Page 67 of Killaney Blood

I grab my first-aid kit, my toothbrush, my phone charger, the photograph of my sister that I keep hidden in a book. Nothing else matters.

I leave the apartment in a hurry, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, feeling both lighter and heavier at once. The building's hallway feels like a tunnel, dim and suffocating. Each step like a countdown to something bad.

I check the street twice before stepping out.

I don't take the direct route to the bus station. That would be stupid. Instead, I zigzag through side streets, doubling back occasionally, checking reflections in store windows for followers. A year out of Albanian control and I still move like I'm prey.

The bus station is fifteen blocks away. I could take another cab, but movement helps me think. And I need to think clearly now.

It's gotten colder. Or maybe it's just me. The streets grow quieter as I move away from the busy areas.

At an intersection, I pause, looking down at the tattoo on my wrist, the scalpel that marked me as Albanian property. I wipe it like it'll come off.

Three blocks from the station, I hear footsteps behind me. My pulse spikes. I pick up my pace, not running yet, running attracts attention, but moving with purpose. The footsteps seem like they're matching my speed.

I turn a corner sharply, pressing myself against the wall of a building, ready to confront whoever's following. But when they turn the corner, it's just a kid, maybe sixteen, headphones on, completely oblivious to my existence.

The bus station is just up ahead now, its harsh lights calling me forward. It's a dingy building, all concrete and glass, but to me, it might as well be a cathedral. Salvation. Escape.

Inside, the air smells of urine and desperation. A few scattered travelers occupy plastic chairs, most asleep or staring vacantly at phones. A homeless man snores across three seats, his belongings piled in a shopping cart nearby.

I approach the ticket counter, where a middle-aged woman is looking at something on her phone.

She doesn't look up. "Where to?"

"Next bus out," I say, looking around. "Doesn't matter where, just far."

She looks up at me, peers at me over her glasses.

"Cincinnati leaves in two hours. That far enough?"

I nod, counting out cash from my pocket. She prints the ticket, slides it across the counter.

"Gate three," she says. Then, "Good luck, honey."

I find a seat in the corner, my duffel bag sitting heavy on my lap, clutched to my chest like a shield. Two hours to wait.

And instead of thinking about the Albanians, about the danger, my mind drifts to Declan and the way he looks at me across that crowded room tonight like it was just him and me.

I close my eyes, pressing my fingertips against my eyelids until I see stars. This is why I stay alone, I think. This is why I don't contact my sister, why I cut every tie. Because I'll never be free as long as I care about anyone.

I open my eyes and stare at the grimy floor, counting the tiles, anything to keep my mind occupied. I don't hear the footsteps approaching; I don't sense the presence until it's too late.

"So, you were just going to run again. No goodbye this time either?"

My head snaps up.

Declan stands before me, his expression unreadable. There's a darkening bruise on his cheekbone, and his knuckles are split, but overall he doesn't look like he probably just beat a man half to death an hour ago.

"How did you find me?"

He smiles and sits down next to me.

"That phone I gave you," he says, pointing to my bag. "GPS. You actually brought it this time."

I open my mouth, then close it.

"Last time," he says, leaning into me, "you left it in your apartment, which begs the question: did you leave it on purpose then, or bring it on purpose now?"