Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(59)

I have twenty-five grand in my account—a “secret” account, different from the joint one with Sam—saved. Add ten grand coming tomorrow and another twenty or so for my SUV and I can make a clean break with a good chunk of money. Of course, I’ll have to drain both accounts and, what . . . carry 55,000 dollars in my gym bag? Because I can’t open a bank account without any ID and I won’t risk using Charlie’s. I don’t know if Sam could find a way to trace a bank account in her name, but I can’t risk it. To be safe, I have to assume that if the second “Charlie Rourke” is entered into any computer, he can find me.

I’ll just jump on a bus and go . . . where? I’ve always wanted to see the Deep South. Maybe somewhere in Louisiana or Alabama. Some low-key town where I might be able to work under the table and rent a small apartment without all the necessary background checks. Or I could cross the border into Mexico. But then I’ll never get back in, because I’ll never get a passport again. No . . . I have to stay in the country. Forever. I’ll never get to go to Europe or the Caribbean. Not until Sam dies and I somehow assume my real identity again. When will that happen? In twenty years? Thirty years? After thirty years of anonymity?

Heaving a sigh, I take a look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I’ll cut my hair, for sure. Maybe dye it. Would I still wear colored contacts? Hide my violet eyes?

What name would I use? Not my real name and not Charlie. Something new.

A month ago, when I thought about this—leaving all of my past behind and starting completely fresh—a feeling of exhilaration coursed through me. Like locks releasing, chains tumbling, and being able to just run without ever looking back. Now, though, now that it’s really happening—not as I had planned it but happening nonetheless—I somehow feel more trapped than before.

I will have no one.

I will have nothing.

“Why, Sam? Why would you do this to me?” For years, I felt nothing but gratitude and loyalty to Sam. Bu now, I feel nothing but bitter hurt.

I have no other choice.

I have to run.

Now.

Pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, I let the tears pour freely.

■ ■ ■

“Ginger?”

Her eyes flash open. “Yes?”

“Did you get locked out of your apartment?”

“No. Why?”

“Well . . .” I do a cursory glance around the commons to see that no one else is outside. “Because it’s two a.m. and you’re sitting outside my apartment door, asleep.”

Making a point of stretching her arms over her head, Ginger lithely climbs to her feet and moves away. I unlock and open my door. Without invitation, she’s trailing me in.

“Did Cain send you here to check up on me?” I toss my keys onto the end table and turn on the only lamp in the living room.

“Why would he do that?” she asks coyly, averting her eyes to a chipped nail. Ginger would lose her shirt in a game of poker.

With a sigh, I flop down onto my couch, my focus on the stippled ceiling. I’m drained. Emotionally and physically drained. “Because you should still be at Penny’s and yet you left early to sit outside my apartment door.” I can’t ignore the twinge of disappointment in my stomach that it wasn’t Cain waiting for me. I know I told him to leave me alone and it’s for the best, but . . . still.

I feel Ginger’s eyes on me, on my bloodshot eyes and the streaks of mascara I’m sure have gathered. Two hours of crying will do that. She finally settles on, “How’s your cheek?”

“Fine.” As long as I don’t touch it or smile, or vomit on the side of the road, I barely notice it.

With the tiniest sigh, I hear her nimble steps as she strolls over to my fridge. The clanging sound of glass tells me she’s pulled out two bottles of beer. “Here.” Handing one to me, she grabs the remote and flicks on the television, quickly scanning the channels. I instantly know what she’s searching for. We discovered early on that we share a love of Seinfeld. There doesn’t seem to be an episode on at this time of night, though, and so she lands on the tail end of Seven. “Oh, I love this part! Gives me chills,” she exclaims, exaggerating a shudder as she tucks her legs up under herself on the opposite corner of the couch. We settle into silence as we watch Brad Pitt open up a box to find Gwyneth Paltrow’s head inside.

I can’t say that being around Ginger is completely comfortable, with this cloud hanging over us. But I’m pretty sure she’s not mad at me. If anything, I think she’s worried.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have someone worried about me. Sam never worries, period. And my mom? Well, I remember her fussing over her fitted clothes in front of the mirror a lot. She was young and blond and beautiful. She wore a lot of makeup and a sweet-smelling perfume, and put a great deal of effort into her appearance. I remember her smoothing her clothes over and over again when we went out, even at gymnastics, while she talked to the fathers and I worked on my balance and my basic beginner moves. I remember her brow knitting tightly as she sat at the kitchen table, sorting through what I assumed were bills. I remember her worrying about not ever finding a good husband with all her “baggage.”

But I don’t ever remember her worrying over me.

Then, when Sam came along, I’m pretty sure all of her worries vanished.