There, behind a gas station, I removed the SIM card from my phone and destroyed it.
If they wanted Anastasia Dunaway dead so badly, I decided they could have their version of her.
I was going to build someone new.
For two weeks, I lived in my car and used public-library computers to search for jobs.
Eventually, I found one in Burlington, Vermont.
Green Mountain Botanicals.
A commercial orchard and landscaping farm run by a woman named Martha Vance.
No relation to Clara, despite the name.
Martha was older, stern, and practical.
She looked at my nursery experience and asked only one question.
“You know how to prune fruit trees?”
“Yes.”
“And can you work hard?”
“Yes.”
She slid a set of keys across the desk.
“There’s a caretaker’s cabin near the north orchard. Rent comes out of your paycheck. Work starts at five.”
That tiny cabin became the safest home I had ever known.
It had one bed.
A wood stove.
A small kitchen.
And a window overlooking acres of apple trees.
For months, I barely spoke.
I worked.
I pruned.
Carried soil.
Repaired irrigation lines.
Learned grafting.
Drove tractors.
Worked in rain, cold, and summer heat.
Whenever I remembered that black granite plaque, I worked harder.
One year passed.
Then another.
Then another.
My body changed.
My mind changed more.
The frightened girl who had spent years trying not to upset anyone slowly disappeared.
I became stronger.
More confident.
Less afraid of being seen.
By my fourth year in Vermont, Martha’s health had begun to decline.
One afternoon, she called me into her office.
“I don’t have children,” she said. “And you’ve worked this land harder than anyone I’ve ever hired.”
Then she pushed a legal folder toward me.
“I’m making you general manager and minority partner.”
I stared at her.
“Martha…”
“I’m not finished.”
She leaned back.
“In time, this farm will become yours. But we need to expand. Weddings. Corporate events. Luxury floral work. You understand plants better than most designers understand color.”
I hesitated.
“I don’t like being in front of people.”
Martha smiled.
“You can’t hide among apple trees forever.”
So I accepted.
I created a new botanical-design division.
And for the first time in years, I used my real surname publicly.
Dunaway & Green Botanical Designs.
I knew it was a risk.
But Vermont felt impossibly far from the wealthy New Jersey social circles my family lived inside.
I believed I was safe.
I underestimated rich people.
Our company eventually won the contract to design the Northeastern Horticultural Gala.
It was enormous.
We transformed the ballroom of a luxury Burlington hotel into an indoor woodland.
White birch.
Moss.
Flowering dogwoods.
Soft lighting.
An entire forest inside a ballroom.
On the night of the event, I stood on the mezzanine wearing a dark green tailored suit and supervising the final adjustments.
I was twenty-seven.
A business partner.
A manager.
A woman who had rebuilt herself from the ground up.
Then I heard a voice below.
“Oh, Arthur, look at those dogwoods.”
My entire body froze.
“It reminds me of our dear Anastasia’s memorial tree.”
I looked down.
My mother stood beneath the chandelier.
Eleanor.
Beside her was my father.
Arthur.
Behind them were Julian and Clara.
Clara was now pregnant.
For four years, I had successfully disappeared.
And now my entire family had walked directly into an event I had created.
My first instinct was to run.
Every old survival instinct came back instantly.
Service exit.
Parking lot.
Truck.
Cabin.
Disappear.
Then I watched my mother pull out a handkerchief.
I watched her dab her eyes.
Victoria Vance approached and comforted her.
My mother gestured toward my dogwood display like a grieving saint.
She was still doing it.
Still using my fake death.
Still collecting sympathy.
Something inside me changed.
I straightened my jacket.
Adjusted my braid.
And walked down the main staircase.
I did not use the service entrance.
I did not hide.
I walked directly into the center of the ballroom.
My family stood near the main dogwood installation while my mother spoke to several guests.
“We planted the original tree in our parish garden,” she was saying. “Whenever I see white dogwood blossoms, I feel Anastasia’s spirit close to me.”
I stepped closer.
“She wasn’t that fragile.”
My mother turned.
At first, she didn’t recognize me.
She gave me the polite smile she used for staff.
“I’m sorry?”
I stopped three feet away.
“She wasn’t fragile,” I repeated. “She just needed enough distance from the people hurting her.”
Eleanor stared at me.
Then recognition hit.
The color disappeared from her face.
My father’s wineglass slipped from his hand and broke against the floor.
“Annie?”
Julian stepped backward.
“Oh my God.”
Clara looked from him to me.
“Who is she?”
My mother recovered first.
She grabbed my arms.
“Anastasia! What are you doing here? Where have you been? Arthur, call the car!”
I looked down at her hands.
“Take your hands off me.”
She froze.
“You are touching the lead designer of this event,” I continued. “And you are making a scene.”
Victoria stepped forward.
“Lead designer?”
Then her expression changed.
“Eleanor, what is happening?”
She pointed toward me.
“You told us your daughter died in 2014.”
People around us were beginning to listen.
My mother panicked.
“She was sick!”
Her voice rose.
“She ran away! She’s unstable!”
I reached into my jacket and pulled out my business cards.
“No.”
I handed one to Victoria.
Then Clara.
“I am Anastasia Dunaway. General Manager and Minority Partner of Green Mountain Botanicals.”
Clara stared at the card.
I pointed toward the event program.
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