Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(117)

A third ring.

A sinking feeling dips my stomach, knowing his voice mail will pick up by the fifth.

And then suddenly, “Hello?”

His deep voice steals the air from my lungs.

Cain is safe.

Sam didn’t find him.

I reach for the telephone hook to end the call but my hand freezes. I can’t will myself to pull it. To disconnect Cain from my life.

For just a few seconds, with this weak link, I feel like Cain is still a part of it. I can hear him breathing. I can imagine his phone pressed up against that hint of evening stubble that I’ve felt so many times against my skin.

“Hello?” he asks again, this time a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

My lips part just slightly as if to answer, but I can’t. I can’t even form a single word. And I still can’t breathe. All I can do is listen to him as the tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

Another second passes.

“Charlie, is that you?”

My fist slams down on the hook a second before the ragged sob escapes my lungs.

■ ■ ■

“New customer at table fourteen, Honey,” Berta calls out, rubbing my back as she passes.

“Great!” By her grimace, I’ve failed miserably at sounding cheerful. I should just aim for content, even though I’m far from that as well.

There’s a reason people say clean breaks are for the best. I had a clean break. It hurt like hell. And then I had to go and call Cain, to listen to his voice, to hear him acknowledge my existence. It was as if someone took a dull saw and hacked into my clean break to make it jagged and fresh. It’s the kind of pain that makes you pass out.

The kind that feels irreparable.

That was three days ago. Since then, I’ve grabbed my knapsack each morning, taken the city bus down to the Greyhound terminal, and bought a ticket to Miami.

And sat on the bench, watching as the bus pulled away, telling myself that just because Sam is no longer a threat, it doesn’t mean Cain wants anything to do with me anymore. That I should let him be. That I’ve brought enough trouble into his life. That the memory of those wonderful weeks with Cain will need to somehow fill the gaping void in my heart, because things can never go back to the way they were.

Of course Berta knows none of this, because I’m back in time for my shift every night, plastering on a weak smile.

I make my way over to table fourteen. There’s a large man sitting there with graying hair and a round gut. Sliding a menu in front of him, I give him my best fake smile. “Hi, sir. Welcome to Becker’s. What can I get you tonight?”

“Oh . . .” He pats his belly, never bothering to open the menu. “A black coffee and a burger.”

“That’s easy.”

“I’m a creature of habit.” He grins, and the smile reaches his eyes. “And please, call me John.”





chapter forty-seven


■ ■ ■

CAIN

I can’t believe we found her.

Given the life she used to lead, I can’t believe she made such a rookie mistake. As I sit in my rental car and watch her take John’s order through the diner window, I think about how f*cking thankful I am that she did.

I owe Dan . . . I don’t know what I owe him. A vital organ, perhaps. Through his connections, CNN picked up the murder story, sensationalizing it as part of a national drug problem piece. From there, it filtered out to a lot of smaller news stations.

After that strange call on my cell three nights ago, John had the number traced to a pay phone in Mobile, Alabama within minutes. He was on the first flight out the next day. I would have been, too, had he not convinced me to stay. He figured she had used a random pay phone and it would take him weeks—or longer—to find her.

But she didn’t. She used the one only four blocks away. And, thanks to John’s weakness for local diners, he stumbled upon her within forty-eight hours.

She’s cut her hair. It looks really pretty. It makes her look older, too, despite the light makeup on her face.

She still looks like a little doll.

Fuck, have I ever missed her!

It’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to charge in there right now. I’m torn. I don’t know why she hasn’t come back to me, now that Sam is dead. I assume that’s why she called when she did, but I can’t be certain.

That makes me think that maybe she doesn’t want to come back to me, regardless. Maybe she wants a clean break, with no memories of her old life. If that’s the case, I don’t want to make a scene in there and mess up all that she has going on. John confirmed that she’s living above the garage of the diner owner—a nice lady with a criminal-free background, who closes the place to attend church early on Sundays.

And so I sit. And I quietly watch the woman I don’t want to live without live a life without me in it.





chapter forty-eight


■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

My keys make a loud noise as they drop onto the dresser beside the door. My apron and purse follow, and then I kick off my shoes. It’s my new nightly ritual. Next is a shower, to wash the greasy diner smell out of my hair. I never bother turning on the lamp because the fluorescent bulbs cast such harsh lighting and, besides, there’s enough light shining into the window from the street.