Scarlett’s POV
If you looked too long at the Atlantic Ocean in Nova Scotia, you started to believe it could erase things.
Erase time.
Erase memories.
Erase you.
That was part of the reason we came.
Getting out had been like pulling teeth from the mouth of a beast.
We didn’t just vanish, we dissolved. Erased bank trails, scrubbed camera feeds, rerouted our identities like smoke. Miriam’s old connections, whatever shadowy parts of her life she hadn’t told me about, came in handy. I didn’t ask. She didn’t volunteer.
We bought two one-way tickets using burner names. No luggage beyond a worn duffel each. No phones. No communication. No digital fingerprints.
At the airport in Montreal, we changed identities again. Different wigs. New accents. I was now Clara Voss, and Miriam answered to
