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Truth be told, she hadn’t meant to wait exactly eleven years.
The days are long but peaceful. It took a while—almost two years, to be precise—for the tension to release from her muscles. To finally relax within the walls of her small apartment, or out under the Icelandic sun, and no longer feel as though she is being hunted, watched. She had to remind herself, actively, waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with a frightful whimper or a wanting name on her lips, that Hawkins was some three thousand miles away. That no one is looking for a girl named Eleanor Iverson in Hella, Iceland.
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