Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(116)

Thank God the back of Becker’s is empty. I lean against the deep red brick wall as a shaky exhale leaves my lungs. The fall air, though still warm by Long Island standards, is cooler in the evenings. It doesn’t require a sweater but, all the same, I wrap my arms around my chest.

“Sam is dead.” Those three words sail out of my mouth in a whisper. I let them hang out in the open, deciding exactly how I should feel about the sudden news.

There’s no doubt I’m in shock right now. I mean, in my mind, Sam was indestructible. I, Cain, and everyone else was at risk, but nothing could stop Sam.

Could it be a ruse? Could Sam have staged his own death to lure me back out into the water? No. Sam would never allow his face to appear on the news with a label of “alleged heroin drug dealer.”

Sam is dead.

I suspect that, at some point, maybe in an hour, or tomorrow, or next week, the reality of this will truly hit me, bringing with it genuine relief. Not relief that he is dead. Despite all that Sam had done, despite everything that he was, I must admit to myself that I never really wished him dead. No, it will be relief that I am truly free, that unfortunately his death was the only way that could happen.

Yet an underlying worry is working its way to the surface, bringing waves of nausea with it.

Sam came to Miami.

What if he found Cain? Would he have hurt him, even though I was long gone? Cain’s death wouldn’t make the Mobile, Alabama news. I could be pining over a dead man right now.

Rushing back into the restaurant, I grab my purse. “Can you tell Berta I’ll be about fifteen minutes?” I ask Herald and run out the door before I get his answer.

Now that Sam is dead, I’m obviously not worried about him finding me. But I don’t know how Cain feels about me. I asked Dan not to tell him about my note, but Dan doesn’t owe me anything.

What if Cain hates me?

What if he wants me held accountable for my crime?

All possible, all reasonable.

Doing this is risky. Still, I need to know that he’s alive.

The closest pay phone is four blocks down the street and I run the entire way, cursing myself for not buying a prepaid cell phone. I don’t know how pay-phone tracing works, but I’m hoping it requires more than two seconds of air time.

It takes every last bit of loose change and three attempts, but I finally manage to accurately punch in Cain’s cell number with my shaky hand.

It begins to ring.

I hold my breath.

A second ring.

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