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Cindi

Fifteen months later

The tweezers clatter onto the table from the sudden piercing pain from my elbow down.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.

I stretch my fingers and wiggle them to ease the tension.

It does jack shit. Over a year later, and I’m still paying for the crap Tommy put me through.

Huffing, I snatch my wrist brace off the nearby shelf and strap it on before pushing away from the workbench.

Whatever. I’ll fix the speakers later.

It’s not important. I need to get ready for my meeting.

Distracting myself does very little to stop my fingers from tingling.

I need medical attention—surgery, injection, physio—but it’s not an option.

What would be the point?

There's only so much someone can endure when their ex breaks the same hand three times and forces them to work through the agony. Plus, that means letting someone touch me, and… No, not an option.

A wave of vertigo hits me when I stand, hands flying onto the bench to stabilize myself. My eyes screw shut, and I breathe against the sudden blow of exhaustion. It slowly ebbs away as the seconds pass, until I can walk. It’s been getting worse over the past six months. My own body is giving out on me.

Grumbling under my breath, I step out of my air-conditioned workroom into the living area, suppressing a grimace at the dip in temperature. The faintest scent of the sea breeze permeates the humid air over notes of Dad’s favorite pad kra pao moo recipe I had for lunch—not as good as how my grandma made it, but it’ll do.

I eyeball the many in-process repairs lying around the room and amble over to the clean laundry pile on the couch, where my keys stick out from between the cracks in the cushions—proof I haven’t left the house in, what? A week?

My little two-bedroom cabin is nothing fancy. There’s an old water stain on the ceiling in the bathroom. The water pressure can be more accurately described as a trickle. A couple of the living room tiles have hairline cracks in them—one of them is actually starting to chip. Half the wallpaper in my bedroom is peeling, and one of the wooden boards on the stairs leading to the front door is rotten.

The place is free from blood money, devoid of walls I’ve been thrown against, corners I’ve huddled in. This little shack by the ocean is mine , a slice of Earth untouched by the Gallaghers.

The two girls who got me fake passports changed my name to Cindi—it’s close enough to Kristy that I’d remember—and brought me into their fold, Deedee and Nat, helped me put a fresh coat of paint on the rest of the house, organized for an AC unit to be installed in my bedroom, and got the bathroom redone so I wasn’t stuck with a squatting toilet.

The cabin is close enough to Kuta and Ubud in Bali that I can make drops and pick up supplies for the microchip lab without having to drive for hours. Plus, there are a bunch of trees between me and my neighbors and next to no foot traffic to make it easier to survey my area.

Being close to the beach and the cheaper rent are bonuses.

I grab the gun hidden beneath the coffee table and stuff it in my backpack, mentally tallying the supplies I’ll need to order for next month’s shipment so we can meet rising demand for our fake passports. Maybe I can convince Deedee to overstock so we don’t have to stress about that every month.

She’ll probably fight me on it, but it’s not my business, so I can’t fully complain.

The Velcro of my brace catches on the shoulder straps of my backpack when I tug it on, and pain darts up my arm. It’s just one thing after another.

Get over it , I chastise myself.

My good hand hovers over the door handle. Paranoia and fear skitter down my spine at the thought of leaving the safety of my house. What if a pirate is tracking me to find our lab? What if I run into a Gallagher? What if Tommy’s family catches me and?—

The muscle in my jaw pulses. Tommy does not control me anymore. I refuse to be stuck behind bars of my own making.

The moment I step outside, damp air slaps me in the face, and I almost turn right back around. I want to be either in the water or lying beneath the AC, not spending the next hour or so on the road to meet with a man-child.

The door automatically locks behind me, the alarm system engaged with a couple of taps on my phone, beginning a countdown on my laptop to self-destruct if someone tries to break in.

If someone told me I’d be using my engineering degree for home security, I would’ve laughed. Yet, here we are.

Blowing out a breath, I squint against the sun as I round the house to the garage. Unlocking and rolling up the door, I falter at the engine conveniently sitting outside the car—Dad would’ve had my car up and running in a matter of days. He would’ve made it an all-hands-on-deck situation at the shop. But all this shit is my problem now, and my problem alone.

I hang my head back and suppress a groan. A spike of pain tears through my arm, and I glare at the stupid brace, then at the even stupider Honda Civic with the shitty transmission. If my car is out of commission, I’m bearing the full wrath of Satan on a bike.

Pulling the roller door shut, I curse Tommy under my breath for the millionth time as I head for the motorbike, fishing out a pair of sunglasses from my backpack. I clip on a helmet before settling on the seat. The engine rumbles alive beneath me, soothing my soul—but it’s not nearly enough to calm the paranoia rearing its ugly head.

Clenching my eyes shut, I count to three.

Tommy’s family doesn’t know I’m here.

I stretch my fingers out one last time before gripping the throttle. The wheels skid across the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt that follows my wake, and I’m off, tearing down the long driveway before making it onto a gravel road. I switch between main streets and side ones, one eye always out for any vehicles that might be tailing me.

Sweat drips down my forehead and spine, and the harsh fabric of my shorts chafes painfully against my skin.

Fuck you, Tommy.

The anxiety curdling low in my stomach worsens the closer I get to the meeting site in Denpasar. The heavy bag of passports sitting on my shoulder acts as a constant reminder that one wrong move, and I could be worse than dead. I’ve seen and heard what he and his family were capable of—all the lives lost over slight inconveniences, all the rumors about what they’ve done to people who pissed them off.

After emptying out Tommy’s safe, I went to his company’s office building, made a copy of the microchip research I did, patented it, then systematically deleted everything from the server and every single one of their backup servers.

The last thing I did was hop on a plane and got my ass out of the country.

Overnight, the Gallagher family lost millions of dollars’ of information, and it felt fucking good.

Tommy’s family almost found me when I was hiding out in China, and then when I stupidly thought it would be smart to hide in Dad’s hometown in Thailand. Indonesia is by far the best location for me to be utterly forgettable. With so many tourists around, no one blinks twice about the fact I can’t speak a lick of Bahasa , even if I might physically pass as a local.

A car suddenly pulls out in front of me, and I squeeze my brakes hard, giving myself whiplash. Asshole . I hit the horn and yell a string of profanities at them before continuing like nothing happened.

Driving here isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ve almost died at least fifty times trying to navigate the nonexistent road rules and reckless drivers.

With traffic, it takes a little over an hour to get to the stall where I’m meeting Budi, a guy who’s been working with Deedee and Natalie long before I got here. He’s a fencer of sorts. We aren’t friends, but if I die, he dies too. It doesn’t make us BFFs or anything, but mutual trust is important.

The heat hunkers down on me as I come to a stop in front of a food stall on the side of the street. I tug the helmet off. The rush of air is absolutely heavenly. The thick coat of sweat makes my hair stick to my scalp and across my face. Summer in San Diego was barely tolerable; this makes drowning in the cool sea water sound like a dream.

My knees threaten to buckle when I drop to my feet, and the world tips slightly as dizziness rushes through me. It’s gone as quickly as it comes.

Fanning myself, I bend beneath the tarpaulin awning to approach the man behind the portable kitchen, scanning the area to make sure no one is watching me. His attention snaps up to mine, and he wipes his hands on his jeans.

“ Apa kabar, ibu, ” he greets without smiling, brows pinched against the blaring sun.

“ Baik. ” I offer him a curt nod, unclipping my backpack to wear it in front of me to fish out my wallet. “Enam sate ayam sama Badak, donk? ”

Six chicken kebabs, and the drink that’s a million times better than Coke, please. The extent of my Indonesian vocabulary is ordering food.

Deedee introduced me to this place. According to her, it’s rare to find Badak on this side of the country, so snagging a bottle during these meetings is like microdosing happiness. I consider it a little treat for not getting murdered or dying from a stress-induced heart attack.

Awareness prickles at the back of my neck. I whip around to the busy street, eyes darting between passing motorbikes, tourists walking in and out of shops, patrons and vendors around the street. No one pays me any mind.

You’re imagining it. Get your ass out of the open.

He takes the cash and hands me the change from his pocket. Another thing I love about this place: cash is the main currency. I flew into Jakarta with a fake passport and a couple grand—both thanks to Deedee—took a bunch of different trains and buses to get to Bali, and then we sourced a place for me to stay using that accepted cash.

I grab a seat on one of the plastic chairs under the shade and place the helmet on the narrow table. Nobody gives me more than a cursory glance as I check my phone for messages, the cameras at home, the microchip lab, and the factory where we print the books.

The biggest thing with a heartbeat near my property is a stray dog. In the factory, Deedee checks paper stock while Nat operates one of the machines at the lab, wearing a pristine white coat, hairnet, and mask as she works her artistic magic.

I tap my thumb on the table, periodically stopping to check my surroundings before going back to the footage of my cabin, flicking between frames so I don’t miss a thing. A text pops up on the screen from my group chat—I see both girls check their phones on camera.

Deedee: Tell Budi he still hasn’t paid up for losing that bet last week.

Nat: OMG, he has to pay me too. The guy gambles too much lol. It’s always stupid bets too.

Deedee: He’s single handedly making me richer. U kno he bet 100ribu he can do a backflip.

Nat: Well, can he?

Deedee: Guess.

Nat: *Laughing face emoji*

I’m too wired to joke around with them, and like hell am I about to tell Budi any of that and prolong our conversation more than necessary.

My spine snaps to attention the second our fencer steps in, my grip tightening around my phone like it’s a weapon. Flip-flops, shorts, a sweat-stained T-shirt.

Potential threat , my brain registers.

“Sup,” Budi says.

I flinch when he holds his hand up for a fist bump. It’s a harmless gesture, but the thought of skin-on-skin makes me want to puke. Just suck it up and do it. I quickly tap his hand with mine, feeling another layer of sweat building along my forehead.

He drops down across from me, half-heartedly casting his dark eyes around the little food joint. The only person left is a guy chipping away at his noodles while watching a video on his phone with the volume all the way up. Probably not a threat , my brain registers.

“How’s it?” Budi raps his knuckles on the table.

Carefully pulling the tote bag out of my backpack, I slide it across to him. “Turkish, German, and Canadian are in there. You can tell Harta twenty Australians and thirty Americans will be ready in a month. A machine broke, so we’re slow going.”

Budi quickly shoves the product into his own bag without bothering to check the contents—it’s idiotic on his part. I could’ve lied about the number of passports in there, then come knocking on his door asking for payment.

Any artist with the right printing facilities can make the passport book. The hardest aspect isn’t perfecting the paper weight or the nuances within the designs.

The real art is in the RFID chip.

A fake passport is only good if you don’t get caught.

The microchip was the one part the Gallagher’s shady company couldn’t nail down until I came along. My degree and naivety made me the perfect employee who could be easily controlled.

Tommy wanted a microchip that would pass all the tests to better establish their family, and I cracked the code three days before I killed him, though I never reported my discovery.

Now, all the information is with me.

The lab manufacturing process isn’t perfect, but with more time, resources, and research, it could be.

Nat and Deedee already had an established gig going before I stepped in to improve their product with the research I stole from the Gallaghers.

After Deedee finishes printing, Nat and I step in to add the microchip. She works on production while I deal with the serial number and placing it into the book—on my good hand days.

Budi’s job is to distribute the product to another fencer, who will get it to the consumer—the ones at the end of the line, taking the pictures and interacting with the gangs, filthy rich, or a random person willing to put every cent they own into getting free.

Once it’s out of his hands, we all split the cut, with Deedee and Nat taking a higher percentage. We could’ve grown a lot more if I were smart enough to get the production process down pat.

“Cool, cool,” Budi says. “I’ve got a bro in Singapore wanting to know if you’d do a batch of Armenians.”

My brows hike up my forehead. “I’ll have to check with Deedee if she can do it. We’ll need more research and an original sample.” The shape and weight of every country’s chip is different. “Are they planning on paying more?”

He shrugs. “She might.”

I stare at him blankly. I know Nat and Deedee have been working with him since they started their operation five years ago, but he’s not the brightest person I’ve ever met. Loyalty trumps intelligence, I guess.

My skin prickles, and I do a quick sweep of my surroundings, three times for good measure. Someone could come out at any second— especially since I’m in the open.

The Gallaghers aren’t the only people trying to track me down. Deedee and Nat’s passport manufacturing operation caught the eye of a gang— pirates , they call themselves. They have it out for us, but I can’t bring myself to leave when I know I should. I like it here too much.

I lower my voice, foot tapping the ground. “Any updates on the pirates?”

Budi scratches his head. I can’t tell whether he’s concerned or unbothered. From what I’ve gathered, they’ve always been a problem, but it’s only getting worse. Nat’s slightly panicked, but Deedee couldn’t give two shits about it, blissfully ignorant as she tinkers away in the factory.

“Nah. Nothing. All quiet.”

My forehead wrinkles. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man, we good. They’re no big deal—stop stressing.”

I get the same answer every time I ask, yet I’ve had supplies intercepted, finished products stolen and sold by them, and customers who switched sides—all of which started after we incorporated my findings.

I flinch when Budi leans over the narrow table to stand. Panic flares, and my muscles brace for an impact that never comes. My lungs squeeze, unable to pull in oxygen as the man before me morphs into Tommy.

My knuckles go white around the backpack strap. It’s just Budi. He doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Or an observant one, since he’s oblivious to my turmoil, double- tapping his earbuds far too casually for the highly illegal exchange we’re having.

He nods toward the kitchen, and I turn just as the clerk holds up a bag with a Styrofoam container and a plastic bag with a straw poking out the top.

“ Sate? ” Budi asks, and I stiffen.

It’s not Tommy. It’s not John. It’s not any of the Gallaghers.

Pull. Yourself. Together.

“Yeah,” I mutter, scrambling to my feet as the world roars louder, a fist around my lungs.

“Good shit.” He grins, motioning for the clerk to make one for him as well.

I snatch the helmet off the table, grab my order, and unceremoniously shove it into my pack—forgetting I should probably offer him a tight-lipped smile. “Yup. See you next week,” I say, inching backward. My nerves are haywire, convinced a member of the Gallagher syndicate is standing on the other side of the tarpaulin with a gun pointed at my head.

Heart stuck in my throat, I duck beneath the shade and hurry to my bike. The engine barely has a second to start before I’m peeling off the sidewalk onto the busy road.

My attention keeps flicking to my side mirrors as I tear down the street like I’m being chased by hell’s army. I’m convinced I’ll turn to see Tommy sitting behind a wheel, alive and well, back to make me wish it was me who bled out on the kitchen floor.

I tighten my grip around the throttle. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything will be fine as long as I focus on my work. If we keep selling and saving, it’ll be easier for me to run. I can lay low for longer without worrying about how I’ll secure a roof over my head.

Stopping myself from becoming roadkill is the only thing that keeps me from slipping off the tightrope and falling into full-fledged panic.

My harsh breaths are forced. I focus on my surroundings; the honking, yelling, the hum of engines, the wind in my hair, the heat of the motor beneath my legs.

The minutes tick by and the hour drives into two as I take more back roads and side streets, twisting and U-turning, going around in circles in case anyone is following me, until I finally reach my destination.

The sun has long begun its descent by the time I come to a stop, certain I’m not being followed. The salty sea breeze fills my lungs, coating my fraying nerves in familiarity. There’s nothing but miles of sand and water each way, not a soul in sight.

No Tommy. No Gallagher. No pirate.

I hope.

Swallowing, I take my helmet off and pocket my keys before climbing down the dunes to get to the beach, parking myself a few feet from the shoreline.

There’s a resort a mile to the left, and another a mile to the right. This is the sweet spot tourists never make it to because there are prettier things to see in the other direction.

Even Dad’s death, heavy as it is, feels small when faced with nothing but miles upon miles of blue. The existential crisis of being insignificant is a welcome reprieve to the horrors of the echo chamber I’ve landed in.

My legs stretch out in front of me, and I dig my toes into the cool, damp sand. The waves roll in, only a foot away from where I stand. The tension slowly unwinds from my muscles as I stare into the vermillion sky, ears constantly straining to hear incoming cars or people.

Grabbing my dinner from my bag, I clean my hands with the sanitizer, then double-check the gun is still there—my safety blanket. My stomach sings the desperate song of its people as my energy saps into the sand from the adrenaline rush.

The bone-deep itch between my shoulder blades from a still-healing tattoo prickles, a nagging irritant that keeps me constantly on edge and makes my dinner taste sour when it isn’t.

My eyes drift shut of their own accord, absorbing the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the cool wind kissing my sweat-stained skin, the salty air filling my lungs.

At least, after everything, it's cathartic knowing that even though Tommy killed me, my corpse is slowly coming back alive, battered and bruised, with a heartbeat he doesn’t have.

His ghost still haunts me.

Wounds still fester.

What was broken will never be whole.