My steps remain calm and calculated as I inch closer to the TSA agents who are lazily gliding their metal wands up and down the bodies of those eager to board their flights. Yet, none of them know who stands behind them, blending in as if I was any other person.

Even after all these years, the adrenaline of running never truly fades as the walls of my chest feel as if they could explode from the panic surging within me. My pulse thrums against my temples, pounding relentlessly at the anticipation of getting away and fleeing the country.

After all these years, I thought that part of my life was complete––having erased who I used to be which led me to becoming a forensic agent under the guise of Evan Salvatorre. A twenty-nine year old white man, top of his class and the quiet reader that enjoys coffee on Sundays.

Yet for some reason, my past found me again and it all started with the last case we worked on.

I can't prove it, but I think I'm being framed.

Whether they know my past or not is uncertain, but all evidence points to me––fingerprints, DNA, and my digital trails. I didn't do it this time, yet everything I discovered in that file says that I did. My heart raced when I read over the labs, matching my DNA, which led me to stuff the results in my coat pocket and snatch my grab-bag from the corner of my closet.

But now I casually kick off my worn tennis shoes and shrug off my coat, placing them into the dull gray bins that slide down the rollers and into the backscatters. A small, friendly grin lights up my face as I hold eye contact with a TSA agent. I pull my round glasses off to toss on top of my coat, but he just gives me a blank, uncaring stare as if this was just another day for him. My backpack is next, laying it flat next to the bin as I step forward, my socks sliding against the dirty airport ground.

Am I going insane? Could it have been me and I just didn't remember? I hadn't killed in seven years.

But if I choose to stay, I'll have to prove my innocence and that means I'll have to expose everything I worked hard to bury. I wouldn't have gotten away with it for so long if I didn't have an ounce of self preservation left in my body.

I'm a serial killer, not an idiot.

And whoever is framing me, knows exactly who I am and is trying to flush me out––expose me for who I really am. Well, lucky for them, it's working as I'm about to board the first flight from Kentucky to England in a race to leave the country. I have no interest in finding out if the case progresses, leading to internal audits and searches I want no part of. Not when I can leave and put all this behind me...again.

"Sir, please step through the scanner." A TSA agent says on my right. I give him a subtle nod, stepping forward and then raise my arms above my head. My feet widen on the vinyl footprints beneath me as the full body scan begins to move.

Perhaps leaving is what I needed to push me into another fresh start. I was a fool in thinking it wouldn't catch up with me at some point in my life, but at least those seven years was lived with a little peace.

The TSA agents waves me forward and I step out, grabbing my shoes on the left. I sigh, sliding them on and immediately grabbing my items as I casually shoulder my backpack. My shoulders relax a little, knowing that I’m just one step further to leaving this place. Almost there.

I throw the TSA agent one last friendly grin before my feet touching the worn, grey carpets in search for the TV holding my flight information.

I move to step forward when my vision gets obstructed, my heart dropping to my stomach—four FBI agents, halting my steps with grave expressions. With a quick glance down, I notice papers in their hands. I swallow. I'm willing to bet those papers are the warrants for my arrest. Fuck.

"Evan Salvatorre. We need you to come with us."