Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(58)

I hear the hiss of air through Sam’s teeth on the other end before he offers in a phony nonchalant tone, “Who knows? Maybe she betrayed someone who gave her everything. Maybe she wasn’t a good little mouse.”

My heart begins to race, pounding against my rib cage. He evaded the question but to me, it’s clearly an answer.

And a warning.

“Is that what you wanted to know?”

Clearing my throat, I manage to get out, “Yes.”

“I hope I don’t have anything to worry about. Remember, we’re in this together. There’s no room to get sloppy. Yesterday, you were sloppy.”

Sloppy. The same thing he accused Dominic of being.

“I know, S—” The coppery taste of blood taints my taste buds as I bite my tongue hard, to avoid saying his name. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Because we have a really good thing going. And it’s going to get much better.” There’s a pause. “I see you’re running low on money. I’ll deposit another ten in your account tomorrow. Go buy yourself something nice.”

“I will. Thank you.” Money . . . It all comes down to money. How Sam values that over everything else and how he assumes everyone else does, too. The funny thing is, Sam could deposit ten times that much into my account without feeling it financially. But he never gives me too much. Just enough to keep me around, needing him.

I listen to the static on the phone for I don’t know how long after Sam hangs up. Finally, I sink back into my seat.

Charlie Rourke was a real person.

And the real Charlie Rourke is dead.

I’ve been obliviously pretending to be a dead girl for months now. I’ve turned her into a stripper and a drug trafficker. I’ve looked forward to the day I can shred her ID up into little bits and pretend that she never existed.

But she did exist.

And Sam likely had a hand in her death.

Was she just some unfortunate girl who met the wrong person one night? Someone looking for a blond runaway who no one would miss? Or did Sam know the real Charlie Rourke? Was she running drugs for him? Did she do something to fall into his bad graces?

Am I about to fall into Sam’s bad graces? With Ginger answering my burner phone, with the sudden questions, with whatever he may have yet to hear from Bob. What if Bob tells him about Cain?

Cain.

My chest throbs as his name touches my thoughts. I was too distracted, running from Penny’s tonight, to think about all that had transpired. I don’t know what that was back there, but I know I didn’t want it to end. He seemed intent on keeping his hands on me and I was intent on letting him do so, all the way to his home and into his bed, if he invited me.

But now Cain is right in the thick of it. He’s made an enemy out of Bob. He thinks he has my entire history. I can’t be angry with him about hiring the investigator. I understand why he does it. It’s to protect himself from people exactly like me.

But he’s not protected. Sam’s too smart for him. Sam’s too smart for everyone.

This foolish plan I have? That’s all it is . . . foolish. I’m never going to be able to buy an identity like the one Sam arranged for me because Sam probably killed for it. All I can do is take my money and run.

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.