Chapter 26 Chapter 26
“Tomorrow morning. Early. There’s a driver who’ll take you to the airport. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t take pictures. If you’re stopped, say you’re visiting your sister. That’s it.” I nodded again, tucking the documents into my bag, fingers trembling. He leaned back, studying me one last time. “You look tired.”
“I am,” I whispered. He stood and smoothed out his shirt. “Then rest tonight. Tomorrow, you start over.” And just like that, he was gone.
I sat there for a long while after he left, staring at the coffee until it went cold. When I finally stood, my legs felt weak, but something lighter sat in my chest not peace, but something close. That night, I stayed in a small guesthouse by the water. I didn’t sleep; I was too scared to. I kept the lights on and the documents under my pillow. Every sound made me flinch footsteps in the hall, a door closing, the wind through the shutters. I kept telling myself it was just nerves. Just the thought of leaving everything behind again.
I stood on the balcony before sunrise, watching the horizon bleed into light. I whispered a small goodbye to the country that had sheltered me, even briefly.
The driver arrived at six sharp, quiet and polite, no questions. He dropped me at the airport with a curt nod. Inside, everything felt too bright. Too open. My stomach twisted as I went through security. When the officer glanced at my passport, my breath caught. But he stamped it without a word. Each small step felt like walking through a dream I didn’t want to wake from. The waiting area was full of families, tourists in bright shirts, and kids running around. I sat in a corner seat, small and still, clutching my bag like a lifeline.
When they called boarding, my knees went weak again. I moved with the crowd, quiet, invisible. The flight attendant smiled and said, “Welcome aboard, Miss Carver.”
For a second, I almost didn’t respond. Then I forced myself to nod and walk on. My seat was near the window. I pressed my forehead against the glass as the plane began to taxi. My heartbeat was steady now. When the engines roared and the ground started to fall away, I closed my eyes. I didn’t think of Manhattan, or Alex, my stalker, or the life that had burned itself out behind me. I thought of the ocean below, endless and clean. Hours passed in a blur of sky and thought. The flight attendants moved up and down the aisle, offering drinks and smiling at strangers. I barely noticed them. I kept staring at the blue outside, letting the hum of the plane drown out everything else.
When the captain finally announced our descent into Nassau, something inside me shifted. Relief and fear. The island came into view like something out of a painting green and gold, surrounded by shades of turquoise. I pressed my hand against the window "Please" I whispered, I didn’t even know what I was asking for. Maybe peace. Maybe nothing at all.
Immigration was slow again, but the name on my passport didn’t raise any questions. The officer smiled, stamped the page, and said, “Welcome to the Bahamas, Miss Carver.” Those words sank deep, heavier than they should have. Outside the airport, the air hit me like warmth I hadn’t earned soft and thick, carrying the scent of salt and flowers. A man stood holding a cardboard sign that said Isabella. I hesitated before walking up to him.
“Carver?” he asked.
I nodded. He drove me to a small rental cottage near a fishing village, about an hour from Nassau. The place was quiet, painted pale yellow, with a small porch and a view of the sea. I paid him in cash and waited until his car disappeared down the road before letting myself breathe. Inside, the cottage was clean but empty. A bed, a chair, and a kitchen with mismatched cups. I unpacked slowly, putting each thing away like it meant something clothes folded, toothbrush on the sink, shoes by the door.
When I was done, I sat on the porch and watched the ocean. The water glowed under the setting sun, pink fading into gold. For the first time, I let myself believe I might be free. No sirens. No shadows. No roses.
Just the steady sound of the sea and the soft hum of the wind through the palms. That night, I slept with the window open, the salt air drifting through the room. I dreamed of nothing. When I woke the next morning, the sun was already high, and for a moment, I didn’t know where I was. Then I remembered—the new name, the new life, the ocean waiting just outside. I smiled, small and quiet, and whispered it out loud:
“I’m free.” It felt fragile, like glass. But it was real enough to hold for now.
The air in the Bahamas felt softer than anywhere I’d ever been. Warm and heavy with salt, like the world itself was exhaling. My house was close enough to the water that the waves sometimes reached the porch steps when the tide came in. It was a small one bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen that barely fit a stove, but it was mine. That alone felt strange.
My mornings started the same way. I woke with the sound of the sea slipping through the open window. The light here came gentle and gold at first, then white and clean. I’d sit at the table with a cup of instant coffee and watch the horizon. The ocean had a rhythm that steadied me, like a clock I didn’t have to wind.
The villagers didn’t ask many questions. A few tourists came and went, but the people who stayed were mostly fishermen and their families. They lived slow, easy lives, built around tides and weather. After a few weeks, they stopped calling me “the new lady” and started saying my name, Isabella. It was the one I’d kept from Argentina. It felt strange on my tongue at first, but it fit better each day.
My skin darkened under the sun, my hair lightened, and I started to blend in. I bought local clothes loose dresses, sandals, nothing fancy and learned to cook the way the women in the market did, with whatever was fresh that morning. My life became quiet in a way I’d never known before. But quiet didn’t mean peace, not fully. The silence left room for thoughts I didn’t want. Every night before bed, I checked the locks twice. I left the small lamp on, just enough to chase the shadows back. I told myself it was only habit, not fear, but the lie never stuck.
I still caught myself glancing at the windows sometimes, expecting to see a shadow that wasn’t there. I knew it was irrational. He couldn’t find me here. No one could. But paranoia had a way of feeling like instinct, and instinct had kept me alive this long.