Page 29 of Waters that Drown Us

I could kill him here. Let him die a slow, painful death from the poison. Find a way to get his body onto one of Jimmy’s boats and dump him at sea.

I could live. Emily could live.

But what comes after that? There’s no world where my father would let me be. Being a traitor, faking my death, running from him—those are all betrayals he needs to avenge, certainly. But killing his successor? Ensuring he doesn’t have anyone to pass the family business to? He would have no choice but to respond, publicly and violently.

I won’t pretend I have any hope of surviving my father’s retribution, whether it be an execution or imprisonment in his world. I certainly will attempt to take him down with me, but I know the chances are slim. I will die, or find myself back in his clutches with no chance of ever escaping again.

I can’t subject Emily to that. I’m already putting her at enough risk, doing it twice would be nothing short of cruel.

If I survive Ilya, I’ll go into hiding once more. And Emily might remember me fondly. Maybe the person I really am will live on in her.

“Why does this bar look closed?” Emily’s voice jars me out of my silent spiral, and when I look up, we’re outside Bait, one of the two bars in town.

“Probably because it is,” I say, peering into the dark windows. “Paul owns this place, but he also manages the pawn shop. So he can only bartend after the shop closes.”

“There really are no people here, huh?” she replies, the question rhetorical.

“When I got here, there were about four hundred, but most of them are retirees who wanted to get off the grid,” I say, remembering what Luanne taught me once she realized I was staying longer than the tourist season. “There are a few people who pick up bartending shifts on weekends, and I think the owner of the pawn shop comes into town from Bend every once in a while, but there are so few patrons it’s hard to justify paying people.”

“How do two bars stay afloat, then?” she asks as we make our way past an empty and defunct diner, the linoleum peeling from the floor and the formica counters sun-bleached.

“The other one is basically only for locals. Bait serves some basic bar food, so families come to eat there after whale watches, but Wayne’s doesn’t. Genevieve bartends at Wayne’s, she’s basically the only person close to our age around here.”

“Are you friends?” Emily asks as we pass the lot for the church. I’ve heard this is a cliche in small American towns. Each one has at least one church and at least two bars.

“Not really, we both keep to ourselves. Last I heard, she’s taking online classes, trying to get out of here.”

Plus, until I met Emily, I did my best to distance myself from everyone in town. I avoided anything more than casual conversation with everyone I could, hoping it would keep Ilya or my father’s eyes off of them.

“You think you could sneak me in? Vouch for me, as a local?” she asks, winking at me as we step over a broken area of sidewalk. The floating feeling is back in full force.

“We’ll see,” I say noncommittedly, wondering how much I’d regret being hungover on the boat tomorrow morning, and how much I really care.

“The next time you have a day off,” she offers, possibly reading my mind, which I find oddly comforting. I’m contemplating something charming to say back when I’m stopped in my tracks in front of the pawn shop windows.

I’ve been here dozens of times. Paul is surly, and the quality of the food at his bar makes my stomach clench, but he’s been a fair negotiator the few times I’ve purchased things from him. The store is called a pawn shop, but realistically half of it is a thrift store, with piles of clothes in bins labeleddollar or lesslined along the back walls. That’s almost always what I come here for, avoiding the cases of watches and baseball cards and knickknacks, knowing there’s no point in buying anything it would be difficult to quickly pack and run with.

But sitting on an acrylic stand in the window is a viola. It’s old and a little beat up, the horsehair of the bow frayed and loose in its setting. But all of the strings are there, and the wood still shines like someone once polished it. Cared for it.

I haven’t thought about playing in so long. Years before I faked my death and fled my father’s home. Once Ilya had a ring on my finger, the golden shackles around my wrists became much tighter. I think he knew about my minor rebellions, about my infrequent episodes of sneaking out of my father’s villa and playing music in wine bars and underground clubs. For a while, I turned to more classical pieces, playing in my room or the gardens under the careful watch of my father or Ilya’s men.

But soon the experience became bitter. Playing music was about freedom. It was the one small avenue of self-expression Ihad. Trying to continue when I lacked that autonomy felt like a bird singing in a cage for no one to hear.

I didn’t even consider bringing my instrument when I left. I haven’t seen one since.

“Are you okay?” Emily asks, and I realize I’ve dropped her hand. I meet her eyes in the window’s reflection, filled with concern for me. Probably because I’m crying.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my tears away hastily. “I…I used to play.”

The admission feels strange. Obviously I haven’t lied to Emily about everything in my life. But this truth feels bigger. It feels like a piece of my soul.

“Oh,” she says simply, her fingertips dragging over the back of my arm. “Do you want to go in and see it?”

I can’t. If I do, I’ll want to touch it. To play again. And if I do that, I’ll want to keep it. And apart from the cost, and the likelihood that it will be left behind when Ilya comes for me, I can’tbeher again.

Other than my need to get my revenge on the men who have hurt me, I have worked very hard to shed everything that defined me as Alisa. The way I talk, think, move. The clothes I wear, the food I eat. Over the past half decade, I’ve forced myself to not seek comfort in the familiar, so I don’t grieve the life I lost.

“Yes,” I answer. Even though I shouldn’t. Even though I can’t. I do.