Page 6

It’s double his usual price. But it’s the only way to be sure he doesn’t take the money by force then throw me into the water. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of being eaten by ravenous sharks.

Fear clutches at my entire body, and I have to slow my breathing to calm down. “You can do this. You can do this,” I say, repeating it as a mantra.

I close my eyes and picture myself walking through the streets of Old Havana, dressed in designer clothes, sleeping on fifteen-hundred-thread-count sheets, sipping on Dom, and completely and utterly at peace.

But my peace is destroyed when a familiar voice tickles at the back of my mind.

No one will care if you die.

“Yeah, yeah. What else is new?” I say aloud.

I need a distraction. Anything to occupy my mind.

I grab the remote, switch on the TV, and return to packing, barely listening but glad for the noise so I don’t have to think too much.

Shorts, bra, hat, wig, glasses, cash…

Behind me, commercials blast into the room, then a newsreader breaks into my concentration.

Ugh. Who wants to hear about some junkie who’s washed up on South Beach? I reach for the remote and hit the mute button.

A picture flashes on screen, then a video runs. The junkie, who’s with a woman wearing a Disneyland T-shirt, accepts something from her then walks away. The location is obvious from the Miami Ferris Wheel in the background.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I hit the mute button again, catching the last snippet from the anchor.

“…police would like to speak to the woman. If you know her whereabouts, contact the Miami?—”

I change the channel, heart in my throat as I locate another news channel also playing the same footage.

“…wanted in connection with the death?—”

I switch again, and this time, I sink onto the bed in despair.

“…examination reveals the man sustained a bullet wound to the temple and can confirm he’s been missing for over a month. The police are appealing to the public for any information about the last hours of his life.”

I shut the TV off, hands trembling as I try to reason my way out of this.

I blow out a breath. Slowly.

They’re tying up loose ends.

And if I’m not careful, mine will be the next body they feature on the news.

Mick

I twist my fork idly and shovel in the lasagna Mom made me. It’s good. It always is, but even her cooking and the apple pie she baked isn’t enough to drag my thoughts away from the woman who humiliated me. As my thoughts cloud, my fingers grip the fork tighter, and I don’t realize I’m stabbing the food rather than eating it until I look down and see it’s cut to ribbons.

From my second-floor apartment window, the sky is clear and blue. No wind. Water is dead calm.

I should be at work. Would be if it weren’t for some BS about trauma. They think it’ll impact my judgment or my ability to focus.

It’s an insult.

Focusing on helping people would be better than sitting around replaying every moment I spent with her to the time I woke up with explosives strapped to my chest.

I force the dish of lasagna down, not out of hunger but because I know Mom will call to make sure I’m eating properly. Then Dad will get on the line and ask me if I want to take the boat out. Which really means he’s disappointed I haven’t been to church in a while.

I abandon my lunch and get to my feet, so I can watch the beach instead. Hardly any swell, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be accidental drownings today. I should be out there, not trapped inside.