Page 5 of The Vagabond

I smirked. “What’s the bet she marries before we do?”

Sophia raised a brow. “Please. This place has more cockroaches than eligible men.”

“Can we not talk about husbands when we’re hiding from assassins?” Mia muttered, turning back to the window like it might offer her a different ending.

“What’s out there that’s so fascinating?” Sophia asked, stretching out on the floor.

“No billionaires, that’s for sure,” I added, trying to laugh.

It came out wrong. Crooked. Hollow. Mia’s voice dropped to a mutter.

“Sometimes I wonder if we were adopted.”

Sophia grinned. “Please. You’re the ugly version of us. Obviously we’re related.”

It wasn’t funny. Not really. And Mia didn’t laugh. She went still. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles pale with the effort of keeping herself together. What I would never say—what pride and arrogance kept locked behind my teeth—was that I thought Mia was so much more beautiful than either of us.

With her halo of hair like spun gold and her eyes that reflected like chips of blue ice. We looked so much alike. But Mia was exceptional.

I braced, expecting the blow-up. The screaming. Maybe thelamp-throwing. But instead, she exhaled. Slow. Controlled. Scary.

“I’ve had enough of this freak show,” she said.

Voice cold. Quiet. Final. She flicked the TV on as she passed us. A grainy cartoon blinked to life—something old, something too bright and too cheerful for the graveyard we lived in.

“A cartoon? Really?” I called after her, desperate to break the crackling tension.

But she didn’t respond. She disappeared down the hall. Shut her door. And just like that—the house got quieter. And heavier. Like something had shifted. Something had cracked. None of us noticed it at the time. But that was the night the countdown started. The night we stopped being just sisters in hiding. And started becoming girls with a plan to run.

We shouldn’t have doneit.

God, I knew that. I had told Sophia that—more than once. But her voice had been sharp and relentless, needling through my resolve like a mosquito I couldn’t swat.

“What would it hurt?” she had said, flashing that signature pout, eyes wide like she didn’t already know exactly how to weaponize them. “We’ll just go into the city. Get our nails done. Come right back. It'll be quick.”

It was never going to be quick. It was never going to be safe. But at nineteen, fear didn’t feel real until it was too late. And we were so tired—of hiding, of the silence, of the dust settling into our skin and making us feel like we were fading along with the furniture in that halfway house. Of Mia, standing like a statue in the front window, watching for death in every parked car and passing pedestrian. She was always tense. Always ready for war.

And when Sophia had leaned in close and whispered thatshe had a stash of cash hidden back at the house, it felt like fate cracking the window open—just wide enough for us to slip through. So we did.

We waited until Mia passed out from exhaustion—finally, blessedly asleep—and we ghosted through the house on silent feet. We had no plans. Just our petty defiance, and an urge to break free of our chains.

The freeway wasn’t far. We walked it like we belonged there, thumbs out, pretending we weren’t terrified teenage girls looking for trouble. A man in a beat-up ute pulled over. He had bad breath and a thick beard, but before I could blink, Sophia had already opened the door.

I should’ve stopped her. But I climbed in too, heart thundering, telling myself it would only be for a few hours. We'd be back before Mia even woke up.

The city looked the same. Familiar. Comforting. As if the chaos of the last few weeks had been some fever dream and we were finally waking up. Our street was quiet. Still. I remembered thinking the worst was behind us.

It wasn’t. We didn’t even make it to the front steps. Two black vans came out of nowhere. Fast. Coordinated. Professional. Screeching tires. Slammed doors. Boots hitting pavement. Hands. So many hands. Grabbing. Ripping. Splitting us apart. I screamed. Fought. Bit. Kicked.

Sophia’s voice—panicked and shrill—shouted my name, but it was already fading. Then the van door slammed shut, and she was gone. Just like that.

The last time I saw her, she was reaching for me. But I never got to reach back.

They took me to a club. Not even a nice one—sleazy, loud. The music made my skull vibrate. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I kept screaming Sophia’s name. Kept asking where she was. Over and over.

But it didn’t matter, because no one answered. They just stared. Leered.

Then a man stepped out of the shadows. His suit was tailored. His cologne sharp and expensive. He introduced himself like I should’ve cared.

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