One Year to Vanish

To everyone else, the end of my lease is just a date on a calendar. To me, it’s a countdown to freedom. The only thing keeping me going through this anxiety-ridden year is the knowledge that next February, my townhome lease will expire, and I will walk away from the only life I have ever known. Every polite nod at the office and every strained family dinner brings me one step closer to vanishing.

Faking it until I leave has become unbearable. Every interaction with my family reminds me why I need to go. Every cutting remark, every moment of being singled out as the scapegoat, reaffirms my decision. And while I don’t hate my job—the pay is good, the work is decent—it’s exhausting to train three new team members, sit through endless meetings, and juggle the workload with little appreciation. I’ve done my best to foster a culture of gratitude among my team, but it’s hard when the effort isn’t reciprocated.

After countless hours of reflection, I’ve realized I’m done being my family’s punching bag. Since I work remotely, my job isn’t tying me down — I can do it from anywhere. My closest friends are scattered across the country, and there’s nothing anchoring me to this town. A clean break makes sense. It’s time to start over.

Between tasks at work and in the quiet moments after dinner, I escape into my plans, scrolling through real estate listings and imagining the life I’m about to reclaim. The possibilities are endless, intoxicating. No one knows what I’m planning. No one knows where I’m going. For that matter, neither do I. With a year to plan, there’s a lot to figure out. Where can I afford to move? Will anyone try to contact me after I’m gone? How long will it take before people realize I’ve disappeared? Involving my family in these plans isn’t an option. My only priorities are finding a place that feels right and making sure my dog, Buddy, is happy.

One morning before work, I followed my usual routine, my thoughts drifting to my upcoming transition. After savoring my first cup of coffee, I poured a second and got Buddy ready for his morning walk around the pond behind my house. These quiet moments with him are the best part of my day. There’s nothing quite like reading in peace, enjoying a sunrise with my favorite living being, and soaking in the calm before the inevitable stress of my corporate job.

The morning felt like any other — birds chirping, the distant hum of traffic, the sky warming with the first light. Living on the outskirts of town had its perks. The noise was a low murmur, not the constant roar of the city.

As we rounded a bend on the trail, I noticed two people standing near the edge of the pond, locked in conversation. It was unusual to see anyone out this early, but with the nearby biking trail and residential areas, it wasn’t alarming. Unless Buddy grew skittish around them, I planned to keep to myself, finish our walk, and head home to log on for work.

I glanced down at Buddy and adjusted my headphones, lost in thought, when a sudden BANG shattered the morning calm. Buddy yelped and darted between my legs. I gasped, slapping a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. My head snapped toward the source of the sound. The acrid scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, and where there had been two people on the trail moments before, now only one remained.

My gaze dropped to the shrubs lining the path. Through the leaves, I could make out the unmistakable outline of feet — unmoving. Panic surged through me. I scooped Buddy into my arms and hurried into the cover of the tree line, crouching low. My breath was ragged, and my heart pounded violently. Buddy whimpered softly, his wide, fearful eyes locked on mine, but miraculously, he stayed silent. It was as if he understood the stakes.

Peeking through the branches, I caught a glimpse of the remaining man. Stocky, around 5’10”, wearing a fleece-lined denim jacket and a stocking cap. A dark goatee framed his face. His eyes darted around, scanning the area. Then, with a shaky hand, he shoved something — a gun, I assumed — into the waistband of his jeans.

My stomach twisted as I watched him disappear into the bushes, leaving me momentarily wondering what he was doing. The answer came too quickly. He emerged on the other side, dragging the lifeless body of the man he’d been speaking with. My breath caught as I watched him heave the body down the slope toward the water. The dull splash echoed through the still air as the man rolled into the pond.

The killer stood motionless, watching, waiting — ensuring the body didn’t resurface. Then, satisfied, he scrambled back up the hill. His head swiveled frantically, searching for any sign of witnesses. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to stay hidden, to remain unseen.

And I prayed he wouldn’t notice the trembling figure crouched behind the trees.

Then, to make the situation even more terrifying, the man started walking down the trail — directly toward me. Panic gripped me. My mind raced, desperate for a plan.

Behind me, the area was open. If I turned back with Buddy, the man might see us and immediately suspect that I had witnessed something. But if I stepped onto the trail and approached him head-on, he’d undoubtedly think the same. And if he happened to glance into the bushes and spotted me huddling with Buddy, I’d be done for.

With no good options, I did the only thing I could think of. Whispering softly to Buddy, I urged him along, and we crept through the narrow space between the bushes and the pond. The foliage was thick, and the dim morning light worked in our favor. I prayed the man would be too distracted to notice us slipping past.

My headphones dangled uselessly around my neck, and my breathing was quick and shallow. Every step felt excruciatingly slow. What would usually take minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. Miraculously, Buddy seemed to understand the gravity of the moment. He didn’t stop to sniff or bark at the ducks — not even a single pause.

Then came the sound I dreaded most. Footsteps. The rhythmic crunch of shoes on gravel. The man was passing us. My muscles tensed. Just a few more steps. Just a little farther.

But then, Buddy let out a low, rumbling growl.

I froze, my heart pounding as the footsteps halted. Silence followed — thick and suffocating. I dared a glance through the branches. A pair of cold, brown eyes locked onto mine. Though the foliage partially obscured us, his stare was unwavering.

Years of remote work had taught me the art of masking emotions. I’d mastered the calm, even tone needed to sound composed on video calls, even when my thoughts were spiraling. Drawing on every ounce of that skill, I forced a smile and said in a chipper voice, “Good morning! It’s a nice day for a walk.”

I took a few careful steps forward, putting as much distance as I could between us without appearing rushed. The man didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on me, suspicion flickering behind them.

“Yes, it is,” he finally replied, his voice low and measured. But he didn’t break his stare. He was studying me. Calculating.

I fought the trembling in my legs, keeping my pace steady. Every step away from him felt like a battle — one I wasn’t sure I’d won yet. I fought the urge to keep looking back at him. Forcing a brief, tight smile, I shifted my gaze away and quickened my pace. Buddy matched my steps, his ears pinned back. My mind raced with a single, terrifying thought — he has a gun. He could pull it out at any moment, aim it at my back, and I wouldn’t even see it coming.

Every step felt like a lifetime. I could practically hear my pulse pounding in my ears. As we neared the corner of the trail, I dared a glance over my shoulder. The man was still there, standing motionless, his eyes locked on me. At least he wasn’t following. For now.

Without hesitation, I guided Buddy through a narrow break in the bushes, emerging onto the patch of grass that ran alongside a row of townhomes. The familiar sight of the houses brought a fleeting sense of relief. If the man stayed put, I could move along the side of the townhomes and disappear on the other end. Out of sight.

These townhomes were lined up like protective barriers, and another identical row stood directly across the street. It was like I was sandwiched between two walls of safety. Thirty-two homes. Each one held the potential for someone to hear me if I screamed. Someone could run out. Call for help. Do something.

But the weight of uncertainty lingered. I didn’t know if the man was still standing there, if he had already left, or — worst of all — if he’d decided to follow. He could be rounding the corner right now, hidden from my view.

All I could do was keep moving — one foot in front of the other — and pray that I wouldn’t have to find out.

The walk back to my townhome felt endless, even though it was only a few minutes. I had to walk all the way to the other end of the row, but at least I felt safer enough to glance behind me. I didn’t see anyone, so as far as I could tell, the man was gone.

But as I passed the gap between the townhomes and caught sight of the pond, a wave of nausea hit me. A dead man was in there. The realization twisted my stomach. I picked up the pace, and Buddy, sensing my tension, didn’t need any coaxing to follow suit.

I pulled my keys from my pocket, determined not to waste any time fumbling with them at the door. By the time I reached it, I quickly glanced around one last time. Seeing no sign of anyone, I shoved the key into the deadbolt and let myself inside. I locked the door behind me and sank against it, taking a couple of deep breaths, my eyes squeezed shut.

I checked my watch — I still had seven minutes before I had to log on. My stomach churned as I let Buddy into the living room, though he stayed close by my side. My thoughts were consumed by the possibilities: what if the man saw where I lived? What if he came back for some reason?

Shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed the local police. The dispatcher was kind but had to ask me to slow down a few times as I rushed through the details of the morning’s nightmare.

Once I finished, she told me a detective would come by today to discuss the incident. I quickly emailed my manager, explaining the situation and letting him know a detective would be stopping by. He encouraged me to take the day off, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If I logged off, my mind would spiral. At least work would keep me busy — my usual stress of meetings, trainings, and heavy workloads suddenly seemed like a welcome distraction. From my home office, I could see the pond, and a crime scene unit had already arrived, securing the area and gathering evidence. At one point, I watched as the body was carefully removed from the water. Though he was covered with a white sheet, the familiar sight of his shoes made my stomach turn.

The morning dragged on, my mind fluctuating between hyper-focusing on work to distract myself and anxiously glancing at the clock. The minutes ticked by slowly, and I struggled to concentrate on the team meetings. All I could think about was when the detective would arrive so I could recount everything I knew while it was still fresh in my mind.

Finally, just before lunch, he arrived. Detective Glover introduced himself, and I led him to the living room. Buddy, who had been glued to my side all morning, flopped down beside me on the couch. He looked exhausted, resting his head in my lap and gazing up at me with tired, worried eyes. The detective gave me a small, kind smile as he pulled out his pen and notepad, ready to listen.

"Before we begin, a sketch artist will be arriving shortly. Anything you can describe will be helpful," Detective Glover advised.

I nodded, remaining silent, and we proceeded with the interview. I recounted the chain of events again, this time more matter-of-factly, though tinged with exhaustion. As Detective Glover took notes, I heard a knock at the door. Buddy immediately ran to my feet as I walked over to answer it. The woman at the door introduced herself as the sketch artist. I gestured for her to come in, and she followed me to the living room.

It took about 20 minutes for Detective Glover to take my statement, and after he was done, he silently waited for me to give a description to the sketch artist.

While she readied her sketch pad, I focused on the details of the man. I could clearly recall his stocky build, about 5’10” in height, the denim jacket, and the bright orange stocking cap. I described his dark goatee, but I struggled to remember anything else. What color were his pants and shoes? Why couldn’t I remember any other distinguishing features? Did he have a unique way of walking? Had I truly not noticed, or had my mind simply blocked it out from the trauma?

Detective Glover, sensing my frustration, gave me a reassuring look. “It’s okay. Details might come back to you later. This is to be expected.”

He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me.

“This has my personal contact information,” he said. “You can call, text, or email anytime, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I thanked him and slipped the card into my business card binder, still feeling unsettled but grateful for his support.

After I had given all the information I remembered, Detective Glover and the sketch artist stood up to leave, thanking me for my time. As we made our way to the door, the sketch artist mentioned that her car was leaking oil and that she needed to take it to the shop. We could tell she was from the South because she pronounced "oil" more like "ohl" instead of the usual "oy-yul." We both chuckled at her charming accent, but then, suddenly, I stopped in my tracks.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, reaching out for Detective Glover’s arm. He paused, looking surprised by my sudden realization.

“The man this morning... he had a unique accent,” I said, a bit sheepishly. “He sounded like he was from the East Coast—maybe Boston? Or New York? It was kind of hard to tell.”

Detective Glover seemed to mull over that for a moment. He pulled out his phone and started scrolling, while the sketch artist and I exchanged curious glances.

“Does this man resemble the one you saw this morning?” he asked, showing me a screenshot of Ring footage.

My heart sank. Same hat. Same goatee. Same piercing eyes with no emotion behind them. It was him.

I looked at Detective Glover, nodding my head furiously.

“That’s him,” I managed, my voice shaking.

Detective Glover’s demeanor shifted instantly from calm to one of concern and seriousness.

“The FBI has been tracking this man’s movements from Cranston, Rhode Island to Arlington Heights. He was a long-haul trucker involved in a trafficking ring. He was arrested, but escaped custody. He’s been working with some shady partners, and we believe he’s been in town for a few days trying to settle some scores. We haven’t identified his victim yet, but it’s likely connected to his ‘business,’” Detective Glover explained.

He paused before adding, “Given the nature of his crimes, we may need to place you in witness protection. I’ll contact the necessary parties to start the process.”

The only question I could think to ask was, “Will I be able to take my dog?”

Detective Glover looked momentarily confused by the question, but then he chuckled.

“Of course,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

After they left, I sat on the couch, trying to wrap my mind around the sudden twist my life had taken. In a strange way, I almost felt relieved that I hadn’t shared my intentions to move yet. Before, people might not have understood why I wanted to leave. Now, it seemed I didn’t have a choice but to quietly move—and change my identity—if I entered the witness protection program. While my secret plans were still coming to fruition, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the freedom I had once envisioned for myself would no longer be the same. Instead of escaping family and work drama, I would find myself in a new kind of prison. A prison where I would be a witness to a crime, my life irrevocably altered in ways I might never fully understand or control.