I stared at the large photos of me framed all over the billboards of New York as I stood in the center of the street.

My identity gone.

I was no longer that girl.

Things had become unsafe for me ever since the coffee incident.

Stupid coffee.

Made me lose everything.

My hair had been dyed an auburn red, and my brown-colored contacts made my eyes water.

I wore a long brown coat and big black boots.

Not what I liked, but what they did.

I followed their orders now.

If I contacted someone, they'd hurt them.

I peered at my phone at 207,661 texts from Andy.

I never blocked his number.

They never made me.

Threats were enough.

It was good to know someone was still searching, though he’d never find me.

The rest of my family had given up.

But not Andy.

I missed him.

His chocolate brown hair and comforting cinnamon eyes.

He texted me every day as if I were still there, and everything was normal.

“Incoming call,” my Irish Siri said.

I sighed, muting it.

It was an accident.

It wasn't like they treated me badly, all they needed was information, and they'd leave me alone.

A nice paid-for apartment on the 17th floor of the Maurice Building.

All I had to do was tattle on the government.

They knew _everything._

Every secret,

every lie,

every coverup.

I couldn’t stop, or they’d find me, catch me, and torture me.

I couldn’t leave.

Stuck in a web I had woven myself.

Trapped in a prison of lies.