“We all have to start somewhere.” He smiles. If nothing else, Mr. Stanley is easy to warm up to.

We’re both quiet as the plane begins to descend on Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. The sky has turned from gray to black and the city lights illuminate the night for as far as I can see. I never thought anything would beat the serenity of the country, but this might just be it. It’s peaceful . . . in a different way.

I wonder where my new apartment is in the vast city. I know it’s a ways from downtown, but from my view, Chicago looks like nothing but a complex maze of lights. My moving here worked out perfectly because my college friend, Mallory, has a place she was looking to rent. She’s studying in Europe for a few months, finishing her Master’s Degree. And to sweeten the deal, she offered it to me practically rent-free. It’ll buy me some time to find a steady job, and then I can find a place of my own.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Pierce asks, tearing my eyes from the cityscape. It’s a question with an easy answer, but yet I still somehow ponder it.

“No, I’ve got one figured out,” I reply, bending to pick up my handbag from the floor.

“It wouldn’t happen to be a yellow cab, would it?”

I bite back a smile. This guy is annoyingly perceptive. “Probably.”

“I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you. I need to get used to Chicago cabbies anyway.”

He nods, standing to pull his carry on from the overhead. “You have my number. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, Lila.” My name rolls off his tongue slowly with a hint of deliberate sexiness.

“It was nice talking to you, Pierce.” With one last smirk he saunters down the narrow walkway. My eyes are trained on his retreating form, but I don’t take a step to follow him.

“Excuse me, miss?” I shake my head, realizing I’m holding up the plane.

My fresh beginning is already looking up.

CATCHING A CAB WAS EASIER than I thought it would be, but sitting in a dark car alone with the driver is proving to be the opposite. His English is broken, and when I ask him if he can turn up the heat, he mumbles some nonsense about putting on my coat. The interior smells like a mixture of sweat and fast food. And to make matters worse, when I slid across the leather seat, my fingers pressed into something sticky.

I make a mental note to find a job close to my apartment so I don’t have to worry about transportation. This is a part of the city I may never get used to.

As I attempt to relax in my seat, I reflect on the day . . . on the road that led me here.

Chicago is about me. I’m going to be the person I always intended to be, do what I want to do. To be happy, content, and live a purposeful life. I deserve better than Derek . . . better than the way we ended things. I deserve a second chance.

When the cab finally pulls alongside the curb in front of an old brick building, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s three stories, maybe four, depending if you count the half windows that stick out above the ground floor. It’s hard to make out much else in the darkness.

“This is me?” He could drop me off miles from where I need to be, and I wouldn’t have a clue.

The driver doesn’t turn, but I see him looking at me in the rearview mirror. An amount flashes on his meter: thirty-seven dollars.

I dig through the side pocket of my purse and hand him forty-five. I came here without a job lined up and only a few thousand dollars to my name; every penny spent is going to give me anxiety until I have work lined up. “Keep the change.”

He nods, and his expression lightens. “You need help, miss?”

“Sure,” I answer, curling my fingers around the door handle. As I open it, he opens his, meeting me at the trunk to pull my suitcases out.

“You have good night,” he says as he sets the second piece of luggage on the curb. He wastes no time climbing in his little yellow car and disappearing down the street until all I see are his bright red taillights.

This is it, I think to myself as I look down the barren street.

I inhale a deep breath and spin around, getting a closer look at my new home. The street is lined with buildings that are just like it: brick, with simple glass doors and dim light shining through. It’s a far cry from the historical, wooden two stories that make up my hometown.

After picking up my overstuffed suitcases, I start the short walk to my front door. It’s not long before I have to set them back down to pull the key card from my pocket. Mallory sent it in a care package, along with a key to her apartment shortly before she left. It was the day I decided there was no turning back; I’m going to do this no matter how much it scares me.

I take one flight of stairs then another, my fingers aching from the weight of the suitcases. By the time I reach the third floor, I’m praying that Mallory has a bathtub and a bottle of red wine. There’s no other way to end a long, exhausting day.

To my relief, the key turns easily, giving me a full view of the tiny apartment. A small kitchen sits right inside the door, opening to a tiny dining and living area—one just big enough for a futon, beanbag, and a small wooden coffee table. There are two doors off the living room—one on each side. The first one opens to a bedroom, which looks like someone took a dresser full of clothes and scattered them across the floor. In the corner is an easel with paint supplies strewn all over, making it look much like a preschool classroom. It’s definitely not Mallory’s.

I step back, carefully closing the door behind me. The other door has to open to a more organized setup, or I’m definitely in the wrong apartment. Mallory was borderline obsessive compulsive in school. She was the one straightening the bathroom after each of us was done, and her wardrobe and desk were meticulously orderly . . . annoying really.

I wrap one hand around the knob while the other searches for the light switch. I close my eyes like the special guest at a surprise party waiting for the big reveal. When I open them, not a doubt lingers that this apartment belongs to Mallory. A simple mahogany four-poster bed sits in the center, covered with a white down comforter and bright blue pillows. The dark wood floors are partially covered with a white shag rug, and three colorful abstract paintings cover her walls. Maybe she picked up art as a hobby since the last time I saw her; that would explain the other bedroom.

I run back into the entryway to grab my luggage and double check the deadbolt. Living in the city is going to be a huge adjustment for me. Sirens. Trains. Tiny little apartments. It’s not what I’m used to.

Once I’m back in the bedroom, I throw the first of my suitcases on the bed and quickly start unpacking.

I lift the second suitcase onto the bed, and as I’m unzipping it, I hear the door to the apartment creak.

My heart races. My mind flashes through all the episodes of 48 Hours I’ve watched over the years, hoping in the end I only think I heard it. Maybe it was my tired mind playing tricks on me like a psychological Houdini.

That hope is crushed when I hear footsteps. My eyes lock on the bedroom door, and every muscle in my body tenses. There’s nowhere to go unless I can magically escape out the window, and there’s no way to make that happen without drawing attention to myself.

If this is it . . . if this is how I’m going to die . . .

“Who the fuck are you?” a shadowy figure asks, sounding more irritated than anything else.

I step back again, my legs hitting the bed. My brain cells abandon me, and my ability to speak goes right along with them. Scanning the room, I search for anything that could be used to render him unconscious long enough to make my escape, but my flighty mind can’t concentrate.