Page 57 of Broken Blood Ties

Tears slowly come, and I smack them away before they can fall. I need to move on. I need to get my bag and leave Boston. He may have escaped. Maybe he darted out when they were ransacking my place.

I always knew it was a possibility. But after nearly seven years, I’ve grown complacent, convincing myself they might have forgotten me—or, better yet, chosen to move on. I don’t know who’s identified me, but the fact they know I’m here means I’m no longer safe.

I sniff and rub the back of my hand across my nose, taking one last look around my trashed apartment. I’ll need to send my landlord a secure message once I’m somewhere safe. I’ll wire him money for the damages and break my lease when I’m able to breathe.

Turning, I move back toward the door, then slowly descend the steps to peek out onto the sidewalk. When I don’t see anyone, I dart out and spring for the alleyway.

Halfway past the rusted green dumpster, there’s a loud meow.

“Deuce!”

Another meow.

I pull at the dumpster, yanking it away from the brick building. Deuce brushes up against the wall, like he’d only been out for a Saturday morning stroll. He looks at me and meows, and I giggle with disbelief while reaching out to grab him.

“I’m so glad I found you,” I whisper into his ear as I tuck him into my closed coat.

I zip him in the best I can. Mostly because I’m not so sure the trains would take kindly to me flippantly bringing a cat aboard.

With Deuce secure and a sigh of relief, I empty my purse into the dumpster, careful to keep my wallet and harbor key. Then, I run.

* * *

I want to vomit.

My stomach roils as I make my way on the cobblestone pathway along the water, and I drag my hand over the thick black chain separating the walkway and the marina. Almost as if I need it to hold me upright, keep me steady.

There are too many people here. The Boston Harbor is alive it seems. The weather today is way too nice to keep people indoors, so boats, anywhere from humble sailboats to lavish yachts, bob around the marina.

Seagulls soar above me, and I tip my head back, sucking in a deep breath of salty tang which adds to my nauseous stomach. A boat’s horn blasts, and I startle, moving toward the pier.

As I scan my surroundings and land on the aquarium, I can’t help but smile. The fun of that day, wrapped in the emotion from my past several interactions with Kieran—I rub my chest.

But as quickly as those memories surface, they’re flushed down, and a lump forms in my throat as I realize I probably won’t see the O’Donnells again.

I pass several families with kids as they enjoy this abnormally nice day, particularly for the beginning of spring. Even several food vendors have deemed it warm enough to set up their food carts. The smell of cooked seafood wafts around, easily reminding me I haven’t had anything since the cannoli yesterday.

When I make it to the small stack of lockers at the pier, I glance over my shoulder and wait for the older man with a cane to close his and move on before I shuffle in.

Deuce hisses as I reach into my coat pocket and yank out the key.

“Shhh!” I chide with one more glance over my shoulder.

Then, sliding the key into the blue metal lock, I open the locker with an audible click. There’s one hook in the back, and there hangs my green backpack, a tennis racket keychain attached to the front zipper. It’s one of the few items I had with me those seven years ago.

I run a thumb over the smooth acrylic, jumping when another locker near me slams shut. After pulling out the bag, I heave it over my shoulder and set the key to my locker inside before shutting the door.

Deciding it’s best to get back to the trains with all these people, I walk back the way I came. The smell of boat fuel is sharp, and when Deuce becomes too restless in my coat, I stop at a wooden bench overlooking the marina.

I set my backpack on the bench, leaning over to unzip the main compartment. Inside, Ziploc bags with two outfits and travel toiletries are crammed at the bottom. But on top, where my passport and the package of money should be—there’s nothing.

I gulp.

Anxiously, I rummage through the bag, zipping up the main compartment and fumbling to open the smaller one, desperate to search inside. A warm splash hits my cheek, and I take a breath, trying to keep it together.

“No,” I whisper to myself. I’m limited without my passport. I have some money and a card in my wallet, but I had more stashed in here. I panic. The mileage, the radius I can travel just shrunk a whole lot.

Where is far enough? Should I run? Am I avoiding the inevitable?

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