Page 18 of The Vagabond

I didn’t know her. But she knew me.

And suddenly, I felt exposed—like every broken, hidden part of me was glowing under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.

She took a step toward me. I didn't move.

“Come on,” she said quickly, urgently. “We have to get out of here.”

Her hand closed around my wrist, tight and trembling. The desperation in her grip sent a jolt through me. I flinched—reflex—but I didn’t pull away. I just stood there. Frozen.

Her fingers tightened, her voice sharpening. “Maxine, we don’t have time for this.”

Her eyes darted to the door, then back to me. She was scanning the room, calculating how much time we had for escape.

I wanted to move. God, I wanted to. But my feet wouldn’t listen.

My lips parted, trying to form words—any words—but nothing came out. What do you say to a woman trying to save you when you’re already carrying your own execution?

“What is wrong with you?” she snapped, voice cracking. “Do you really want to stay here? You want to keep living under his thumb for the rest of your life?”

I knew she didn’t mean it like that. Not really. But still—it hurt.

I felt my body go stiff, my jaw tighten.

And then… I showed her.

My hands reached for the hem of my shirt.

Slow. Robotic. Every inch I lifted felt like dragging a confession out of my own flesh.

Her expression shifted from anger to confusion to dread.

“Maxine?” she breathed, her voice cracking on my name.

And then she saw it.

The black belt wrapped around my waist. Thick. Smooth. Sleek. Too snug against my ribs. Wires coiled beneath the surface like veins. A blinking red light pulsing slow and steady.

A bomb.

I dropped the shirt back down. My hands shook as I wrapped my arms around myself, shielding what couldn’t be shielded.

“He’ll kill me if I try to leave,” I whispered. The words were sour in my throat. Bitter. Shameful. But they were true. “I don’t think I’m ready to die. I have to get home to my sisters.”

Her face fell when I said that. Not like she was sad. Like I just hit a nerve. A deep, buried nerve.

She knew something I didn’t.

But I couldn’t afford to ask. Not then. Not when every second was a countdown I couldn’t see.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said quickly, fiercely, like she was trying to outpace the fear. “There has to be a way to disarm it. To get it off you.”

But even she didn’t believe it. I could see it in her fear. In the way her eyes avoided the blinking light. In the way her shoulders stiffened with dread.

I shook my head. “It’s wired to a trigger,” I told her. “He keeps it with him. If I try anything—if you try anything—he’ll activate it. Doesn’t matter where he is. I’m the leverage. I’m the landmine.”

She stared at me like I’d just told her the world was ending. And for me? It already had.

“I can’t risk it,” I said, softer. “I don’t want to die. But I don’t want you to die either.”

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