Page 19 of A Trap So Flawless

I need to get out of this city. I can’t be here when Elio arrives.

Stay exactly where you fucking are, my cousin said.

I won’t. I can’t.

I can’t submit to Titone men any longer. I’m going to lose my mind – lose myself – if I have to obey one more command. If I let one more person choose my future for me.

There’s no one guarding me for once. No men at the door, no men at the windows. Everyone’s been too dispersed in the chaos, being questioned by police or getting treated in hospital.

I’m alone, and through the heavy haze of trauma and blood that dulls my senses, I think I can taste freedom.

I walk out the door and I leave my phone behind.

I stop at the bottom of the steps outside the townhouse, waiting for someone with an Italian name and a gun to stop me. But no one does. No one’s out here except for the occasional car driving by and an older woman walking her tiny dog.

I start walking, slowly at first, but gaining speed with every step. Anxiety jangles in my nerves as I head towards a busier intersection. There’s an ATM there. When I reach it, I shove in one of my credit cards and withdraw as much as the ATM will allow, which turns out to be one thousand dollars. I’m not sure a thousand bucks is going get me that far in the grand scheme of things, but it’s a start. I can find another ATM tomorrow. Ultimately, I’ll need to rely on cash more than credit cards, otherwise Elio will have no trouble tracking my financial transactions and locations once he discovers that I’m missing.

Missing. My insides squeeze with sudden guilt. To them, I will be missing. Mamma, who’s already in rough shape, is going to be hysterical.

But I can’t keep making decisions for other people’s benefit. At some point, it has to be enough. Sal’s gruesome death has provided me an opportunity I might never get again as long as I live. The chance to make a choice for myself.

What that choice will be, I’m not entirely sure yet. I doubt I can just disappear forever and make a new life for myself somewhere. Elio and Curse would find me eventually.

But, at least for now…

For now, I can choose my own path.

A white and red vehicle approaches on the road, the telltale colours of a Montréal taxi. I practically run into the busy street to hail it. It stops, and when I get in the driver asks, first in French, then in English, where I want to go.

Where I want to go?

Fucking anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“The airport,” I reply, closing the car door behind me.

I pay the driver in cash when he drops me off at the international departures area of the Montréal airport. Inside, I’m able to use a different credit card at an ATM to withdraw another thousand dollars. I try to do it somewhat furtively, stuffing the bills into my bag and hoping no one notices. I don’t plan on getting mugged in the middle of a busy Canadian airport, but I don’t think there’s anywhere on Earth that it’s truly safe to brandish big wads of bills like the one’s I’m carrying.

Next, I manoeuvre through the various throngs of people to the closest Canadian airline desk. When I tell the polished woman behind the desk I want to get on the next flight, she scans her screen then says, “We have a flight to London in thirty-seven minutes.”

“London, England, right?” I press. “Not London, Ontario?”

The last thing I need is to think I’ve gotten on some international flight only to land back in my own damn province. But the agent smiles and nods.

“Yes, that’s correct. It’s headed for the United Kingdom.”

“Great,” I say, dropping my bag heavily at my feet and blowing a strand of still-damp hair out of my eyes. “I’ll be paying for that in cash.”

Her nicely groomed eyebrows rise at that, but she processes the transaction anyway. My bag is small enough that I can take it as a carry-on, so I don’t need to linger at the desk once she’s printed out my boarding pass. I’ll have to hustle through security and find my gate, though.

But before I get there, I hear the woman’s voice, raised to get my attention.

“Miss! Excuse me!”

I almost want to ignore her. I’m worried that something’s gone wrong with my booking, or my passport. I was literally just at a crime scene today. Could the Montréal police have put some kind of stop-order on me leaving the country?

She calls again. I halt and turn to see her running after me, her cute, sensible heels clacking on the airport tiles.

“There was an issue with your boarding pass,” she says. Her cheeks are very red now. Maybe from running after me. “I’ve printed you another one.”

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