Fugue State by M.C. Adams Page B

walk.
    She hadn’t made it a block before her stomach growled from its longstanding emptiness. She clutched the credit card she had shoved into her sports bra and sat down on the patio of a nearly empty little breakfast bistro. The waitress greeted her and then brought her a whole-wheat bagel with strawberry cream cheese and an espresso.
    The espresso had been an accident. She wanted to avoid caffeine, given her ongoing insomnia, but after inhaling the aroma of the coffee sitting in front of her, she couldn’t resist and slowly sipped the warm indulgence. She closed her eyes, deep in thought. I’ll have to leave the hotel soon. Back to the small apartment where my six-month lease is almost up. With no job and no ties to Austin after the wake of the trial, she was free.
    What now? I haven’t a single plan or schedule or anything. . . . Her mind reached for answers while she blew across the froth swirling atop her espresso. In spite of the six-figure attorney fees she had accumulated, she had some savings. My life is so screwed up. I’m screwed up. If only I could set the restart button. I could just go somewhere new and start over.
    Suddenly, two words struck Alexa with such magnitude and clarity that she dropped her coffee cup on the patio. She barely heard it shatter over her own thoughts.
    Fugue state .
    It was a psychological disorder that had fascinated Alexa while in medical school. The term described a rare condition in which an individual would abruptly leave their current situation, change their name, location, occupation, and assume a new identity. It had always seemed like such a romantic idea to Alexa, to forget the past and change the future by becoming a whole new person.
    But no one plans for that. It just happens, like a coping mechanism for stress, for people who are broken. A sigh escaped her. But I am broken! her subconscious begged, as she eyed the pieces of her coffee cup scattered by her feet. Fugue state is amnestic; you can’t control it. She toiled with her thoughts. That’s my biggest problem. I try to control everything. If only I could let myself lose control, my mind would be free to escape. Nope. I’m too decisive for that. If I’m going to start over, it will have to be a conscious decision. You deserve this. Embrace the idea of fugue state. Leave Austin and start anew. Okay, she conceded . But where will I go?
    The glaring eyes of her waitress interrupted Alexa’s pondering. The waitress carried a broom and dustpan. Her rumpled expression conveyed her annoyance at the mess Alexa had made with the coffee cup. Alexa forced an apologetic smile, and the waitress’s demeanor softened. “ C’est la vie ,” the waitress said with a shrug.
    The waitress answered Alexa’s question with her quoted French. I’ll go to Paris.
    She bid ado to the young waitress and used the three-mile walk back to the Four Seasons to plan for her move. She had left most of her furniture with Britt when they split. Her apartment had few residual furnishings. Alexa could easily sell her car and condense her extensive closet of clothes into a few trunks to bring with her. It was settled; she would move to Paris.
    When Alexa returned to the Four Seasons, a plain-looking man in a bad gray suit accosted her with a white envelope in his hand. His only words to her were, “Miss DeBrow, you’ve been served.”
    Alexa’s heart sank as she pieced together the man’s words. Served? No. The trial is over! Alexa couldn’t free her vice grip on the white envelope, although her fury tempted her to rip it into confetti. With her pulse already racing, she walked all the way up fourteen flights to her penthouse suite on the top. She texted Appleby: “911.” He called within minutes. Alexa blurted into the receiver, “I’m at the Four Seasons. I need you over here.”
    Appleby arrived at Alexa’s door within twenty minutes. Before he could utter a word, Alexa shoved the bent envelope into his hand.
    “What’s this?”