Page 56 of Broken Blood Ties

Reaching out, I smack the clock, nearly crying in relief at the silence.

There wasn’t much sleep for me last night. I spent close to two hours methodically traversing the city’s transportation systems, back and forth, just as I had planned in case they found me.

After trusting I wasn’t followed, I darted into a run-down motel for the night. I showered and set myself up at the table and chair by the window to watch with the curtain drawn.

I had half the mind to call Shelly but thought better of it. I can’t involve her.

I’d just pulled out my second cannoli when my phone dinged. Snatching it, I had expected it to be the unknown number, and almost fell back in my chair when I saw Kieran’s name. At that moment, I almost reached out for help. He seems like a man with some influence. Perhaps he’d have a lawyer who could help me, or someone in law enforcement that might be able to protect me.

But when I opened his message to see the most adorable picture of Aoife, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk eating her cannoli, my chest cracked. I can’t involve him. I could never expose Aoife. So I ignored the message and rolled into bed around 3:00 a.m. unable to stay awake another minute longer.

Flailing my legs, I kick the covers off myself and then sit up to rub my tired eyes. I groan as I stand, stretching both hands high in the air.

After moving to the window, I pull back the curtain, just enough to peek outside. I debate my next move while chewing my lip. I need to move on to the phase two of my plan, but my chest tightens as I think about leaving.

Deuce is still back at my apartment. I at least need to go check on him. Though, I can’t help but wonder … Have they found my home? Do they know where I live? I shouldn’t risk it—going back.

Quickly, I go to the bathroom, splashing cold water over my face and wipe it with a towel. When I glance in the mirror, my face free from makeup, I almost see that younger girl. The one I used to be before. I was obsessed with myself and what my family name could do for me—despite the warnings.

In a way, I’m glad she’s gone. I enjoy my life here in Boston. It wasn’t easy to get here.

Reaching into my purse, I grab a hair tie to pull my hair back. I cringe, looking at my jumpsuit from yesterday hanging over the shower rod. I stripped out of it last night, sleeping in my underwear and cami, knowing I’d have to rewear it.

Sliding it on, I glance at my phone and at the photo of Aoife. Jeez, I’m going to miss my kids. I wish … I wish I could say goodbye or something.

One thing at a time, Summer.Maybe it’s possible.

With one last glance around the dated room, I scuff my flats against the stained puke-colored carpet. Here goes nothing: get Deuce and get the hell out of here.

It takes me another two hours to finagle my way to the train stop. I take several buses, passing the stop I need to get off at by two stops. Then I wait for the bus to take me back and hop on the green line before I notice a bald man was following me. So, I swap to the red line before backtracking yet again.

Finally, making it to my stop, I pull my scarf over my head and wrap my jacket tight around me and climb the slopping hill of a sidewalk to the music shop.

It’s Saturday, no one is at the store, and the side door up to my upstairs apartment is closed. I slink around to the alleyway, trying to avoid the streets as much as possible.

A dark sedan drives by slowly and I flatten myself against the bricks in the shadows.

My heart thuds deep in my chest, and my stomach churns at the idea of someone spotting me.

When the coast is clear, I move to the door, finding it unlocked. The pit in my stomach moves to my throat and I struggle to swallow. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

Silently, I tiptoe up the steps, pausing several paces from the top. I stifle a gasp, smacking a hand over my mouth at the sight of the door to my apartment kicked in. The deadbolts are cut through.

No.

I listen for several seconds.

Hearing no movement, I run up the last few steps and push open the door. There’s trash everywhere around my apartment, and someone has slit the couch cushions and ripped the mattress off my bed.

Not only do they know who I am, they’ve found me. “Deuce! Deuce!” I whisper yell. No meows answer me, and I panic. “Deuce!”

Diving to my knees, I look under the bed to find nothing. I frantically search around the apartment, crawling over the broken lamp knocked to the ground and around to the open kitchenette cabinets.

I jump up to search the cabinet for my flour canister. Relieved to see the yellow tin unbroken, I open it, reaching down into the white flour. The fine dust slips through my fingers as I poke around through the smooth powder for my key.

Two years ago, when I finally had the extra money, I paid for a locker at Boston Harbor. I needed a spot to store a go-bag outside of my home. The options to get out of the city are shockingly good between chartering a boat or sneaking aboard one.

My fingertips graze the key near the bottom, and I pull it up, running to the sink to rinse off my hands. Stepping over my clothes, I move to the bathroom, checking behind the tub curtain for Deuce.Where is he?