Atlantic City was the Las Vegas of the East Coast, and when his plane touched down in the Atlantic City International Airport, Ethan stepped out into the terminal like a king returning to his palace. It had taken him a great deal of consideration before he had returned to the East Coast. The anonymity of the west, the massive open spaces and the spread out towns, had served him well for three months as he hid from the FBI. Unconsciously, Ethan had found himself reluctant to leave it. He had stayed in Vegas for the first couple of days, blowing most of the last of Sampson’s money in case Tanner should get curious and look for a paper trail, before bouncing all across the great state of Nevada, up through the Indian reservations of Utah, New Mexico, Colorado, and Wyoming, and then going east.

He had turned around at the edge of the Mississippi river, and made it two states back to the west before he realized what exactly he was doing. He had spent a restless night in a cheap hotel, unwilling to head east, but reluctant to return to the west. It felt like giving in.

It took him the rest of the night to figure out what heading west would be “giving in” to. Eventually, he was forced to conclude that it would be giving in to his own paranoia. He consciously knew he was done, but subconsciously he just couldn’t believe it. 

Flying to Atlantic City was, to him, a little bit like spitting in the hand of the devil. If any sort of retribution was going to find him, it would find him there. He was proving to himself that, once and for all, the matter was over. He knew his fears were senseless and baseless, and the only way he was ever going to get rid of them was confronting them head on. 

THe city welcomed him with open arms. Tourism was its entire business, and every street, every shop, every individual there lived and breathed consumerism. For the right price anything could be bought in that city.

He spent the night in a high-end hotel, reveling in the luxury and unconcerned about the cost. He’d make it all back up and then some tomorrow, when he visited one of the city’s casinos. That night, he slept like a babe. The sky had not fallen on him when he stepped off the plane, the police had not been waiting around every corner, ready to jump him as soon as they caught a glimpse. He was safe.

Ethan slept late the next morning, taking a long, luxurious shower before ordering room service and a bottle of champaign. By the time he left his room it was early afternoon. There was still several hours to kill before the casinos really came to life, so Ethan took a cab down to the boardwalk. Of all the things that had changed during his flight from Bree, one thing had remained the same. He still loved the water. 

THe boardwalk was bright and comfortable, filled with a bustle of happy people, and lined by brightly colored shops that begged to be entered and examined. The waves from the Atlantic Ocean rolled up the beach between the two piers, leaving a froth on the dark sand. Ethan stood with his back to the various shops, staring out towards the water. On the beach, a number of families had gathered. Their young children flirted with the waves, while some of the older ones built a sandcastle. A light breeze tousled his hair, and Ethan let out a small, content sigh.

He was safe. There was nothing in New England to fear.