I thought I had built a life that could never be touched. That I had finally disappeared into anonymity, leaving Ava behind in the glass tank, swallowed by applause and water and smoke.
But today, walking through the Boise farmer's market, I realized some things can't be buried.
The sun was warm against my face, the sky a crisp, endless blue that made the red and gold leaves along the streets sparkle like embers. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee, fresh bread, and the subtle tang of apples. Street musicians played soft guitar riffs on the corners, their fingers nimble across steel strings, and people moved past in quiet clusters, carrying bags of vegetables and handmade crafts. The ordinary rhythm of life should have been soothing. But today, I couldn't find comfort.
I gripped the straps of my tote a little tighter, feeling the weight of it against my shoulder. Inside were books I didn't need, a bouquet of sunflowers I might never give to anyone, and a notebook I used to jot random thoughts while I walked. A habit I picked up two years ago to stay sane.
I should have been calm. Boise was my sanctuary. I had friends here—people who knew me only as Ava… no, Clara. People who didn't care about the woman I had been on stage. People who didn't know I had once vanished beneath water in front of hundreds of screaming spectators.
And yet, the name slipped into my ears like a blade.
"Av…a?"
The voice was faint, almost drowned out by the murmur of conversation and the strumming of guitar strings. It came from somewhere behind me, a sharp edge cutting through the mundane sounds of the market.
I froze, my stomach tightening, pulse spiking.
No one knew my real name here. Not anyone I trusted. Not anyone at all.
I spun on my heel, scanning every face. There were families pushing strollers, teenagers skateboarding along the sidewalk, a man selling honey with a wide smile. Everyone was just… everyone. But still, that one syllable echoed in my head: Ava.
I shook it off. Maybe I'd imagined it. Maybe the mind played cruel tricks, conjuring old memories in bright sunlight. But my gut told me it was real. My entire body told me it was real.
I tried to keep walking, forcing myself to breathe normally, to act like any other woman casually shopping downtown. I smiled at a little boy tugging on his mother's coat, at a vendor stacking pumpkins. I kept my head low, avoiding lingering eye contact. Every step felt deliberate, cautious. Every person could be a potential threat.
Then I saw it.
A folded card lying on the ground, tucked beneath a small stack of coasters at one of the craft tables. My hand froze. I bent to pick it up, and the moment my fingers brushed the edge, my pulse raced faster.
The Queen of Hearts.
I swallowed hard. My signature. My calling card. Every major act, every escape, every illusion—the Queen of Hearts had been my silent announcement: Ava is here. Watch closely.
And now it was lying at my feet. Alone. Waiting.
I turned the card over.
Miss me?
The handwriting was unmistakable. Neat, deliberate, cruel. The same hand that had pushed me to the brink two years ago, the same one that had threatened to unravel everything I loved.
The air seemed to tighten around me. My stomach dropped.
He had found me.
I didn't scream. I didn't even move for a moment. I just stood there, gripping the Queen of Hearts, staring at it as if it were alive, as if it might speak.
My mind raced back to that night—the water tank, the lights, the screams, the applause, and then the careful planning, the smoke, the ambulance, the chaos. How I had crawled into a different life and walked away from everyone who knew me as Ava.
And he had followed me anyway.
I stuffed the card into my tote and kept walking. Every sense was alert. Every shadow, every movement, every glance over my shoulder felt amplified. I needed to get home. I needed to think. I needed a plan.
Downtown Boise was crowded, but I felt isolated. Every passerby could be him. Every stranger's movement could be a sign. My heartbeat echoed in my ears as I navigated the narrow streets, weaving past vendors selling handmade soaps, jars of honey, and freshly baked bread.
When I finally reached my apartment building, I hesitated at the door. Should I go inside, lock myself in, pretend nothing had happened? Or should I leave again, run, vanish before he realized I was here?
I chose the door. I always chose the door. I had built this life, piece by piece. I wasn't going to let fear steal it from me now.
Inside, the apartment smelled of lilies and linen. The soft light from the windows made dust particles shimmer in the air. I locked the door and pressed my back against it, breathing shallow and fast. I let the quiet of my home envelope me, tried to calm the racing thoughts in my head.
But the thought persisted.
He knew.
I sank to the floor, legs tucked beneath me, fingers tracing the edge of the tote where the card lay. My mind replayed the old threats, the blackmail, the manipulations. Every detail came back, clear and sharp. He had always been meticulous. Always patient. Always in control.
And he had waited for the right moment.
I remembered the subtle ways he had infiltrated my life back then—calls at odd hours, emails that seemed harmless but contained veiled threats, little notes that reminded me he was always watching. He had used my fear like a weapon, and it had worked. Until I faked my death.
But now, two years later, nothing had changed.
I pulled my legs close to my chest and pressed my forehead against them, trying to push down the panic, the fear, the surge of anger. I could still survive this. I had survived worse.
The sound of my phone buzzing made me flinch. Unknown number.
I didn't need to read the message to know it was him.
"You can run, Ava, but you can't hide. Remember what you owe me."
Every muscle in my body froze. My stomach flipped. My chest tightened.
I owe you nothing.
I gritted my teeth. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of fear. I had played his game before, and I had walked away. I could do it again.
But this time, I would be smarter.
I set the phone down and scanned the room, looking for anything I could use, any way to protect myself, any plan to get ahead of him. My apartment was small but functional—windows locked, blinds drawn, keys in my pocket. Not much, but it was mine.
I ran my fingers over the Queen of Hearts again. My signature. My mark. My past. And suddenly, I realized something: he wanted me to remember. He wanted me to feel vulnerable. He wanted to see Ava surface, just enough for fear to take hold.
I clenched my jaw. No. Not today.
Not ever.
I would protect this life. I would protect Clara. And I would be ready for whatever came next.
Because I had survived Houdini's tank once. I could survive anything.
And I wouldn't let him pull me under again.