But freedom, she was beginning to suspect, had started to feel a lot like a holding pattern.
On her third morning, while prying a stuck window open, she dislodged a loose brick in the fireplace. Behind it was a small, leather-bound box, no bigger than a deck of cards. Inside, nestled on faded velvet, was a brooch: a silver jade carved into the shape of a sleeping fox, its eyes two tiny garnets. A small note was tucked beneath it, the ink brown with age. netta jade
"She found evidence?"
Netta Jade froze. Her name. Her real name. Not a handle, not an alias for a rental agreement. Netta. The name her late grandmother had given her. The name she’d stopped using because it felt too heavy, too full of a past she'd run away from. But freedom, she was beginning to suspect, had