Page 39

Present

T he sound of a knock at the door sends me into a tailspin.

My heart leaps in my chest, and I freeze, momentarily paralyzed.

Marcy is in the kitchen, stirring something that smells far too comforting for the weight I’m carrying in my chest. She looks up, the worry in her eyes too obvious to miss, but she doesn’t ask anything.

She just waits for me to move. I don’t. The knock comes again, more insistent.

“Evany?” Marcy calls, walking toward me slowly, her voice low. “Do you want me to get it?”

I don’t respond, but my feet finally move, carrying me to the door like they’re guided by something other than my own will.

Truman.

He’s wearing his typical suit, hands in his pockets, his jaw clenched. He looks like he’s been through hell—his hair a bit disheveled, his eyes dark with the kind of exhaustion I’ve only seen in people who are holding a weight too heavy to bear. The moment his eyes meet mine, my chest fractures.

“You look like you’ve been fighting a war,” he breathes, his voice rough.

I can’t hold it together anymore. Not with him standing there, not after what’s happened, not with all the blood on my hands.

My legs go weak, and I collapse, sinking into him, letting him catch me.

It feels like I’m drowning, like the world is closing in on me, and Truman is the only failsafe keeping me from slipping away.

“Hey… you’re safe now, okay? You’re safe,” he murmurs, his voice soothing, but there’s a tremor in it I know too well. He’s scared. Just as scared as I am.

I can’t bring myself to look up at him. I can’t let him see how broken I am, but I know he feels it. I feel the way he holds me tighter, his strong arms wrapping around me, pressing me against his chest as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.

“I—I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to drag you into it,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The words are a confession, an apology, a cry for help, all tangled up in one. “I never wanted you to be part of this… this nightmare.”

Truman doesn’t answer immediately. He just holds me, letting me sob into his shirt, the weight of everything pouring out of me.

The tears feel endless, but with each one, I feel the tension in my body loosen just a little.

I can feel his heartbeat—steady and sure—under my ear, and I hold onto that steady rhythm like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

When I finally pull back, Truman wipes the tears from my cheeks, his hands gentle but insistent.

“Don’t apologize.”

He’s so calm, so steady. It only makes the storm inside me rage harder. I want to scream, to break everything in sight. But I don’t. I stay silent, trying to hold onto the last shred of composure I have left.

“I… I can’t keep running, Truman. I can’t do this anymore.”

Truman’s grip tightens for a moment, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. “You don’t have to. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

I shake my head, wiping my face, trying to regain some control. “What do I do?”

Truman’s brow furrows. Marcy sets down two mugs on the coffee table. Motions for us to sit.

“Marcy,” Truman says. “Should have known you were involved.”

I put a hand on Truman’s chest. “Don’t.”

His jaw ticks. “I told you both, all those years ago, exactly what we should have done. Go to the FBI. And you,” he lifts his chin at Marcy, “shat all over that idea.”

Marcy’s face falls. She nods. “You’ve every right to be pissed Truman. But how could I know how far Evany was going to take this? I thought I was just getting information. Just writing the true crime book of the ages.”

Truman snorts. “I knew. I. fucking. Knew.” Truman’s shaking with anger. I wrap an arm around him.

“Please. Can we not fight. This was no one’s choice but mine. Be mad at me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of it. But that doesn’t change right now. What the hell do I do?”

Marcy and Truman stare at each other, faces set hard.

“You go to the FBI,” Marcy finally relents.

“I know a guy,” Truman says.

My brow furrows. “What?”

“Eli,” he says.

“Eli?” I echo.

My mind races, the words spinning through my thoughts, but none of them seem to land.

The air in the small living room feels thick, suffocating.

I can feel Truman’s anger still simmering beside me, and Marcy is just a few feet away, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she’s waiting for something to break.

“Let me make a call.” Truman walks to the door, his hand on the knob. My stomach roils. Marcy pushes my mug of tea toward me.

It’s two days later when Eli shows up to Marcy’s house. My stomach, a perpetual coiled ball of dread, has kept me up every night, no matter how Truman tries to distract me.

“Truman,” Eli says, his voice deep, cutting through the silence. “Kid.”

I nod, feeling small under the weight of his gaze.

“Let’s get this over with,” Truman says, his tone still edged with frustration, but there’s something else there now. A quiet hope, perhaps. Or maybe a resignation. I can’t tell which.

Marcy stands by the kitchen counter, nervously fidgeting with the edge of a dish towel. The three of us settle around the small table, and Eli takes a seat, his eyes never leaving me.

“So, what’s the situation?” Eli asks, his voice clipped and businesslike. He looks between me and Truman, clearly waiting for us to bring him up to speed.

I inhale deeply, feeling the air fill my lungs as my fingers curl into tight fists.

With a steady voice, I recount every detail to Eli, starting from the moment I left them at college until last week.

As my words spill out, I watch Eli’s expression shift dramatically: his eyes widen in shock, then his brows knit together in anger, and finally, his features soften into a look of resignation and acceptance.

“You understand what that means, right? The FBI is ready to bring charges. If you testify, it all ends. If you don’t…” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

I feel a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. “I’m not testifying,” I say, my voice shaking with more fear than I care to admit. “I can’t. I won’t ever be safe.”

The words hit the room like a stone sinking into water. Eli doesn’t flinch, but I can see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

“Kid,” Eli starts.

I shake my head, my chest tightening. “I can’t.

I’ll be a walking target. But I will give you something.

I’ve been keeping journals. Six years of detailed accounts on every mafia crime I knew about.

I sent them to Marcy.” I turn to her, and she pulls a stack of journals from the safe she keeps hidden in the back of the house.

I push them toward Eli, my hand trembling. “I’ll give you all of it. Everything I have. But in return, I need protection. I need to be safe.”

Eli’s expression remains a stoic mask. He rises with deliberate calm, extracting his phone with an unnerving silence.

His fingers move with purpose as he dials, striding out onto the porch with a determination that speaks volumes.

His voice, low and intense, mutters briefly into the receiver, leaving us behind in a suffocating silence that stretches into eternity.

The air grows heavy, each second dragging like a weight.

Truman’s hand on my back offers a fragile, fleeting comfort against the oppressive anticipation.

Eli strides back in, in what feels like an eternity later.

“You’ll be put under the witness protection program,” he says, his eyes now softer.

“The US Marshals will move you to a secure location. No one will be able to touch you. You’ll have a new identity, a new life.

But you won’t be able to contact anyone from your past. Ever. ”

I can feel my heart stop. The weight of it all crashes down on me, and I can’t breathe. “I—” The words catch in my throat.

He holds up a hand. “You don’t have to decide right now,” Eli says, his tone softer than before. “But this is the only way you’ll be safe.”

I feel Truman’s hand on mine, and I squeeze it, trying to steady myself. “What about Truman?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Eli shakes his head. “No. No one. Not ever from the moment you sign the papers.”