Chapter 7
Dahlia
Every head turns. Eyes fix on me, pinning me in place. Heat rushes up my neck, my pulse kicking hard enough to hurt. My throat goes tight. Breathing feels too loud.
One of them steps forward, the overhead light catching his face. Something about him snags in my memory, familiar enough to make my stomach drop, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him before.
“Help me.” The words rasp out of the man on the ground, wet and broken, slicing through the air like a blade.
He’s curled on his side, one arm reaching for me as if I’m the only lifeline left.
My body aches to go to him, to drag him away, but the men surrounding him are all armed.
I have nothing. No weapon, no chance. If I step toward him, we both die here.
The only hope either of us has is if I run and make it out and call for help.
My nails dig hard into my palms. I have to survive first.
The muffled sound of the gunshot tears through the night. The man on the ground jerks once, then goes still. For a moment, my mind empties, the world narrowing to the red pooling beneath him. Then reality slams back. He just killed someone. Oh my God. I just saw him kill someone.
My fingers tighten around the phone in my hand, acting before I can think. I lift it and snap a photo. All three of them go still.
“Delete that.” The man with the familiar face’s voice is low and sharp. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”
I jam my phone into my purse. The photo’s the only proof I have, and there’s no way I’m erasing it.
He wears a sinister smirk full of confidence as he tips his chin toward me, his voice hard. “Get her.”
The others shift like they’ve been given permission. My pulse spikes so fast it makes my vision edge white as I step back.
“It’ll only get worse for you,” the man says. His tone is calm, almost lazy, and that makes it worse. “You run. I will find you.”
The certainty in his voice hits me in the chest. It isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.
I run.
The slap of my shoes against the pavement is deafening. My breath rips in and out, scraping my throat raw. Footsteps follow. Heavy. Fast.
I dodge a pile of broken crates, the sharp wood scraping my shin. A curse slips out before I can stop it.
Behind me, one of them shouts. One man tells the other to go left, the other yelling, “Cut her off!”
The alley spits me onto a side street, where a car idles at the curb, headlights cutting across my path. I don’t stop. The driver yells something, but I’m already past, feet pounding over wet pavement.
Another turn. Another narrow cut between buildings. I duck into it, press myself flat against the wall, chest heaving. My skin is slick with sweat, hair sticking to my face.
The thud of footsteps grows louder, then fades, then grows again. They’re close. Too close.
A shadow sweeps past the opening. One of them. His jacket brushes the brick with a faint scrape. I press my hand over my mouth, forcing my breath to slow.
He keeps going.
I wait a beat. Two. My pulse still hammers, my stomach twisted so tight I could be sick. My hand trembles as I slip my phone from my purse, the screen’s glow too bright in the dark. I duck my head, shielding it, and punch in the emergency number.
A click, then a calm voice. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
My words come out in a rush. “I need an ambulance. There’s a man shot in the alley behind the Granville Hotel.”
“Ma’am, are you safe? What’s your—”
“Just send someone,” I plead, then hang up before she can ask more, shoving it back into my purse. At any second, they could be back, and if they find me, I’ll be the one on the ground next. The truth hits hard in my chest. I have nowhere to run. No home. No job. No one to call.
I push off the wall and start moving, fast but careful, keeping low. The streets blur together, but I stick to the darker ones, avoiding every pool of light.
For a second, my mind betrays me. I think about the hotel room, the heat of the bed, the way I’d been folded under Xander’s arm. I felt safe with him, and a part of me desperately wants to go back, but going back would be suicide.
Up ahead, a faint glow cuts through the dark. Greyhound. The letters hum faintly, a pale blue against the night. My legs almost buckle at the sight.
I push through the glass doors, the blast of air-conditioning wrapping me in artificial cold. The tiled floor squeaks under my shoes. My chest tightens, like I’ve swallowed the whole run.
A middle-aged woman sits behind the ticket counter. Her gaze flicks up, her eyes narrowing like she can read the trouble on my face.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Whatever bus leaves next.” The words tumble out too fast.
Her brows pull together as she takes me in. “Are you sure, honey? You know there are people you can call. People who can help you.”
Through the wide front window, movement catches my eye. My stomach drops. Two men from the alley are scanning the street.
“I’m sure,” I say, sharper now.
The woman’s gaze drops to the purse clutched tight against my side, then back to my face. All I’ve got is what I’m wearing and the cash I pulled from the bank earlier. It’s not much, but it’s enough for a ticket.
I slap the bills down, my hands shaking so bad one slips free. She picks the money up and presses it back into my palm, concern etched into her face. “Be careful.”
Tears sting, threatening to fall, but I can’t stay here. I nod, shove the ticket into my pocket, and rush for the boarding area.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
The bus smells faintly of diesel and old, stale fabric. It’s empty enough that I get two seats to myself. I sink into the window, the glass cool against my temple. My heart hammers, each beat thudding in my ears.
The engine grumbles, the bus lurching forward. The hotel, the alley, the men. They all start shrinking in the rearview as the city slides by. Less than twenty-four hours, and my life is already unrecognizable.
I turn to the woman across the aisle. “Where are we headed?”
She stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Houlton.”
I must look blank, because she adds, “It’s in Maine.”
Relief rushes through me, loosening my shoulders a fraction. It’s far.
The man in the alley’s clothes hung expensive on his frame, the quiet certainty in his voice when he promised he’d find me. He’s the type with connections. The type who can make good on his threats.
My hand dives into my purse. I pull my phone out and use a paperclip to pop the SIM card free. It’s a tiny thing, lighter than it should be for how much trouble it can bring. I shove it into my pocket, deciding that giving in to paranoia is better than pretending I’m safe.
The hum of the road fills the space around me as New York City slips away. I’d chased after Bradley, believing it would be ours. Now, I’m leaving it behind with nothing but the clothes on my back, watching it vanish like every promise he ever made.
I rest my forehead against the window. My breath fogs the glass.
Maybe the woman across from me was right. Maybe I am losing it, but starting over doesn’t sound so bad.