. My hair and nails have grown brittle, and I've lost more weight than I really had to lose. It helps—I guess—with the disguise, but I think it's killing me.

Jodie even made me take a drug test last spring. She said she tests all of her employees occasionally, but I knew it wasn't true. I could tell by the way she stared at my collarbones instead of my eyes when I spoke to her.

And so I sit here, and I spend an hour trying to force down whatever I decide to make, fighting against involuntary ruminations. It comes up, I swallow it back down. On days that I'm not too tired, too utterly fucking overwhelmed by the thought of eating to try, anyway.

Today, it's scrambled eggs and strawberries. And the inside of my mouth already feels like it's sweating.

I set the plate on the counter, and then slide onto the barstool. I let myself take a couple of bites of toast first as a warmup, and it goes down pretty easily. Next, I try the eggs.

As soon as I put them into my mouth, my esophagus tenses. I chew…and chew…until I finally get up the nerve to swallow.

And they come back up.

And they come back up.

On the third try, with the help of some water, I keep them down. I try the strawberries next, cutting them into tiny squares first, and it helps.

See? I can't have Mason here for breakfast. I can't go on dinner dates.

By the time I leave for work, I've finished the strawberries and toast and maybe three bites of eggs. Still, it's progress. I'll get there.

Another way my body remembers is the pain in my ankle when it rains, and today, it's definitely going to rain. I make my way down the staircase, using the railing to take some of the weight off of it.

I cross in front of Jodie's house and then make my way through the parking lot to the front of the café. Judging by the amount of cars outside, it's a little busier than usual, but it's also warm for this late in October. Winters here are longer and snowier than I'm used to, and when people can get out on the weekend like this, they make the most of it.

Distracted, I run into the back end of a truck that didn't bother pulling all the way into the parking space.

"Ah, fuck," I mutter.

Great. That'll leave a fucking bruise. Everything leaves a bruise now—another unfortunate side effect of my malnutrition. The back of the truck is covered with bumper stickers, but one in particular catches my eye.

Make Women Obedient Again!

"Mother fucker…"

I grit my teeth, looking from side to side to ensure no one is watching, then pull my keys from my pocket. Digging past the stickers and into the paint, I drag my house key across the tailgate.

I look back at my work and smile before rounding the corner onto the sidewalk, slowing when I find myself behind a couple with a little girl. It looks like they're coming from a fall soccer game. The girl, maybe around nine, dribbles her ball from one foot to the other behind her parents. As they turn toward the front door, the girl loses her footing and kicks the ball into the street.

"Damn it," she says under her breath. I laugh a little, remembering myself at that age doing the same thing when I thought no one could hear it—a harmless act of defiance that, for whatever reason, made me feel powerful.

But then she goes for the ball without looking.

I don't even think about it; at no point did I make a decision, and I don't realize what I'm doing until after it's already done, but I grab the girl by her jersey and pull her back as an SUV skids to a halt, its horn blaring. And then I'm on the ground with the little girl next to me, her parents kneeling beside us, frantic with questions, as they pull her, sobbing, into their arms.

"Are you okay?"