Page 18 of Wings
"You save lives—"
"I'm a liability." The truth tasted bitter as the cooling coffee. "Three years, Steph. Three years of perfect drops, and the firsttime there's a complication, I literally drop everything and run. You think Doc's going to trust someone that unstable with his network?"
"You're not unstable. You're traumatized. There's a difference."
"Tell that to the morphine vials I shattered." I started walking again, needing movement. "Tell that to my hands that still won't stop shaking. Tell that to my brain that's already calculating how fast I can pack, which routes have the least traffic cameras, how much cash I can pull from ATMs before anyone notices I'm gone."
"That's not living, Ki."
Her words hit like a physical blow. I hunched forward, arms wrapping around my middle like I could hold myself together through pressure alone.
"I know." The admission came out whispered. "But it's the only way I know how to survive."
We walked the rest of the way in silence. Stephanie's presence was steady beside me, our arms still linked, her silence saying more than words could.
She wouldn't abandon me. Wouldn't judge me. But she wouldn't enable me either.
My building came into view—all concrete and security features, as welcoming as a minimum-security prison. I punched in the first code, fingers steadier now that I had a plan. Running always calmed me. Having an exit strategy made the present bearable.
"Call me if you need anything," Stephanie said at the inner door. "Day or night. Promise?"
I nodded, already knowing I wouldn't. I'd gotten too good at drowning quietly, at sinking without making waves. It was safer for everyone that way.
She hugged me tight, the kind of embrace that tried to transfer strength through contact. I held on longer than I should have, storing up warmth for the cold that was coming.
Then I was alone in my sterile lobby, fluorescent lights buzzing their harsh song, security cameras recording my every move. Three flights of stairs between me and my empty apartment. Thirty days between me and a fresh start.
The laptop screen glowed accusingly in my darkened living room. I'd been staring at the blank email for twenty minutes, cursor blinking its patient rhythm. How did you tell someone who'd trusted you with life-and-death secrets that you were bailing because you'd seen a ghost?
Draft one: "Doc, due to personal circumstances, I need to resign from our arrangement effective thirty days from today."
Too vague. He'd want details. Doc always wanted details, said the devil lived in them and angels too if you looked hard enough.
Delete.
Draft two: "Doc, I'm writing to inform you that I need to relocate for family reasons. I can train a replacement within thirty days to ensure continuity of supplies."
Lies. I had no family. No reasons except fear. And Doc had a nose for lies like a bloodhound had for fugitives.
Delete.
Draft three: "Effective thirty days from receipt of this email, I will no longer be able to fulfill my obligations to the Heavy Kings medical supply network."
Cold. Corporate. Like I was ending a business contract instead of abandoning people who might die without antibiotics for their gunshot wounds or sutures for their knife fights. People whocouldn't go to hospitals because hospitals meant cops and cops meant prison.
Delete.
My fingers hovered over the keys. The apartment's silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the neighbor's TV bleeding through thin walls. Some game show, canned laughter at regular intervals. Normal people watching normal shows, not drafting resignation letters from illegal operations run by motorcycle clubs.
Draft four: "Doc, there's been a complication with the new security protocol. The prospect you sent is someone from my past, from before I was Kiara Mitchell. This connection compromises—"
The phone rang.
Not my cell—the landline I kept for exactly two purposes: hospital callbacks and pizza delivery. The caller ID showed the hospital's main number. My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees.
"Hello?"
"Miss Mitchell?" The voice was crisp, professional, unfamiliar. "This is Janet from Hospital Administration. I'm calling regarding a matter that requires your attention."
