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been full of her story, running on local stations along with national outlets, but her photo had been pulled from the police-department profile. Along with her old picture, they were blasting the image drawn by the sketch artist.
    Did it look like him? Maybe. On the surface. Eyes and nose and mouth. The hair, the beard. But no drawing could capture him, not the real him, the him he’d shown her every day. That him looked nothing like the sketch. That him would have been too frightening for anyone to gaze upon, let alone see from the safety of a living room.
    But that was over now.
    She took a deep breath of fresh winter air, tucked her hands in the pockets of her puffy Target jacket, turned in the opposite direction, and began walking.
    Nobody tried to stop her. By simply doing nothing, she was incognito.
    Jude didn’t give the newspeople another thought. She didn’t think about where she was heading, or where she was going to live, or how she would survive, or if the man she shot was dead, or if she’d ever find the house where she’d spent the past three years. Right now she just wanted to walk in the cold, under a blue, blue sky.

CHAPTER 5
    T wo blocks into her freedom walk, Jude spotted the logo for her bank, along with the digitally displayed time and a temperature of thirty degrees. Balmy for winter in Minnesota. This particular branch wasn’t one she’d ever visited, but she figured they’d have her thumbprint ID on file.
    In the end, it didn’t really matter. The personal banker recognized her name due to the media coverage. She seemed both uncomfortable and starstruck. Weird to think that being abducted turned a person into a celebrity.
    Jude deposited the check from Ortega and withdrew several hundred in cash, stuffed the envelope in her jacket pocket, and began walking again, stopping at a café on South Tenth Street, one she’d visited many times. Inside, her plan to order a latte was derailed by the dessert display.
    She felt more human than she had a couple of days ago. A fluid IV and nutritious food could do wonders, but her senses were still in overdrive, at times feeling so finely tuned that it seemed she could almost hear the melody of the blood moving through her veins. Was this the way the world was for animals, especially dogs? She noticed everything around her, from the dark cracks in the polished cement floor to the ornate ceiling. Beneath the hiss of the espresso machine and a Dylan song, she heard the ticking of a wall clock and individual sentences buried in a blanket of conversation.
    The warm café smelled of coffee and chocolate, of the cold that people carried on their clothes, of fabric and winter and skin both young and old.
    “What’s that?” She pointed.
    The kid behind the counter peered into the case. “Caramel cheesecake brownie.” He straightened, looking faintly curious about the overstuffed white plastic hospital bag in her hand. Her tangle of matted hair was covered with the stocking cap, but there was nothing she could do about her face. She’d seen herself in the mirror and knew she could still easily pass for a street person. But her sunken cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes hadn’t been the biggest shock. She’d never been especially vain, but her hair was something people had always complimented her on—the thickness and shine and richness of the color. There would be no compliments now.
    She shifted her finger. “And that?”
    “Rum and coconut.”
    “That?”
    Seeing she might never be able to decide, the kid said, “You wanna know what I like? The raspberry dark-chocolate brownie. It has a little bit of cayenne pepper in it.”
    “That sounds unbelievable.” She ordered his suggestion, along with a latte. While waiting, she grabbed a copy of City Pages , the Twin Cities’ free weekly paper. Before she reached the want ads, her order was announced at the end of the counter.
    “How’s your day going?” the barista asked. “Got any big