Zoya read over the escape plan one more time. It'd been years, but she couldn't help herself. At this point, it soothed her. Eight seasons of watching The Catch had helped put the plan in motion, but if she'd overlooked a step, they'd find her.

Episode 18-Keep go-bag packed for aquick getaway. For weeks she'd camouflaged the bag by burying it in a box of old clothes.

Episode 21-Destroy credit and debit cards. Put cash into pregnancy bag. On the day she left, she'd strapped on the fake belly, pulled on an oversized sweatshirt, and waddled around like a penguin for effect.

Episode 36-Get fake ID and cosmetology certification. Even after all this time, Zoya Hart still didn't sound right. She chose it after her favorite brand of nail polish, and Hart after her mom's maiden name. If Dad could see her now, he'd frown. But with the bogus identity, she needed to fit the part. And she did. Right down to the red highlights and nose ring.

Episode 74, transfer files to external hard drive. Pour coke into computer; toss it in the lake, along with cell phone. Living on the waterfront had made this step easy. She didn't have to lug the clunky old desktop too far. A month before, she'd bought a burner phone at a flea market.

Episode 89-Take the bus to Biloxi. Pick up the black Chevy Cruze stored there, then double back to Arcadia, Louisiana.

The timer dinged. Zoya put the notebook away and stared down at the frail woman in the casket. "Did you know Miss Charamel?" She lifted the curling iron and wrapped the final silver-brown strand around the barrel. "I miss her. I'm still living in her house, but it's not the same without her." She fluffed the wisp. "I gave you soft curls around your face, added a little gray eyeshadow, some pink lipstick, and a hint of blush to your cheeks. That's what your son wanted. He gave me strict instructions. I think he was a little nervous because of my style. But no chopped hair, piercings, or black fingernails for you."

Even before Zoya heard the soft trill of Renee Foster, the click of heels on marble announced her. "Excuse me, but are you finished with Mrs. Cormier?"

"Almost."

"Great. Ms. Tannert is waiting." The secretary walked away.

Zoya pulled her leather notebook from her pocket again and opened it. "Have you noticed the euphonious quality of Mrs. Foster's voice? That's another word for melodious. Or song-like." Not even noon and she'd already used her word of the day. Didn't always work out that way, but lately she'd been on a roll. She marked it off the list.

Joshua Foster, heir to Foster Funeral Chapel, interrupted her thoughts. "Hey, Zoya. My church is having a hamburger dinner tomorrow night. You wanna go?"

Joshua was nice enough, but she wasn't interested. Not in the Methodists, hamburgers or him. He was a high school senior, and she was too old for him, anyway. She lifted her head, looked him in the eye, and smiled. "No, thank you."

His weak chin dropped, and Zoya guessed what was coming next. Mind racing, she searched for a response. Dad's numerous warnings flashed inside her head. Keep your head up. Make eye contact. Think before you speak. Remember not to be rude. Smile. Say thank you. How could the truth be considered bad manners? But he'd said most people didn't want honesty when it came to personal questions.

The lanky boy leaned against the doorjamb. "Why not? You got something else to do?"

"I don't like crowds. I don't like church."

"What you got against it?"

This was the trouble with Dad's instructions. She should have said she didn't find Joshua attractive and she was several years older and the conversation would be over. But she had to play this ridiculous game. "Nothing against it. Just organized religion. I remembered I do have plans." That should do it and it wasn't a total lie. She had to finish the mural. Still needed to add the animal version of The Golden Girls into the picture. Zoya didn't think she'd ever seen the old woman happier than when she found out episodes were available online.

"Like what?"

Talk about not taking no for an answer. Zoya wanted to order the gangly, feeble-chinned, soon-to-be-graduate out of the room. She didn't like his persistence. Zoya sat straighter. "I don't date."

He blinked as if the statement shocked him. "Not at all, or just guys?"

That did it. If he only knew the hours she'd put in over the years conditioning herself to not speak her mind. The constant tutoring on how to handle social interaction. If he had a clue about what a freak people thought she was, he wouldn't be interested. She sucked in a deep breath, then spit the words out like they tasted bad. "I do not want to go."

He took a step back and pushed his palms out. "Okay, okay. I get it." He didn't give her time to say anything else, which was fine with her. He spun and disappeared into the corridor.

Zoya turned back to Mrs. Cormier. "Sorry about that. At your age, if you could, I'm sure you'd have some good relationship advice." Pulling out her notebook, she scribbled on a sheet of paper, tore it out, and folded it. "When you get to Heaven, find my dad, David, and give him this." She tucked the note inside the woman's bra. "You can't miss him. He's a big guy. Handsome. Once word gets out you're from Arcadia, he'll probably look you up. If I don't see you again before you leave, have a wonderful trip." Rollers squeaked as Zoya shoved her chair away. She walked to the door and glanced one last time at her client. Yep. Ten years younger. No doubt about it. Mrs. C didn't look a day over eighty. Her son would be happy.

Gathering her cosmetic case, Zoya headed toward room three and referred to the next list: Blue eyeshadow. Blue-black mascara. Mauve lip gloss. Enhance beauty mark on upper lip. Lisa Tannert was only thirty-nine and although there would only be a graveside service, a viewing was planned at six.

She studied the woman's leather motorcycle jacket and low cut tank. Voluptuous breasts swelled over the top. Nothing like formaldehyde to pump up a woman's upper thorax. She removed the pencil from behind her ear, scratched out part of the notes, and rewrote them. Heavy black mascara. Frosted tangerine lipstick. Checking the woman's nails, Zoya grabbed her emery board and got to work.

By the time she finished, Lisa looked like a Harley Harlot. Zoya didn't wear makeup but knew how to use it. Proper shading and contouring made women appear pounds lighter and years younger. She regretted the client couldn't see the magic. She jotted another message, ripped it from her notebook and tucked it into Motorcycle mama's pocket and zipped it. "Give this to my mother if you see her. You'll recognize her because I think we look alike."

With only a few pictures and Dad's word, she couldn't be sure about that. The older she got, the less she remembered about her mother. The day of her burial, Zoya stayed in the limo. She and her Aunt Jane, her father's only sibling, had played a game of I Spy with My Little Eye. A year later, Jane died. Most of Zoya's life, she'd buried loved ones. Mom, Aunt Jane, Gramps and Gigi, Dad, Miss Charamel. At least she was done with that. There was no one left to bury. Unless she counted The Golden Girls.

She should have given them away, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Miss Charamel had been so kind to insist Zoya keep living in the house, she'd felt obligated to care for the pets. She'd also continued to deposit rent payments each month because Charamel had willed the place to her only grandson, and Zoya didn't want him to think she'd taken advantage of his grandmother's good heart. But it probably wouldn't matter because he was serving a fifteen year prison sentence, and she'd be long gone by the time he showed up.

Roman DeRoux's biggest regret was that Derek Grimald died before he had a chance to kill him himself. Son-of-a-bitch had to go and get cancer. With death looming, he'd found religion and admitted he'd framed Roman. Small consolation. At least in prison, with no distractions, Roman finished his business degree with a 4.0.

But he doubted any major corporation wanted to hire an almost thirty-year-old with no work experience doing anything except summer construction jobs and bussing tables at the Silver Crown Roadhouse.

Especially after being convicted for burning the bar down. Didn't matter he'd been exonerated. According to an article he'd read, twenty percent of people would still think he did it. That was the bad thing about lies. Once people made up their minds, nothing could change it. Not even the truth.

Nothing could give Roman back the six years. Sure, the state had done their part with the annuity and cash settlement, but money couldn't replace lost youth.

Downing his second shot of whiskey, he eyed two brunettes at the end of the bar. The one in the tight black skirt dangled a red stiletto from her toes and bounced it in time with the country tune blaring from the jukebox. The other wore leather pants and twirled a pink umbrella in her drink. Funny how he paid attention to details. When he'd started his sentence, he knew there'd be plenty of things he'd miss.

Like women.

How they looked and smelled and felt. Driving. The freedom to go anywhere he wanted. That's why he'd spent almost a year on the open road riding his Harley letting the wind, rain, and sun restore life to his body. He never imagined missing something as insignificant as color. But when everything is taken, you realize what you've taken for granted.

Both girls had hot pink fingernails, and their skin sparkled. He figured they smelled good, too. If he didn't make a move, he might have to add them to his misery. Roman had a backlog of good times waiting to happen, and he was behind in his count.

In four more days, his year of travel would end, and he'd be in Arcadia, Louisiana, at the property his lola left him and Ophelia. His sister had no use for it, always preferring the city to the farmhouse, claiming that being in a small town was akin to living under the floorboards like little rats. He had plans for the place. Two bedrooms and one bath would be plenty for a while, but he wanted one more of each.

Not that he intended on filling them. A wife and kids were not in his plans. Not by a long shot. In college, he'd fallen hopelessly in love but once his trouble started, she ended up in bed with his best friend. When it came to matters of the heart, women lied and cheated the same as men. He'd learned that the hard way. She didn't even return the one-carat engagement ring.

He'd trusted her. He'd trusted Grimald. They'd both screwed him over.

His long-term goal was to get the farmhouse in shape and big enough to appeal to buyers. No need to keep it because it wouldn't be the same without his lola. His best memories came from spending time with her. He hated not attending her funeral and saying a proper goodbye, but the state lost the paperwork and didn't find it until it was too late.

The last time he'd visited, the house needed work and after sitting vacant for two years; it was probably more run-down than ever. That was okay. He needed something to fill his days, and he had plenty of experience to do most of the remodel. Once he finished, he'd wish the new owners well, move across the pond to the sixty-two remaining acres and build a small log cabin. Live out his life fishing and hunting and answering to no one. Go to bed when he wanted and get up when he pleased.

After years of being told what he could and couldn't do and when to do it, he craved solitude. No more endless noise of inmates or cell doors closing. Wide open spaces and nothing but the sounds of nature waited.

Damn, he was bringing himself down. He needed to get back to the task at hand. Time was running out. He motioned to the bartender and swallowed another shot.

Tight skirt sent him a smile.

He rose from the bar stool and ambled over to the ladies. He didn't have a pickup line, but during the past year, he'd learned the game had evolved while he'd been out of circulation. Getting to the point was the best approach.

"I have a room across the street. You want to take the party over there?"

She fiddled with a gold arrow pendant pointing to her breasts and other southern locations.

"You're a big guy. Are you big all over?"

"Nothing like a game of Show and Tell to find out."

She licked her lips. "In that case, I'm Mel."

"Roman." He stuck out his hand and when Mel took it, she stroked his palm with her finger.

The next morning he opened his eyes and scanned the room. Mel was sprawled next to him, and he was tempted to stay an extra day.

The memory of last night's activities brought a smile. As soon as she'd gotten inside his room, she didn't hesitate. No small talk. No games. Just got to what she wanted.

Roman eased out of bed and went to shower, and as insatiable Mel was, he half expected her to join him. But that didn't happen. Shutting the water off, he wrapped himself in a towel. If she was still asleep, he wouldn't wake her. Check out wasn't until two o'clock, so he could at least treat her to breakfast.

When he returned, Mel was gone. He thought she'd at least say goodbye. His eyes drifted to the dresser and his wallet. Picking it up, he laughed. Mel had made off with fifty-two bucks. He couldn't get angry. She was worth a hell of a lot more.

He ran his hand beneath the mattress and pulled out his stash. Two thousand dollars. Silly woman. Ex-cons trusted no one.

Stepping outside, he smelled bacon. Just what he needed after last night's workout. Three rounds had taken their toll. He removed his last cigarette and tossed the package into the blue trash barrel at the corner of the building. He should give up the bad habit, and he would. Later.

With an early start and few stops, he could make it to Arcadia in one day. Grab a quick breakfast. Crank up the Harley. Hit the road. He couldn't wait to see the place. Enjoy the seclusion and relax in his lola's old claw-foot tub. That's what he loved about Arcadia. Everything remained the same.

Never any surprises.

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In the future, if there are mature themes, I will tag it in bold before it starts and after it's over, ([Mature themes ahead] & [Mature themes over]) so that you can skip ahead to read the rest of the chapter without burning your retinas out ;P