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guilt.
    The tabloids had documented it well: The affair that ended her marriage. The drunken antics at parties and clubs. The endless string of affairs, flings, and boytoys with whom she'd cheated on an endless string of boyfriends. The dismembered remains of her career and her feeble, flailing attempts to save it.
    She ran her hands through her disheveled hair.
    Through the haze of her hangover, clarity slowly crept into her mind. It had to stop. All of it. Now .
    She glared at the Smirnoff bottle, what remained of the crystal clear liquid shimmering in the morning light. The smeared lipstick marks on the end reminded her of just how stupid she'd gotten the night before, when she decided to forego the glass and simply drink from the bottle.
    She stood and walked to the sink, swallowing another wave of nausea that rose when she moved too fast. On the way there, a bright glitter caught her eye, and she turned to see the shattered remains of an empty Smirnoff bottle on the wood floor. Her stomach turned. Had she really killed a bottle and a half last night? Thank God it wasn't tequila .
    Staring at the bottle, she swore to herself, "It's all going to stop now." She took a deep breath, turned the bottle over, and watched its contents swirl down the drain. Afterwards, she cleaned up the broken bottle, thankful it had been empty so it didn't ruin Anne-Marie's floor.
    She gathered the scattered tabloids. Just before throwing them into the trash, she hesitated and glanced at the wood-burning stove. Her gaze moved from the stove to the tabloids and back to the stove.

    She knelt beside the stove with the stack of magazines and struck a match. The intense heat warmed her skin as the fire came to life. One by one, she fed the pages to the stove, watching as each picture faded and curled within the flames. The fire consumed it ravenously and with each page that crinkled down to nothing but black ash, something released within her.
    The evidence of her sins burned, Simone rose and dusted herself off. For the first time, she felt strong enough to change, to get her life back on track. No more alcohol.
    No more flings.
    No more throwing my career away.
    I need to focus on my career, my daughter, and myself. And if that means sleeping alone— being alone—for a while, then so be it.
    I can do this.
    I will do this.

    * * * * *

    Simone parked her rental car in front of the tiny general store on the narrow twolane road that passed for Main Street in Tofino. As she stepped out of the car, she met eyes with a couple of older women strolling by. Her stomach leaped into her throat and panic tightened her chest, certain they would recognize her, but they only gave her a polite smile and a "hello" before walking on.
    She smiled and waved. They have no idea who I am, she thought. Moments later, a middle-aged gentleman passed by, giving her a friendly nod. Again, no recognition. With each resident she passed, her breath came easier. She still kept a nervous eye out for the press, but the only camera she saw hung from the neck of a bearded tourist who seemed more interested in the local architecture than in her.
    For the first time in years, no one recognized her.

    She shouldn't have been terribly surprised. Tofino was as remote as it was tiny, just a quaint little fishing village on the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. A handful of motels, some touristy gift shops, and a few quaint restaurants dotted the two lane road that ran along the piers, where small fishing boats bobbed in the tide by the marina. If there was anywhere in the world she could go to be anonymous for a few days, Tofino was the place.
    A little newsstand in front of a café made her nervous: it was well-stocked with tabloids, but for the time being, her face didn't grace any of the covers. Still, anyone who'd read a recent copy might recognize her.
    But as she explored the tiny village, no one gave her a second look. Eventually, she stopped glancing around in search of a