Page 120 of Point of No Return

Even half a world away, I can still feel the memory of him. Like shrapnel in a healed wound, I can’t forget him. He’s in my head. He’s in my dreams. He’s in my heart.

I’ve been hiding for four months, two weeks, and three days. Despite a boat ride across the Westlan Sea and several safehouses, I can’t escape him. Even if he did survive that night, I will never know.

I don’t know if Aleks ever woke up from the dose of drugs I gave him. I don’t know if my betrayal was ever told to the police. I haven’t allowed myself to get close enough to find out. I made a choice, and I’m forcing myself to live with it.

I knew the money wouldn’t last long. If I used it for too long, my mother would find a way to trace it. Even cutting my hair to my chin and changing my identity didn’t buy much time.

I took my first job after a month. It started with whatever job I could scrounge up at local pawn shops. Finding missing product, watching sketchy deals in back alleys... Finding someone’s trail whenever it went cold.

Pretending to be a P.I. is easy enough. But at the first sign of trouble, I get the hell out of dodge and find a new town to hide out in for a week or two.

I settled in this little city on the river about three days ago. Mournstead. Fog hangs low over the city and steamboats sound their horn as they come into the harbor. I took the first job I found here: Someone sold a pawnbroker a stolen ring and then disappeared. Supposedly, the same thing has been happening to shops all around the coast.

It didn’t take me long to trace the trail back to a group of kids who’ve been robbing high-end jewels, selling them, and then stealing them back after the cops came sniffing around. It’s just a couple of sloppy teenagers. They’ll get caught eventually. Especially now that I’m dropping off the case file.

The shop is bigger than I would normally go for. It’s well-lit with cameras, but the black metal bars over the windows prove it’s just another shoddy pawn shop.

And it’s a job…I can’t afford to be picky.

The bell above the door rings as I step inside. The shop owner, a stubby, round man, squints at me as he finishes locking one of the display cases.

He heaves a sigh. “We’re closing up. Come back tomorrow.”

The pistol at my hip is a reassuring weight. With my hood pulled up, he wouldn’t recognize me anyways, but I stroll toward the counter and toss the file down in front of him. Recognition quickly lights his face.

“That was quick,” he croaks, the smell of his last cigarette wafting toward me as he plucks the file off the counter, flipping through it. He skims over the info, the pictures. He has everything he needs to go to the police- or do whatever the hell he wants with them. “You’re good. I’ll give you that.”

I don’t need his flattery. Convincing him that I was good enough for the job was easy enough. “I’d be careful about taking that to the Police.”

He casts me a sidelong glance, looking over my choice of dark clothing. Nondescript, ordinary. He’d never be able to pick me out of a lineup.

“You know, if you’re ever looking for another job-”

“I won’t be in town long,” I cut off any further conversation, and the man shifts his weight.

My hair stands on end. This is taking too long. It’s three AM and hardly anyone will be around if things go sideways now.

“We discussed cash.”

He nods slowly, and after a quick glance toward the front of the store, he clicks away at the cash drawer. It pops open, and he withdraws a rolled wad of bills and slides it across the counter toward me. Stuffing it into my belt, I’m quick to turn, hiding my face from any of the cameras.

The man speaks again, the bells jingling overhead as I prop the door open: “A lot of people would pay good money if they knew a Prevyain was back in town.”

My senses leap into overdrive. I never revealed that I was Prevyain. The two times we’ve met, I’ve worn a hood and kept my tattoos hidden…. His comment tells me one thing: Someone already knows I’m here.

I’m not safe anymore.Who knows if I’ve been sold out?If he did give me away, I’d likely be dead already. But that doesn’t mean no one is coming.

My eyes flit over the darkened sidewalks outside, a single street light flickering on the opposite side of the road. I don’t see anyone.

“Have you ever met a Prevyain before?” I cast a dark look over my shoulder.

The man shrugs, but he’s not tense, defensive, or jumpy. “Once or twice.”

“Do you know what they never tell you about us?”

“What’s that?” he croaks.

“We’re not the ones you should be afraid of. It’s the ones we’re running from you should fear.”

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