Page 103 of Carrick
“You’re not paying them back,” Bellamy said, stepping closer. “You’re disappearing.”
Rayden blinked. “What?”
“You’re not going to give them anything, Ray. You can’t just go back and pretend like being a member of the mafia is okay. It’s only a matter of time before something else happens—and next time, you won’t walk away. You don’t want protection? Fine. But you can still leave. You can still get out on your own terms.”
He hesitated.
I stepped in, voice calm but deliberate. “Go to Chicago.”
They both looked at me.
I nodded once. “My sister lives there. Her name is Sloane. She’s ex-military—combat medic. Now she runs a tattoo studioout of a converted warehouse near Logan Square. Ink & Iron. She’s off-grid, keeps her circle tight, but she knows how to vanish when she has to. She helps people like you—those who need to disappear without the system touching it.”
Rayden’s brows pulled together. “She’d help me?”
“She will,” I said. “I’ll call ahead and give her your name. She won’t ask questions, but she’ll expect you to listen. She’ll get you a place to stay. Cash work. Burner phone. ID, eventually. You show up and tell her I sent you—she’ll handle the rest.”
Rayden’s jaw clenched. “If I can even make it that far. I’ve got nothing. No ID. No job. No connections. This cash will only last so long. Maybe not long enough.”
“You’ve got a second chance,” I said flatly. “Don’t waste it trying to be a martyr for people who would rather see you dead. You want to live? Go to Chicago. Find Sloane. Start over.”
Bellamy reached into her boot and pulled out a wad of cash I didn’t realize she had. She kept tucked into a folded band—emergency funds, apparently. Probably a few hundred bucks. She added it to the roll already in his hands. Then she looked at me expectantly.
I groaned, and begrudgingly pulled another roll from my back pocket—smaller, less pristine. It was personal cash. Mine.
No backup fund. No protocol. Just a final fuck-you to rules that didn’t matter when she looked at me like that.
“This will get you started,” I said. “No questions. No strings.”
Rayden stared between us. Then I pulled a burner phone from my jacket—one of three I carried when I didn’t trust a scene. I tapped it against his chest. “Take this. Keep it off unless you’re safe. When you hit Chicago, call the number saved in the phone. It’s the only one. No names. Just let us know you’re breathing.”
His fingers closed around it slowly. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
“Then don’t,” I said. “Just run.”
Bellamy stepped forward one last time, as if drawn by something older than instinct—something buried in blood and bone and the kind of memory you don’t get to choose. Her hand rose to the back of Rayden’s neck, fingers threading into his hair with a gentleness that didn’t belong in rooms like this, on nights like this.
She didn’t say his name. Didn’t plead or hold on or make it harder than it already was. She just leaned in, her lips brushing the side of his temple in a benediction that carried the weight of every bedtime story, every scraped knee, every whispered promise that they’d always look out for each other. It wasn’t a goodbye. Not really. It was a last tether, offered freely, even as it frayed in her palm.
“Go,” she whispered, voice so quiet it felt like a secret. “Before they find you.”
He looked at her then—really looked. And for just a moment, I saw it land. Not the weight of disappointment or obligation, but memory. Like he could still see the girl who used to braid his hair, sneak extra food into his lunch bag, cry when he scraped his knuckles too deep.
His mouth opened, then closed, as if the words caught behind his teeth no longer belonged to him. Instead, he nodded, clutching the envelope tighter, burner phone in hand, head bowed against the wind that hadn’t even started yet.
And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him like punctuation, and the silence left in his wake wasn’t still—it was suffocating. Heavy. The kind that settles in your chest like grief that knows your name.
Bellamy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her hand still hovered midair, fingers curled slightly, like she was holding onto something already gone. Her shoulders hitched once, a sharp inhale that reached her lungs before her heart could catch up.
And then she moved—not with purpose, not with defiance, just… moved. Like something untethered.Hollow.
A woman trying to relearn gravity. I stepped toward her, slow and careful, one hand reaching out like a question—but before I could touch her, she flinched, recoiling like even warmth might shatter her.
“No,” she said. The word wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even meant for me, not really. It was just… final. Like something inside her had snapped taut, and this was the last thread she had left to hold.
She turned away, dropped to her knees beside the couch, and pulled out the backpack she’d abandoned days ago. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper, trembling—not from weakness, but from the kind of restraint that comes with surviving too much and still trying to hold it together.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched as she packed the smallest remnants of herself, one by one, like each item might tether her to who she used to be.
