Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(105)

I walked out of there with ten grand in cash, knowing I had been cheated.

Not caring.

Now, as I sit on a bench, waiting for my bus out of Miami, there’s only one thing left to do. Well, two things.

I’m not sure which is harder.

My burner phone rings. “Hello, little mouse. Feeling normal again today?”

Normal. What is normal? My quiet acceptance of all that Sam has trained me to be? Of his tainted love, with all the ugliness that comes with it?

I had an entire speech planned, about how he had taken advantage of me, how you don’t put those you love in danger. How I don’t think I can ever forgive him. But I’m tired and it just feels unnecessary. There are only two words I need to say.

They may come out wobbly, but they are unyielding. “Goodbye, Sam.”

Shutting the burner phone off, I toss it in the trash as a wave of relief washes over me.

I am done with Sam.

That was the easy part.

Not wasting any time, I pick up my real phone. I take a deep, calming breath. And hit “send” on the text that I’ve struggled to type out for an entire hour. I know he called me last night—I see the notification of a message—and yet I can’t bear to listen to whatever he said. Just hearing his voice might crack my resolve, which would be catastrophic. I’ve already set too many wheels in motion this morning. I need a clean break.

Cain gave me that last night.

The only reason I’m texting him now is because of that voice in the back of my conscience that says I don’t want him to worry about me. Because, despite what he may think of me right now, he might grow concerned when I don’t come to pick up my things, when no one hears from me again.

I wait for the indication that the message has been delivered, and then I quickly shut the power off, strip it of its memory chip, and toss it into the trash.

I wrap my arms around my knapsack and bury my face so no one sees the tears that begin pouring.

Waiting for the second wave of relief.

The one that never comes.

Chapter forty-one

CAIN

The chime of my phone startles me awake.

The words staring out at me from the screen turn my blood cold:

I hope you can forgive me one day. Please give my apartment to Ben and anything of mine at your place to Ginger.

It takes me another few moments to fully process what’s going on.

Charlie is saying goodbye.

No.

Did she even listen to my message? She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t be leaving me if she had.

I rush to dial her number—number one on my favorites. It goes straight to voice mail.

Fuck. No.

With quick fingers, I punch out a message:

Call me. Now.

I get an error message back, saying the text was never delivered.

I try again.

I try ten more times.

Each time, the message bounces back. It’s as if Charlie has disconnected her phone.

As if I’m never going to hear from her again.

The thought of that brings a sting to my eyes. No . . . this can’t be happening. Checking the clock to see that it reads ten a.m.—I must have drifted off on Charlie’s couch around six—I hit number two on speed dial. I don’t even wait for John’s greeting. The second I hear someone pick up, I throw out my demand. “Get your ass to Miami. Today.”

“Still a f**king looker, I see,” John booms, stalking into my office to slap his meaty hand against mine.

“And you’re still not, I see,” I retort with a wry grin, softly punching his substantial gut. “What is this?”

“The women love it!” With a boom of laughter, John turns to appraise Nate’s size with a whistle. The last time they saw each other, Nate was still a scrawny teenager. “What have you been feeding this runt?”

Nate’s face splits wide open in a grin as he takes John’s hand within his own.

Nodding slowly, John murmurs, “Good to see you two again. I can’t believe it’s been so long since . . .”

“Nine years,” I confirm. After that night, John seemed to make a point of swinging by my apartment weekly, offering any little bits of info on my family’s murder. Bits that didn’t add up to anything, but I appreciated it all the same because it meant the cops hadn’t already dismissed it. He came around enough, saw enough of my black eyes and bruised knuckles, that he had to know I was fighting. He never questioned me, though.

The night that John showed up at my house three months after the murder with two mug shots was the night he earned my trust. Tossing them onto the table, he told me to memorize those faces and to run in the other direction should I ever see them. They belonged to the men who the police suspected were involved and sometimes, especially in drug-related crimes that involved money, family members and friends become targets. If he knew anything about the money I stole, he never let on.

He warned me that the lead was circumstantial at best and wouldn’t hold up in court but maybe, just maybe, they’d find concrete evidence. But he added that the police force was overextended, that they had some high-profile cases on their desk already, that sometimes, despite knowing who the guilty persons are, those nails in their coffins could remain elusive.

Basically, John was telling me not to get my hopes up.

That was the last night we ever talked about my family’s murder.