Knowing she had to take the long way out of St. Ives in order to remain undetected by the residents, or worse, the authorities, Jorja was well on her way in less than thirty minutes. She had managed to take a quick shower and got rid of the hospital tee shirt, replacing it with a plain white tee, a pair of dark-blue denim jeans, and the black leather jacket she hadn't worn in almost twenty years. Surprised it still fit she glanced at herself in the car's rear-view mirror. She had swept her hair back over her head, leaving it to curl slightly at the nape of her neck instead of it waving softly around her face, the same way she used to wear it when he last saw her. She was nervous, anxious even, more about seeing him again than being seen leaving town.
Her hands tensed around the steering wheel when she eventually reached the A30 bypass toward London. With her heart thumping hard in her chest, she now knew that there was no turning back. She’d known the moment she got into her car, always known that she'd only be able to run from her past for so long and that this day was bound to come. Yet, she had secretly hoped it never would.
When she reached the outskirts of London five hours later, she decided to leave her car at a small roadside hotel near Heathrow Airport—one she had used plenty of times in the past when she was on a job. She had thought it best to take the train into Trafalgar Square and go on foot from there. Partly to circumvent the traffic, but mostly to ensure she wasn't followed. She had been careful when she left town and hadn't seen anyone follow her to the city but then again she had been recently surprised one too many times by intruders she never saw coming. She was rusty and that was enough cause for her to be extra cautious—and extra anxious.
The hotel looked exactly as it had when she had last seen it, apart from it having a new name. She parked her car in the farthest corner under a large tree and out of sight of the surveillance cameras she had spotted as she approached; the second thing that had changed since she'd last been there. She took a moment to calm herself before grabbing her small satchel from the passenger seat. When she was certain no one was around, she reached inside and took out her SIG. She had loaded the clip at home before she left but she did one more check, then slipped it back in place. With the safety on, she tucked it inside a concealed pocket of her jacket, zipped up her bag, and swung it onto her back as she got out of the car.
Somewhere to her right, she spotted movement, but when she looked there was nothing there. She paused for a moment, just to be sure, but still didn't see anyone. Brushing it off as her mind playing tricks on her, she set off toward the train station a block away. She would reach Trafalgar Square via Paddington and Charing Cross stations and then it would be a quick walk to the National Gallery. Being back in the city excited her. She loved the tranquility of St. Ives but more often than not, she felt claustrophobic, trapped, and was reminded of where she had grown up. All she wanted to do from the moment she’d turned sixteen was run away, travel the world, see any town that would take more than fifteen minutes to walk across. A lot of good that did her, she thought, as she sat down on the train. After finally managing to escape a small town, life had forced her back. The very thing that once made her feel trapped now made her feel safe. Or did it?
There were already half a dozen passengers in the railcar plus three more who got on with her; a young couple, and a man she guessed to be in his late sixties. He sat a few seats down from her, took out his newspaper, and buried himself in its pages until they reached Paddington. Switching platforms she noticed he also switched and got onto the Charing Cross train with her, again seated a few seats away from her. Something inside her warned of danger and her body tensed. Her eyes fixed on his paper, watching closely to see if his eyes trailed the writing on the page as they would when one read from left to right. They didn't. Instead, they remained fixed in one spot on the middle of the page as if his attention was on his peripheral vision instead. She decided to put him to the test and got up to move to an opposite seat. As soon as she sat down, he turned the page and shifted his sights, practicing the same ritual. She homed in on the date of the newspaper. It was three days old, enough to tell her that her instincts were accurate. She was being followed and it was not by a six-foot-three man with broad shoulders.
Her heart pounded against her chest as they neared Charing Cross station. This was her only chance to lose him. There were about ten more passengers on the train, four of whom were a group of students huddled together near one of the exit doors.
Timing was everything.
As the train slowed into the station she readied herself, tensing her legs up to bolt for the door when the time came. In her experience, there was always a chance that he might be much younger—and less rusty—than his disguise portrayed, so she would have to be especially quick. Once the chime sounded she knew she had only three seconds at the most to exit before the door closed, less if the train was running late and needed to make up for lost time. Her eyes darted back to him. His body was rigid, tense, ready to move, his eyes pinned on the same spot in the paper. When the train stopped and a few passengers disembarked, she remained seated, all the while keeping an eye on the old man whose body language now seemed unsuspecting and more relaxed behind his paper. Her bluff had paid off. The chime sounded and she counted off the timing in her head. He looked up at her as if he sensed what she was planning.
Timed perfectly, Jorja was on her feet and charging for the door. He was as quick, right behind her. So close that she could smell his sweaty armpits. But she was quicker and slipped through just in time before the door fully shut between them. When she turned back, she found the man pressed against the door's window, his fingers wrestling to open the door. From beneath the bushy white eyebrows she now knew were not his own, his eyes were angry, warning her that she had not yet won.
Following her narrow escape, Jorja picked up her pace until she reached her destination. She knew the National Gallery like the back of her hand. It had been the place she visited most often when she absconded from school. She would go to school in the morning for registration, then sneak away between classes to catch the nine thirty train to London. She would walk into the gallery by 1 p.m. like clockwork every Wednesday. Being back there again had her feeling giddy. As she took the stairs to the second level, she glanced at her wristwatch. She was early. It would give her time to compose herself, prepare. She lingered over the paintings on the way to Room 43. Corbet, Delacroix, Monet, all artists she adored. Excitement welled up inside her as she entered the Van Gogh room. Her eyes fell on the artist's Sunflowers painting and she took a seat on the empty bench in front of it. Painted in 1888 the oil on canvas painting lured her in as it had always done since the first day she laid eyes on it. She compared her life with the different stages of the sunflower's life cycle as was depicted in the painting. From young bud through maturity, and eventually, decay. She couldn't help wondering if she was in the maturity stage facing decay. But she shrugged it off as her poetic side running away with her and that she was still a long way from decay.
In the stillness of the empty exhibition room, she heard his footsteps approaching, sensed his presence in the room. But she couldn't bring herself to turn and look. She wasn't ready; it had been so long. Her heart skipped a beat, her hands felt clammy. Suddenly she felt her body temperature rise and was certain she was going to erupt at any moment.
Then his deep, warm voice came up behind her and instantly melted her insides.