Page 68 of Broken Blood Ties

It takes me forty minutes to gather up my backpack of meager things, take a quick shower—because there’s no telling when my next will be—and gather Deuce.

Looking out the windows from my stateroom, I glance at the Aquarium and smile. “Maybe in another life,” I whisper.

With one hand, I pull my bag up and over my shoulder, then reach down to grab the pastel drawing of Deuce. I fold it into quarters and slip it into the back pocket of my light-wash jeans. As I do, my maroon knit sweater catches on a back rivet, pulling a thread loose.

I stare at the crisp white pages of the blank lined notepad sitting on the desk. Pursing my lips, I flick the smooth barreled pen, and it propels in several circles before slowing.

I’d planned on writing Kieran a note. Aoife, too. But that feels like the coward’s way now that I’m standing here. I swallow the emotion choking my airways and set my pack down.

At least I should see him, right? He offered to help me with zero questions asked, so it’s probably the grateful thing to do.

I turn, pull my coat over my sweater, and run to the bathroom. I’ll go to the pub and say goodbye, then come back and gather my things. It’s best I leave from the Harbor anyway. They’ll never expect me to hitch a boat ride, but I can almost guarantee they’ll have men at the train lines now that they’ve discovered me in Boston.

With a final glance in the mirror, I pull half my hair back into a claw clip and shamelessly dab on some Chapstick before exiting my room. I pass Cara, who’s been a sweetheart the past two days. She’s made sure I’ve had fresh towels and linens, also washing my leggings and undergarments for me since I only have a few pairs to cycle through. In fact, most of the crew has been overly welcoming. Not once have I been given a snide look as I explored the yacht yesterday, nor have I heard comments about why I’m here. Kieran must’ve made sure he explained the situation.

Cara smiles. “Stepping onto the back deck for some fresh air?”

“Actually, running an errand. Uh, I’ll be back quick.”

She furrows her bushy eyebrows, the dark brown such a stark difference to her bleached blonde hair.

Unsure whether Kieran mentioned anything about my predicaments or whether or I’m supposed to leave or not, I say nothing and offer her a wide grin that causes the muscles in my face to twitch.

“Do you need me to call you a car?”

“Nah. I’ll be all right. Thanks!” I dart down the ramp to the pier before I chicken out.

With my scarf wrapped around my neck just in case, I briskly walk to a bus stop, trying hard to act casual as I get on it and make my way to Beacon Hill.

* * *

My hope is whoever thinks they’ve spotted me is now under the impression I’ve left the city. Honestly, I’m not sure evenIbelieve that, but if there’s one reckless thing I do before I tuck my tail and run, it’s say thank you and goodbye to Kieran.

Still, I exercise caution, taking two different bus routes and doubling back before landing a few blocks away from O’Brien’s. A block into my walk, I pass a corner convenience store, and when I can’t shake the idea from my mind, I enter.

It’s an old corner store, made up of four little aisles, the white shelf paint now a rusted copper. The woman cashier at the single checkout offers me a smile as I walk toward the candy section looking for a pack of Skittles.

It’s the only parting gift I can leave Aoife, and I hate that I’m going to miss her so much.

Scanning the shelf, I grab the biggest pack they have and make my way to the register.

“Just this?” the woman asks as she pulls the candy across the barcode scanner.

“Yes, please.” I dig into my pocket for the couple of one crumpled dollar bills.

I stiffen, a prickling sensation scratching at the base of my neck. My heart jumps, increasing with every creepy feeling.

No.

Glancing up, I scan the mostly empty store. A teenager wrestles to grab a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch from a top shelf, and the squeaky wheel of a cart I can’t see grates my ears, but still nothing. No one.

“Ma’am?” the woman questions, holding out her hand for my cash.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

When she gives me my change, I grab the Skittles and dart for the door, leaving the stifling store. Outside, I gulp down the sharp air and pocket the candy, then hustle toward O’Brien’s.

Several shops away, I slow, catching a distorted glimpse of someone following me in the reflection of a parked car mirror.