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Berwickshire was nothing like Edinburgh. It was quieter, the streets narrower, and the people less hurried. The town felt like it had been frozen in time, it’s cobblestone roads lined with small shops and cozy cottages. It was the perfect place to disappear, or at least I hoped so.
The manhunt in Scotland had moved to Edinburgh, and every news report hinted that investigators were closing in. My escape from the city had been calculated, every step carefully planned. Using one of my many fake IDs, I became Ashley Burton, a nobody with no past. My computer science degree wasn‘ t just a framed piece of paper–it was my lifeline. Hacking systems, covering my digital tracks, creating new identities–it was
second nature to me now.
Berwickshire was a place where strangers stood out, but I had chosen it for its
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remoteness. As I stood at the edge of town, my suitcase in hand, I rehearsed my story. in my head.
I knocked on the door of a weathered stone house with a crooked sign that read *Rooms for Rent.*
The woman who answered, a stout figure with graying hair and a sharp gaze, looked me up and down.
“Help you?” she asked, her tone curt but
not unkind.
“Yes, I’m Ashley Burton,” I said with a polite smile. “I’m looking to rent a place, just for a few months. I’m new in town and need somewhere quiet to stay.”
She considered me for a moment before
nodding. “I’ve got a room upstairs. Small, but clean. Cash only.”
“That‘ s perfect,” I said, handing over the first month’s rent. She didn’t ask too many questions, which suited me fine.
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The next morning, I walked through the village, the crisp air biting at my cheeks. It was a peaceful place, with little shops. opening their doors and a few locals going about their day. For the first time in weeks, I felt a faint sense of safety.
But that safety came with a price–I was running out of cash. I’d planned meticulously, but my escape from Edinburgh had drained more of my resources than I anticipated. By noon, I was scanning bulletin boards and peeking into shop windows for help–wanted signs.
That’s when I saw it. A small diner on the corner of the main street had a
handwritten note in the window: *Waitress Needed: Night Shift.*
The place smelled of coffee and fresh bread when I stepped inside. The manager, a wiry man with salt–and–pepper hair, sized me up quickly.
“Got experience?” he asked, his hands on his hips.
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“Yes,” I lied. “I worked at a café in Glasgow before moving here.”
He didn’t press further, and by the end of the day, I had a job. It wasn‘ t glamorous, but it would keep me afloat.
The diner became my new reality. At night, I served locals who came in for coffee and late dinners, blending into the town’s rhythm. The customers were friendly, most of them too preoccupied with their own lives to notice much about me.
Until she walked in.
I was carrying a tray of steaming plates when I saw her–a familiar woman seated
by the window. My pulse quickened. It was the same woman who had approached me. at Victor Salvani‘ s funeral, asking if I was okay.
Her eyes scanned the room, and for a moment, they locked on mine. I froze. The tray wobbled in my hands, and I nearly dropped it.
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She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing as if she recognized me.
Panic clawed at my chest. I forced myself. to move, placing the plates on a nearby table before slipping into the back.
I rushed to the restroom, locking the door behind me. My hands shook as I pulled out. my phone, my fingers tapping rapidly to open the news.
There it was my face, staring back at me. The grainy photo from the surveillance. footage had been enhanced and spread across every major outlet. The headline read: *Prime Suspect Identified in CEO Victor Salvani‘ s Murder; Daphne Rodriguez*
“No way,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
My face was no longer just a shadowy figure in a hood. The image was clear enough for anyone to recognize me.
I couldn’t stay here.
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I splashed cold water on my face, trying to calm the rising tide of panic. As I exited the restroom, I avoided looking at the woman by the window. Instead, I headed straight for the back door, my heart pounding with every step.
But before I could reach it, a firm hand gripped my shoulder.
“Miss Daphne Rodriguez?”
I turned slowly, my stomach twisting into knots. A police officer stood behind me, his expression unreadable.
“You‘ re under arrest,” he said, his voice steady.
The world tilted around me. The other diners were staring now, their murmurs blending into a dull roar in my ears.
“No, you’re mistaken,” I said, my voice barely audible.
The officer began to recite my rights, his hand moving to his belt. My mind raced,
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searching for a way out, a plan, anything. Then the officer tightened his grip, and I realized with chilling certainty that my time was up.
And then I saw her–the woman from the funeral–watching me from her seat. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.
She had done this. She was my husband’s mistress–Amanda Banes.
