The food was bland, flavorless, but she ate it, knowing that she needed the energy. She hadn't eaten anything substantial in over a day, so she stomached the stale, chewy pastry and the cup of thin, watery yogurt. The complementary coffee was completely undrinkable, however, which was extremely annoying.

The rest of the free breakfast provided by the hotel was something she never would have served anyone normally, especially her daughter. However, with the only other option for food being a vending machine full of sugar and chocolate, Christine opted to fix a plate of yogurt, a banana, a piece of toast, and a few suspicious-looking pieces of melon for her. Maéva ate it all without complaint, obviously hungry, which made Christine feel even guiltier.

She had wracked her brain all night, completely at a loss of what to do. There was nowhere she could think of to go that wouldn't require a passport or credit card. Well, she was sure there were some places. Shady motels would probably accept a handful of cash...But one look at Maéva dispelled any thoughts.

"Please more, Mama!" Maéva said after finishing the last bite of banana. Christine fixed her another small plate. How was she supposed to feed her daughter when she could barely speak enough English to ask for help? Was she supposed to wander around for every meal until she found a grocery store and then buy fruit and borderline-inedible pastries?

The problems seemed so much more practical and threatening than when she had been planning it all in Paris. The biggest obstacle then had been how to leave without Erik stopping her. She hadn't worried about feeding her daughter; she had only worried about getting out. She wasn't flying away to some isolated, unreachable wilderness, and she had planned on being able to easily provide at least food and shelter for them both. But now the problems were so fundamental and so infuriating. Her head ached from spending all night trying to think of a solution.

If she could speak better English, maybe then she would have better luck. But the fact that she could only say a few phrases—and understood even less—seemed to be one of the biggest problems. Why had she been stupid enough to come here and think it would be her best option? She could have just run to southern France and hidden in the countryside in a little village, safe and comfortable.

Maéva spilled yogurt into her lap, and Christine cleaned it up, pressing a kiss to her daughter's forehead. No—they couldn't have stayed in France. She had known that from the start.

"Do you want more, chouchou?" Christine asked.

Maéva shook her head. "I want Papa."

Her stomach seemed to sink to the floor. She swallowed. "He's not here right now. It's just you and me. Maéva and Mama. Is that okay? Isn't that fun?"

The little girl scrunched her nose up, apparently trying to decide if it was fun or not. Then she nodded, and Christine smiled and stood, pulling her up into her arms.

As she walked across the small hotel lobby, she paused, staring at the empty public computer in the corner. Her heart began to pound, and she looked around. No one was paying any attention to her. Several other bleary-eyed hotel guests were busily chewing on their own tasteless breakfasts, and the girl behind the front desk was trying to hide the fact that she was texting on her phone. A loud, irritating news program was blaring from a television that was hanging in the opposite corner. Christine shifted Maéva over to a hip, knowing she was too big now to carry like that, and approached the computer.

Taking a deep breath, she quickly sat down, situating Maéva in her lap.

"Just hold on two minutes, mon chou," she said softly. "Mama has to look at something."

Maéva began to wriggle after the two minutes were up, and Christine held her in her lap as long as she could, scanning the web pages as fast as possible, trying to remember everything she was reading. There was a number to memorize, an address. Doing it made her sick to her stomach. When Maéva gave a loud, impatient scream, the hotel guests looked at her in annoyance, and so she quickly exited out of the browser and carried Maéva back up to their room, exhaling a little sigh of relief when she saw that it was empty and looked untouched.

But...they needed to leave. He could be on his way here, could be landing any hour, and Christine knew that he would find them there. She couldn't afford to sit around and wait. They had to keep moving.

She packed their meager possessions and tried to explain to Maéva that they were going somewhere else. Obviously confused, Maéva began to whine.

"I want Papa! I want Papa!"

"He's not here," Christine repeated. "But—look! Here's your blue elephant. Do you want that? Take this, baby."

Maéva took the elephant but still whined as Christine finished stuffing the last of their things into the backpack and zipped it up.

"Time to go, Maéva," she said, standing and holding out her hand.

Maéva burst into tears.

The pounding in her head started back up. Christine knelt in front of her, pulling her into her arms and shushing her softly, whispering soothing platitudes, promising that things would be all right. But Christine didn't know if that was true. She didn't know if she would be able to keep that promise, and the thought was torture.

God.

She was beautiful.

He could not help but stare, though his obsessive, unwavering gaze often caused the word pervert to softly float through his mind.

Perhaps he was. Perhaps he did not care anymore.

Who would blame him? Who could not be enraptured by her long dark curls, her large blue eyes, her small supple frame, her soft pink lips…Her tight round ass.

Those kinds of thoughts made him feel disgusted with himself. Even though he was disgusting. But he tried not to be. He focused on her, on her laughter and her voice and her music. God, her music. She was beyond talented. Too talented for the small, private, overpriced conservatory she was studying at. The conservatory had a habit of shuffling students through its doors and straight into mediocre ensembles, unremarkable choirs, and—worst of all—in front of classrooms to be uninspired, second-rate teachers. She was so much more than that. He could tell she was destined for more.

She did not seem to understand that, however. She was blissfully-unaware of her own talent. To see her squander her potential, her gift, was criminal.

He knew exactly what would happen. She would pass through the conservatory like everyone else, nothing special, no teachers or instructors able to recognize true talent. Then she would catch the eye of some wealthy businessman, and he would snatch her up before she could truly come into her own. One or two children later, and her life would be over.

He could not let that happen.

The issue was that he did not know just how to do that. What was he to do? Approach her while she was enjoying an afternoon in a café and tell her that they were destined to be together? That only he could help her achieve greatness? He would have to then explain exactly how he knew her and how he knew of her talent: that he had been watching her obsessively for months. No, not watching. Stalking was a more appropriate word.

Jesus Christ, he was pathetic.

But he could not help himself. Every resolve he had, every promise he swore to himself, dissolved the moment he saw her again. She was dangerous.

To his own credit, he did try to stay away. For months, he forced himself to be content with watching her from afar and with shameful, late-night solo sessions with his right hand. When that was not enough, he forced himself to stand in front of the mirror without a mask and look at his revolting face. This is what you offer. This is what you are. You will repulse her. You are disgusting. It was too late, however. He was too greedy. He needed more. He needed her. He had never wanted anything so badly in his entire life.

When he finally allowed himself to think of it, the plan was easy enough to formulate. He created a dupe email account that appeared to belong to the conservatory and then sent her an official-looking message telling her that she was being assigned additional tutelage. Her new instructor was to be a private, well-educated musician who could help her progress much farther than her current level. She accepted it all without question.

He was a shivering wreck the night before their first meeting. He paced around deludedly, too tense and anxious to sleep, wondering what it would feel like with her so close. How she would look at him. How she would smell. Like some foul, pubescent boy, his hand continued to drift between his legs. He considered leaving the city entirely, a self-imposed exile. The thought was fleeting, however. He knew he was too weak; he could never leave her.

The next day, he arrived two hours early to the practice room he had arranged. The music he had brought was organized carefully. He paced again, looking at the time, running nervous hands through his hair and smoothing out his jacket. She did not know yet, but he did: this would be the beginning of their lives together.

When the time came, he found himself standing behind the piano, watching the door. His throat was dry. The doorknob turned, the door opened, and there she was. There she was. He stared, hiding his trembling hands behind the piano.

He took a deep, silent breath to calm himself.

"Christine," he said softly. "Welcome."

California. California?

She had gone there. She had flown into New York two days ago. Two days. Two days without his wife. And now she had flown to the opposite end of the country. The tickets had been purchased and the flight had left several hours before he had landed in New York. He was tired and irritated, and he wanted his wife to embrace him, to feel her warmth and smell her. But instead she had taken her daughter and had run even farther away from him.

It surprised him that she would venture out into a large, foreign country. Her English skills were practically nonexistent, so he knew she was asking for help at every turn. She did have money at least. She had withdrawn a large sum from her account, enough to last weeks if she was careful. But even with the cash, she was still leaving a perfect little trail for him.

He knew exactly what flight she had been on, what seat she had sat in, when she had arrived, what hotel she had used, what bed she had slept in…He knew her journey in its entirety. She was aware that he could trace this information—so why did she do this?

It was because she wanted to be found. Christine was a strong woman, but she liked being taken care of. She liked the protection he offered. She was leaving clues for him to follow. It was a plea, a plea for him to rescue her from her foolish ideas. She wanted Maéva to have a father—she had said that to him so many times that he believed her.

This was all a game to her—a silly, girlish game, like a particularly annoying game of cat-and-mouse…hide-and-seek. Before Maéva was born, Christine had liked to play that game before they had sex. She would rush off and hide in another room, wordlessly begging him to find her. Her hiding places were never that difficult. She always wanted to be found, and she would always thoroughly reward him for finding her. This was still a game—still a game. He had to convince himself of that.

They descended, and he went straight to the hotel in which she stayed. It was disgusting, and he let his lip curl back at the thought of his precious wife staying at such a place. Christine was not stupid, however, and so he tried not to fear for her safety too greatly. She had her daughter—she would trust her instincts and do what was best for Maéva. It was the only tactic he had to keep him coherent.

There was nothing left in the hotel room. Still, he wandered through it, stepping into the bathroom and looking at the grimy tiles, as if he could smell a faint hint of her perfume. But he had no time for fantasies. She was gone, already across the country, and if he was not quick, she would find a way to disappear. The longer he left her alone, the more danger she was in as well, and the more vulnerable she would become to thieves and depraved men who would latch onto her beauty, her vulnerability, her desperation. She was young and beautiful with a small child and a large sum of cash upon her person. The combination was begging for a catastrophe.

He had to save her from herself. He had done it before. And he would do it again.