Page 67 of Cara

“We can talk about this. We can figure out a way to do this tog?—”

The pounding on the door fails to drown out the piercing gunshot I charge into the back of her skull.

Everything falls silent.

No fists banging on the iron.

There are no screams or chaos.

Just complete stillness as I rise to my feet, staring down at Victoria Marin—my little sister—who will never move again.

Never betray me.

Never tell me she’s sorry.

I forsake it all for peace.

Sophie/Cara

My fingers tremble in my lap as the taxi comes to a halt by the terminal.

Your name is Bianca. Bianca Rossi.

That’s what your passport states.

That’s what the attendant must believe.

Weaving through other travelers hauling heavy luggage, I pull my tattered bag closer to my chest, feeling exactly as I did four years ago. Just like back then, I'm running for my fucking life.

While waiting at the checkpoint, I let my gaze drift to my hands. The dried blood lodged under my nails. The bruises my jacket sleeves fail to conceal.

Whenever I check the doors and the halls, I expect to see olive faces amidst a sea of paleness.

When I’m not thinking of them, I’m imagining Isaac. He didn’t let me go out of kindness. Victoria brought me to him. He’s as much an enemy now as she is—was.

Stepping out of the room with my gun drawn, he seized my arm, casting a glance at the pool of blood next to my sister’s body. I was ready for a confrontation, yet he held meback, an unsettling turmoil evident in his eyes. I shrugged him off, choosing not to explain myself.

The moment I heard her whispering into that phone, there was only one course of action.

The attendant shoots a serious look between the photo and my face. “Where are you headed?”

“New York.”

The eyes staring back at me through the sterile bathroom mirror aren’t mine. They belong to someone else. The burden of murder and escape lives within them.

Frantic confusion.

Shell-shock.

Excitement.

Fear.

It’s all there.

My hands tremble as I attempt to scrub the blood from beneath my nails, repeatedly drawn back to gaze at myself as the plane descends toward the city.

New York City. My home. My true home.